Hard

Our first support group meeting was tonight. I have told the story so many times that I didn't think I could cry about it anymore.

I am often wrong.

I walked into the room with the rest of the parents and all I wanted to do was leave. I didn't want to share with these people. I didn't want to hear their sad, sad stories. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to run.
Instead I sat on the end of one of the couches and pulled out my knitting.

Socks. The ones I started March 1st. The ones that I thought would NEVER EVER END. (I'm on the toe decreases. Hallelujah).

It was interesting (from a clinical distance) to watch us all come in with our calm faces and composure, then fall one by one. I'm sure we all told ourselves, "I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to say more than I absolutely have to. I can get through this." I know that's what I thought. I thought I was comfortable with the story, but even in this abbreviated version I heard things come out of my mouth that made a liar out of my demeanor.

I was not the only one who found the body.
I was not the only one with the complication of impending divorce.
I was not the only one who didn't want to be there.

I was not the biggest mess in the room. By far.

When it was over I just wanted to go home, but I had promised Bean we would get ice cream.
This is going to be harder than I thought...

(If he had not died, if we had just gotten divorced this would be over by now. I could be OK by now. I wouldn't have to sit in a room full of strangers and feel like I was being torn in half. Again. Can't this just be over already? When do I get my life back?).