I was sitting in my therapist’s office a week last Wednesday and I told her that I have been grumpy.
Not mean, not vicious, just, well, cranky.
Go too slow in traffic? I’m the one behind the wheel cursing at you. Bad service at a restaurant? I’m glaring and not tipping. I’m a bit too quick with the sharp reply.
I miss my son more. The recent birth of a baby threw me. My nephew showing me his baby album left me with a lump in my throat.
I am quieter. A bit more sensitive. It’s easier to hurt me. I seem to grit my teeth a bit more and try and smile. It’s a bit harder to look on the sunny side of things.
I told the therapist it was concerning me. I’m not normally grumpy. I’m actually pretty happy, if I take the events of this year away. I’m pretty optimistic. I will always miss my son, but I get through most of my days without incident.
Lately I feel weighed down.
I had a dream last Saturday while napping. I was in a castle, my mother, Mr. Spit all of my nieces and nephews in one room. I turned a corner and found a magical place. I came flying back, tugging on my mother’s arm, told her that she had to come and see. We stood on a draw bridge, watching flags in the breeze, sunshine and the ocean in the distance. For a moment, she was really there again.
The weight in my life has a name.
I miss her still.