No One Knows

Last night, after a four month hiatus, I went back to the support group I've attended since August of 2008 for bereaved parents called Compassionate Friends.  It's a chance to connect with other families that have lost a child and who literally KNOW what it feels like to be in my shoes.  It's comforting and encouraging and full of tears and laughter.  We all just get it.  It is lifesaving.

It was at the meeting last night that something occurred to me... 

I feel like a fraud.  A liar.  Someone I'm really not.

You see, for five and half years, I've spent a lot of time and energy figuring out ways to remember Nash.  I've shared our story, reached out to other grieving families, volunteered with incredible organizations, raised money, and wrote a book... All in the hope that Nash's name will remain in people's hearts and on people's minds.  And these things HAVE helped me.  They really have.  For years now, I'm overwhelmed by how complimentary people are to me, saying how strong I am, or how much of a difference I've made.  But sometimes when I hear those things, I feel like they say them because they don't see the whole picture.

No one knows that I can't go to a certain ATM because the last time I did was the day before Nash died.  I cannot get myself to press those same buttons... the ones I pressed, when I thought my life was perfect; when I was naive and didn't realize that bad things really can happen.  No one knows that I routinely skip a certain block of 15th Street because I can't stand to drive by Nash's old pediatrician's office.  No one knows that I will only take my kids to the Dallas Zoo because I have no intention of EVER going back to the one in Fort Worth - I don't think I could stand to see the rock I sat on while I fed Nash his bottle in the scorching summer sun.  No one knows that I have a white tank top that I haven't worn in almost six years, but it still hangs in my closet because that's what I was wearing in the last picture I have of Nash and I together... six days before he died.  Even though it's been washed, I can't help but think that his little legs wrapped around it and his chubby fingers grasped at the sparkles. 

So now you know.  I put on a brave face each day.  It's part of my routine: shower, clothes, make up, hair, brave face.  But deep down, every ounce of me is aching.  I miss Nash every second of every day.  Always.  I miss him.

Love to y'all,
Tracy