On a different note

It has been six weeks today.
Feels like yesterday.
And it feels like a lifetime.
----
My brain won't quit mulling it over.
Unable to think a straight thought.
Continually picking up shards of memories.
A broken mirror.
I can't see myself the same anymore.
Nothing seems the same.
----
I drive down the freeway and think, "The day we found I was carrying twins, I called Dad to tell him at this very spot in the road,...right...here".
-
I pass the place in my bedroom where the first contraction came, "This is where I knew".
-
A train goes by and I recall waking up to that horn the night before their birth.
-
Memories of that day come rushing back when I see the hospital. "The only building they ever lived in".
Yes, a strange thought--but there is no other way to word it. It is what it is.
That building is somehow sacred to me. At times, comforting to see.---and still, most days I will drive an extra 3 miles just to avoid passing it.
I'm up and down
Down and up
Brief moments in the middle
----
I had another dream--
I'm climbing a large tower. I feel alone, yet vaguely aware of others around me. While making my way to the top I don't even know why I'm going. I don't know my goal. Is there something up there I'm supposed to see? Something I'm supposed to do? I am becoming exhausted physically & emotionally but feel compelled to continue.
Finding myself in a middle room or landing of sorts, I look around to see lots of artwork--Paintings and sculptures. Pedestals with headphones playing music. I discover a wall of plaster hand prints. They remind me of the prints given to us of the boys' hands and feet. I begin to cry. Silently at first, and then quite audibly. My eyes dart making sure no one has heard. They have.
Shamefully I slink to the corner, hoping to hide myself. But decide, No. I don't care who hears me. I don't care who it makes uncomfortable. I don't care who thinks less of me, or thinks I'm un-ladylike, or thinks I'm weak, or depressed, or inconsolable. I don't care.
----
They say there are stages of grief- (whoever "they" are). Five stages to be exact.
1. Denial and Isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

You can be in any one or more of these stages at anytime--and not necessarily in this order. Before today I'd touched every single one, except Anger. I just couldn't see being there...I'm not mad at Heavenly Father-- I'm not mad at my caregivers,--No one is at fault & nothing could have been done to prevent it. I just couldn't see feeling angry. Angry at what? Angry at who?

Today, angry made sense.
----
I got a nasty email from someone a few weeks back. Someone I know, but apparently not that well. An email accusing me of hypocrisy. That my "judgemental political posts were hypocritical" and that I was milking the loss of our sons to have the "appearance of spirituality".---That I "claim to be spiritual, but am anything but". Aaaand about 2 full pages of personal attacks and belittling. (BTW--have I ever "claimed" to be spiritual?)
I'm not even sure why I read it. Stunned. Paralyzed as my eyes continued to scan. I deleted it quickly, and didn't allow myself to feel anything about it. Cerebrally I knew it was CRAP and that for them to write this--they obviously don't know or care about me.
Even though I use this blog as a journal of sorts, I didn't want to write about it. Clearly, this person reads what I put out there, chews it up and spits it back out at me. But today as I have been sifting through my memories, this email resurfaced.
And it hurt.
And I was vulnerable.
.
.
And then I got angry.
All this emotion surfaced as I considered making this blog private.
But decided that would make me even madder. I don't like feeling controlled or manipulated.
I refuse to live in fear over someone's opinion about me.
My point is that, I wish I could write that I've already forgiven this person--That I've always got that eternal perspective. That all is beautiful and perfect in my world.
But that is not me.
I am unsightly when crying--usually with makeup sliding down my face, a red, dripping nose and shaky voice. Being angry is not especially attractive on anyone, but I've got the furrowed brow, bloodshot eyes and stern lips. I'm not doing this mourning thing gracefully--cause I'm pretty dang imperfect.
---
It has been six weeks today.
Feels like yesterday.
And it feels like a lifetime.