Tonight marks six months since Mom died. That realization hit me last evening, when I was going back through some old training notes. I came across a couple of scattered references dating back to last autumn, a few mentions around the Holidays, and then of course the timeline of the first week of January. That triggered a few unwelcome memories that I tried to drown out with thoughts of happier times, but once the lights went down, well ... There are still some things I'm trying hard to forget that don't want to go away.
It's weird how it manifests itself. I'm not the same person I was seven months ago -- and not always in a good way. For the most part, I've been OK, better than OK even, given my personal commitment to change that I made back in January ... but then every so often, I lose it. Most days, I am as patient as can be while my daughter does one thing or another that she shouldn't be doing. But then, like last week, I go absolutely ballistic when she refuses to change her pants. Or I start crying when certain music turns up on the iPod. Some songs are known triggers -- it's the ones that catch me off-guard that are the worst.
I just feel uneven -- not unpredictable, but not completely "there" either. Detached, just a bit. I know it's compounded by the physical stress I've put myself through this month with a heavy training load, and intellectually I know it will pass, but my gut really has me wishing I could just curl up in a corner, or go hide out somewhere for a while and just process. There's no need for me to go picking fights for imagined slights from good friends. There's no need for me to be screaming -- yes, screaming -- at a cute little blond kid who only wants to wear Dora-with-a-dress pull-ups. There's no need for me to be a moody mess at work who just seems to be moping about. But yet here I am.
Six months. Winter into spring into summer. Kim's and my birthdays. Easter. Father's Day. Mother's Day. Two becoming two-and-a-half. Three becoming four.
Miss you Mom.