Kaia was cremated. We wanted her at home, we wanted her close, where we could keep an eye on her. It wasn’t how I pictured taking my baby home, but she’s home nonetheless. I thought things would get better. I thought with her at home that I would find some semblance of peace and comfort, but I feel anything but peaceful or comforted. In fact, my depression seems to have gotten worse. Having her home, her urn, makes my reality all the more real. All the more true.
Before her memorial, there were some good days in the midst of the bad ones, but this time, I seem to have more bad than good. Tears come when I least expect them and the anger never goes away. It just simmers, waiting for the most inopportune moment to boil over and explode, my poor loved ones need to duck and cover.
I’m told that I’m strong, that my resilience is something to be admired, but I don’t feel strong. I’m just really good at acting like I am when in reality, I’m screaming inside - a blood-curdling scream that illustrates perfectly the horrific reality I live with every day. I’m quite surprised I haven’t yet crumbled to the floor. The Lord knows I’m close to doing so.
But I haven’t. I still keep going. As I said in the previous entry, the world keeps going, the sun will rise again and again, and I wake up every morning not because I want to, but because I have to. I have to find a way to move on, to find my new normal, whatever normal means these days. I have to. I have no choice in the matter. My daughter may be gone but I am still a mother and Kaia deserves more than a mother who would gladly sleep through the rest of her days. My Kaia is worth all the strength I can muster. Kaia is more than worthy of a mother who fights to be worthy of her. She’s my why.
