Sitting in silence

I sit here. In silence. In the dark. I make no noise. I wake no one. I disturb no pet. I am an entity left alone. I break no hearts. I make no misery. I am not cheeky, rash, nor belligerent. I peacefully sit in my bed. I have my guard down. I am simply here. 

This is my nightly ritual. Alone. I listen to dogs snore, creaks in the house, the air purifier sucking and blowing air. I do this every night. 

Do I like it? Not particularly. I long for rich conversations while lying in bed. This never happens. My expectations lead me to misery. I walk myself into the room of despair. No one takes me. I go there alone and willing. I don't like it there, yet, I go again and again. I have jumped on huge hamster wheel and have not figured out how to jump off or how to get someone to join me in the sprint, 

It's been a long silent life. An only child then married a man that doesn't speak. It's quiet and lonely. The expectations keep me walking to the room of despair. I believe this time will be different.

I know my biggest hurdle is the fact I don't know what I want out of life. Ok, I want simple things. I want to be healthy, active, and happy. I want the same for my kids. My goals feel emaciated. They need more meat, but what? 

I sit in this moment thinking about what it is I want out of life. My children are growing older and needing my assistance less and less. This leaves a void because my husband has never been the talker/sharer I desire. It is what it is and I have to decide my plan of action. Until then I will sit here. In the dark. In silence. Alone. 

Grief

Sometimes the grief hits you like a brick  to the temple when you're in the middle of a belly laugh.

I see my mom, in my minds eye, lying there in my living room dying. As if that wasn't bad enough my brain decides too be a real douche-bag and I get to relive more horrors. My pets dying, my grandma yelling in pain and dying, the lady that got electrocuted and I stood there watching paramedics try and revive her with the paddles (years later the family pulled the plug).

Those moments flash back and stop me. They stop my joy. They stop the laughter.

I will never be that person I was the day that woman died in front of me next to the carousel.
I'll never be that person that I was the day before my grandma died in my arms.
I'll never be that person I was the moment before my mother slowly and painfully died in my living room.

No, I cannot be that person. I've made peace with that. I'd like to know who I am now? I'd like to know how to heal from those experiences. I'd like to be me, whatever or whoever that is today.