He doesn’t get me. At all. Not many people do. Sometimes I wish he could crawl into my brain and hear the things that I say to him. Things that I wish he knew, but that I just can’t put into words. Things I can’t hear myself say out loud. Instead, we clash. Over and over. If I could speak the words, I’d tell him I’m scared. I’d tell him I’m falling apart on the inside. I’d say the words behind my tears. I’d tell him my fears, but my fears are what keep the words from being said. I can’t say the words. I sure do feel the feelings, and think the thoughts, but the words just won’t come out. Even when there is opportunity, even when he is asking, I just can’t speak it, but the things I would say are spiraling in my mind. It frustrates him, it angers him, because I won’t talk. He doesn’t understand me, he doesn’t know how to handle me, or handle this situation. That’s what he’s told me. But this isn’t his kid, and as much as he cares about my kid, it’s not his own. That deep connection isn’t there. I know he’ll never understand, and could never even get close to understanding how this really feels. I wonder if he felt the same feelings, the same anguish as I do, would he process it the same way. Would we connect then…but that’s not even a guarantee. People, parents, process this kind of trauma in different ways. I wonder how he would handle this if it were his kid. At least then, he would know to give me more slack in the range of emotions I feel, not put extra pressure on me with things he says, and understand that sometimes I just want to be quiet, or just need time to myself. I don’t have many moments by myself. Maybe that’s why I feel so depressed lately. I recently heard a saying “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” That’s me right now. I’m all poured out. Every ounce of energy I have is given to put up this front to my kids and the outside world, that everything is going to be fine. Everything will be great by Christmas this year. I just have a hard time fully believing that. I can’t. I have done that once. Once was enough. Once was too much. If I had kept up my guard, maybe this all wouldn’t hurt so badly. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt such a gut-wrenching, breath-taking blow. Maybe I wouldn’t be still walking around in a fog, in a surreal world, where nothing is fair, where there is loss and tragedy surrounding you constantly. It’s a tough world to live in. It’s a world that most people can visit and leave anytime they want. Not us. Nobody knows what this world feels like unless they have lived it with their own child. Dropping by in September for childhood cancer awareness month isn’t the same as being here every day of every month of every year. It’s there when we go to bed, there in the middle of the night, in the early hours of the morning, there when we wake up, and every minute of the day. It’s constant. It’s been constant for 3 years now. Maybe I should give myself a break and be ok with allowing myself to feel…just feel. And maybe work on that refill.