1:29 a.m. - 2003-03-27
Moments of sunshine
It's a routine by now. The quiet nights spent alone here in my study, the quiet buzz of the computer hidden by the occasional clicking of the keys, or more often, the comfortably steady beeping of Bejeweled, the annoyingly addictive game that mindlessly fills my days.
Sometimes I notice the near silence and turn on music, filling the quiet with the mellow music I find myself listening to these days. My playlist is occasionally incongruous - the presence of Terence Trent D'Arby would make almost anyone groan, but the songs it spits out at me are comforting and familiar.
I often sit here and form the words in my mind, but for some reason, it's been harder than ever to set them down. They're jammed up there in my brain, stuck tight and unwilling to come down for me. Or maybe I'm just ignoring them, pretending they're stuck so I don't have to listen to what they have to say. Writing has always been the one place where I have to be honest with myself, and it seems like lately, I haven't wanted to be honest. I think I'm afraid of what I'm going to tell myself.
I feel sort of like I've detached myself from life since Laurie died. It aches still, so much sometimes that it surprises me and overwhelms me, painfully reminding me of what I don't think I'll ever be able to forget. I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep as has been the case for so long, and I think about her, and I miss her. And it aches.
There are moments of joy that take over everything else and make me forget the sorrow. Moments like my birthday, when everyone I love remembers me and throws me a surprise party and thinks of everything and I am so filled with love that I think I might burst. I spent my birthday surrounded by people I like more than anyone in the world, all because some of those people noticed I needed it. And I can't even begin to thank them because I am afraid that explaining exactly what it was that the party meant to me would mean I'd have to understand it myself. And I can't, really. I don't understand why I feel like this so much of the time, so I feel like I can't explain how much it means when people notice and do everything that they can to make it go away, even for a while. All I can tell them is that it worked, and I appreciate it so much, and I love you all for it.
The Boy and Diana (who I think is now reading this journal...if so, hi! Tell me if you are, ok?) have been teasing me mercilessly about how much I love the Bean. They bug me about my baby obsession, reminding me frequently that she isn't mine, actually, and joke that they'll have to make sure I don't steal her.
I won't, of course. I know she isn't mine, and I wouldn't want her to be - her mother is much too worthy of Bean for me to even think of deserving her - but it's more than that. When she lies in my arms or sits on my lap, poking her fingers into my mouth a million times and grinning every time, giggling like a fool when I toss her into the air, I can forget everything else. She can give me what nobody else can. She makes me forget, makes me ignore it. She is so unfettered by the weights of the world, so small and perfect and content, that when I hold her, just for those brief moments, she lifts those weights from me as well.
And so I wrap myself in the music, comforted by the sweet soft voices that I know so well, and I am alone again. Day in, day out, it stays the same. Moments of joy, moments of sorrow. Grief and happiness, swirled together, inextricably linked in a lifetime of heartache and gladness, as inseparable as rainbows and rain.
But the moments of sunshine are what make it bearable.
