I want my outside world to relfect my inside turmoil. The calmness that is slipping away, the trepidation, the impending emptiness that slowly lowers its vail and the grief that I no longer have the strength to keep at bay.

It’s all coming. There is nothing I can do and I am scared shitless to loose control.

—

It’s been 10 days since he’s died.

It’s the physical manifestation of sorrow that leave me winded: the always present stomach ache, the feeling like I want to shred my skin, pull at it, take it all off. It’s the heaviness of my voice, and how I can’t get my eyes completely open.

Everything is so dull. When I laugh deeply I am surprised by its sound and depth and fullness. I am embarrassed by its bawdiness.

The ceiling of grief hovers closer, as do the sides of it, closing in. My mother left today, my in-laws leave Monday. I pick up Art’s cremated remains on Tuesday. I am pretty sure that on Wednesday I will not be able to get out of bed.

Funny, even now I am “planning” for collapse.

“This contract is to set forth the terms of grieving. Grief can be had after the following conditions have been met:

• Weekly laundry is finished
• I have made an appointment with a grief counselor for me and the kids
• His remains have been picked up
• Meetings have been had with the Social Security office AND I have filed the proper paperwork with ….

If, and only if, these conditions have been met can Kim Hamer lay in bed, overcome. The time allowed for bed laying is —–. It shall last no more than ——–.”

God, even here, in this space truly between living and mourning I need control. It is the only thing I can hang on to.