It's easier for you to read my posts when they have a spin of positivity to them. It makes you feel good to think I am healing. So I do it.
I create these lies around me. You call it strong. I call it surviving. There is a distinct difference. I did it so well with Kimmy's grief that people close to me have looked back and said, I didn't know you were still hurting so much over her. I am good at it. You didn't know I was crying in the car every day, right up until the week of the baby shower. That I did shed a tear the night before, because my sister wasn't a part of my baby shower at all.
You only saw my 'here and there' post's when it overflowed. But in between, in large stretches, you saw laughter and confused it with joy. You saw smiles, and confused it with moving on. But they were lies.
Lies I told people around me. As I sat in my car just long enough to dry my eyes. Lies when I cancelled plans because I couldn't be around other sisters having fun. Lies about why my nephew always seemed to spend a few months of the year with us. Lies about why Christmas Day hasn't been easy for years.
Lies about life. My life. And I got so good at telling them, that I believed them. The lies are what gave me strength. I loved my little feed of happy little lies.
I would have told you I finally felt like I conquered it, and smiled and real genuine smile that last day. I texted numerous friends about how amazing it felt to feel happy. Not fake it. I felt my happiest in 14 months.
And then I felt my lowest I've felt in my life. It was that sudden of a drop.
So I started telling myself lies again. Its what the world wants to hear. That things get better. Because who wants to live if it doesn't get better than this. People like those posts. They think I am healing, so they feel better too.
Look over here, at this lie about how happy I am to still be a family of 4, after giving birth to a third child. Look at this pretty present that someone sent me in remembrance, instead of arrival. Over here is a quote about something hopeful, even though I have nothing left. Happy smiles on my kids faces, when my 6 year old talks about death and knows his mom cries all the time.
It's just a big collection of little lies.
For you, and even more for me.
with love, lissa