Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Measure of Time

When I first started writing this blog I wanted to do it chronologically and catch up to current date.  That said, I just can't find the words to post about the service right now, so I am just going to jump ahead and then go back as my heart allows me to recall those details.

Today it has been 8 weeks since Andrew died.  I find myself measuring time much the same way our own date system works with the life and death of Christ.  I do not mean to compare Andrew to Jesus, for Andrew would fall way short.  But I think of events as happening either before the crash (B.C.) or after his death (A.D.).

In many ways I feel like time has stopped because in my mind Andrew will forever be 20 years old.  He will not have a 21st birthday, be allowed to legally drink (although I am not sure he would even care about that as he never showed any inclination to alcohol), go to a bar (even if just for trivia), legally hit the slots in Vegas, get reduced insurance rates, finish college, get married, or have his own children.  His death feels like I was cheated.  That somehow I am being punished and will never get to share those experiences with him.  I am being forced to change my every day normal life and accept the fact that he is gone.  Well nobody asked me if that was okay.  Some days I just want to scream that at the top of my lungs.

I watched a Hallmark movie today (probably shouldn't watch those as they made me cry B.C. but really get the water works going now).  Anyway, there was a great line in the movie.  A girl had lost her mom and people would ask her, "How are you?".  With the passing of time, people expect you to say, "I'm okay," or "I'm fine," but the truth is we aren't okay and we aren't fine but if we say that, then people feel awkward and we somehow end up comforting them.  That's if they even were listening to our answer at all.  Sometimes that is asked just as a point of conversation.  The suggestion was made to give an answer that will make that person stop and really think.  Like if you're happy say, "I'm a sunny day at the beach."  And if you are sad say, "I'm a balloon with no air."  I cannot think of a more fitting description of how I feel, I am a balloon out of air.  The passion I once had for learning is deflated.  The drive I had to finish school is deflated.  The joy I had when seeing Andrew or talking about work is gone.  In the A.D. days, I don't want to get up, get a shower, get dressed, go to work, eat, clean, do laundry,  or anything really.  I don't want to talk to people and put on a brave face.  I don't want to make phone calls or follow up with insurance and bills.  I just want to get to the part where it hurts less and I can once again be a sunny day at the beach.

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