If I Wrote

November 7. The last time I wrote. It's not for lack of anything to say. I have much to say. And much that I feel. But, I've hit a point in my grief where it has stopped feeling okay to share so much, so openly. There's a self-consciousness inside me that worries, again, how this kind of open grief is perceived by the bystanders and onlookers. People who want to see this kind of grief and know that "it gets better." People who love me who want to know that I am "okay."

I intended to say that it has "gotten better." And that I am "okay."

But those phrases don't seem quite right.

Because, you see, if I wrote every time I felt the need, I would still be writing every day. And I guess that doesn't seem much "better" or "okay" than I was 2 years ago.

If I wrote every time I experienced something -- a moment -- tied to my grief over Ryan, you would read about all of the times I watch Brayden playing on his own and knowing in my heart that it's not right. He shouldn't be playing alone.

You would read about the deep connection I hope so hard that they have or will have every time I see him give hugs and kisses to RyBear.

If I wrote every time the urge hit me, you would know that trying again for a third child is as anxiety-ridden and scary as it was right after Ryan. You'd know why I may seem so emotionally charged lately.

There's so much more than regular life going on in my head and my heart these days.

If I wrote every time I felt hurt, you would be here reading more frequently. Because somehow, 2 years later, I still feel like sometimes I'm just not getting this all "right," 

How can I still be stumbling over questions about my family? How can I not be more sure of acknowledging him?

If I wrote every time a thought worth writing about came rolling into my head on a long commute alone, I would hardly find the time to do anything but write.

And I can't help but wonder if I wrote every time I wanted to if I would miss him a little less. Would I miss him even more? Could I possibly?

So for the bystanders, and onlookers, and people who love me -- I'm okay. I am. But I still miss him. And there's rarely a quiet moment in my heart when I'm not missing him. Maybe if I wrote more, you'd know. And I'd feel "okay" about writing.