Some times I wonder when the veneer is going to crack. When it will all fall apart. When I will fall apart.
When I talk to people about Sam, I'm met with various responses, but most of them include some kind of a reference to how well I'm 'coping', and how they would find it so hard.
I know that I've reacted to Sam's death differently to many people might expect. Definitely differently to the grieving parents you see in the movies or on TV. Yes, in the first few days/weeks/months I had some fairly typical reactions. But more often than not I put on my happy face.
I have always thought that this was because of the kind of person that I am. The happy-go-lucky optimist. The girl who's always smiling. The girl who keeps it all together and supports everyone else.
And in some ways it probably was. But then other days I wonder if it's all just an act. If one day I'm going to lose it and become the vacant, brooding grief-stricken mother a la Nicole Kidman or Rachel Weisz. I'm a little scared of that, I've gotta admit. 'Cause what if I do?
Someone told me the other day that I was 'inspirational'. I don't feel inspirational. Sometimes I feel like a fraud.
I've been cranky lately, mainly because I'm busy (with the accompanying guilt), but also because people I know are doing stupid things, and my house is a mess, and it's cold, and I don't know what's happening with my job, and because I've got so much weight to lose (again), and because I miss Sam. So bloody much it's not funny.