Two months

Tomorrow will be two months since my Libby died. It’s still difficult to even type those words. At times it still doesn’t seem real — like she’s off at summer camp somewhere and I’m anxiously waiting for her to return home so I can give her a gigantic bear hug and tell her how much I’ve missed her and that she’s never allowed to leave home again.

Most of the time, though, I can’t fool myself that this is only temporary. I know she’s gone for good, and I will never get another hug or see her big blue eyes and huge grin. I will never find another note hidden under my pillow that says “I love you,” or have her make a little label with her label maker and stick it somewhere for me to find.

It just plain sucks. And it hurts so, so much. I’ve pored through books, blogs, videos, and courses on grief and child loss, and every single one says that two months is absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of mourning. It still feels like her death happened yesterday. It’s so fresh and raw and unbearably painful, and in my humble opinion, it’s actually worse than month one. The first month went by in a blur — a whirlwind of shock and responsibilities and denial and numbness. But month two… the anesthesia has worn off and now it’s just me and a terrifying emptiness left in my amputated heart.

And every now and then, the emptiness is filled with what I can only describe as a dangerous mix of agony and desperation that leaves me sobbing and choking and literally hunched over and gasping for air.

This is the reality of month two after losing a child. The world goes on, and expects you to go with it. Get back to work. Get together with friends. Go to appointments. Attend events. Support your children who are still alive and need you. Plan holiday celebrations as though the person in your family who loved holidays more than anyone else won’t be there to celebrate with you.

Oh, and make sure you take time for “self-care.”

This blog is about the reality of my life after losing the best daughter ever. So I’m going to keep it real. Libby died two months ago, and I am not ok. I am a shell of a person who looks like she’s strong and has her shit together on the outside, but is spending most days of the week at a mental health facility because I’ve had one too many thoughts about driving myself into a tree. I have PTSD from the night of the accident and part of my therapy is learning to redirect my thoughts so that I’m not constantly picturing the scene from that night or re-creating the accident in my mind.

I get scared going through intersections or when I see car-carriers. I talk to Libby while I’m driving and pretend to hold her hand in the passenger seat just like I did when she was alive, and always end up crying. I try to sing our song and I haven’t been able to get through it once. I still can’t go in her room without having a panic attack. I feel completely lost and hopeless about finding any happiness in my future.

I am exhausted. All the time. Every second.

But here’s the good.

I am showing up. I am getting dressed and getting everywhere I need to be. I recognized that I needed professional help, and I took the initiative to get it. I am assisting my mom with her cancer fight on the days that I can. I am working on the nonprofit in Libby’s honor and posting on social media to keep her spirit alive and also share my honest experiences as a grieving mother. I am fighting to help other families avoid feeling this pain, advocating for change at the intersection where Libby was killed.

After three attempts that ended in hysterics, I was able to go through the box of pictures of Libby from her memorial service and put many of them up around the house. I’m making sure that I spend time with Max and Grayson, (even if they’d probably rather be playing video games than hanging out with me, haha).

I’m surviving. Day by day. That’s about the best I can do right now. If I’ve learned anything from my obsessive tendency to research, though, it’s that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Two months is a drop in the bucket in the long haul of losing a child, and Libby was an extraordinary child. I have a feeling my journey will be very long.