I feel like I can’t breathe. It’s all too much and I just want it to stop.
We adopted a dog over the weekend. A rescue, and I didn’t think we knew what we were getting into when we brought her home. She was supposed to be an outlet for our love but I look at her and realize I don’t want a dog. I don’t want a replacement for the love I should have been giving to my living son. I want my son. I want Paris back. I want my life back. Whose idea of a cruel joke was this?
I can’t breathe and I just need my son back. I need my marriage back (instead of us living on two different grief planets) and I need my job back (instead of not being able to work post traumatic surgery and disease that almost killed me and did kill my baby) and my friends and my ability to leave the house or shower unassisted.
I started my period today, the first one since losing Paris. My body is forgetting him. It’s heavier and more painful than I’m used to but that’s not why I’m crying. Every agonizing second takes me farther away from him. And I would give anything to go back.
I feel like I need someone else to tell me what to do because I’m so hysterical and can’t make any of my own decisions.
I can’t be trusted with a dog. A dog that isn’t and never will be my baby and I want my baby.
Or at the very least in the same town as his body. I had a dream last night and he was buried in the sky.
I can’t do this. Someone needs to help me because I can’t do this.

Alisha—I’m so sorry. We’re here, we hear you, we understand and we’re walking along with you. Where do you live? In the early days, I found comfort here of course but also at a support group for loss parents and with a counselor who specialized in perinatal loss. The support group was through the MISS foundation (I’m in the US—DC area). Sending you peace mama.

Alisha, I just saw this now. I'm just reading this and thinking of you and seeing myself in where you are. I know that space. It doesn't last forever. Horribly, wonderfully, it softens. I know it's impossible to contemplate right now but you are still in the blast radius of that bomb that went off. Your ears are still ringing. Just breathe in and out and do what you need to make sure you're sleeping, giving yourself basic care. The dog is no replacement. But maybe the dog is the world's most obliging therapist. Maybe that's all she needs to be. Just pat her, feel her fur, her hot stinky dog breath, her grateful waggy tail. Just do the small things that she likes. Walks and snuggles and things. It will help you in small ways. Really small ways, I know—a help that can't erase all the pain—but it's a little bit of something.

I wish I could sit with you. Just know I've been there too. xo