Acceptance

Dear Lorenzo:

I've been to Target three times in the past two days.

Yesterday, I went to buy Amira a new pair of sneakers.

This morning, I went back to exchange said sneakers for a bigger size.

And this afternoon, I went back yet again with the receipt I'd forgotten to bring on my previous trip.

Suffice it to say, I still have to get Amira a new pair of sneakers since Target didn't have any that I like in her size but...something good came out of my time there anyway.

While shopping for juice boxes and school snacks I passed both the liquor and potato chip aisles several times, but unlike what I've done for the past 14 months, this time I was able to walk past those aisles without purchasing anything from their shelves.

I think there will always be a part of me that wants to hide under the covers whenever I think too much about what I've lost.  A glass of prosecco, a container of stacked lays and an episode of NFL Live makes it so much easier to temporarily alleviate the pain but...I don't want to live there anymore. I don't want to live in a make believe world where I'm so busy trying to forget what I lost that I eventually stop appreciating what I still have: a healthy and happy daughter, a warm and loving home, supportive friends and family who've been by my side through every step of the grieving process.

Numbing myself from the pain doesn't work anymore. It's a temporary palliative at best. Inevitably, the fog lifts. The empty potato chip cans go into the recycling bin; the liquor bottles are rinsed and set to dry on the shelf above the sink; football season ends and ESPN moves onto sports that I don't care about. And through it all, you still can't come back to me. That's what I realized while weighing the pros and cons of getting a cheapo bottle of wine from Target this afternoon. No matter what I do, no matter how long I put it off, no matter how much alcohol I drink, potato chips I eat, or dumbass movies I watch, the fog is going to lift eventually.  And I'll have to face reality head on.

So today proved an important step in my journey.  In not buying the potato chips and wine, I chose to accept the inevitable truth. I chose to face the pain of loss without my usual "coping" mechanisms. And that's a damn good start.