hiding my face

We are all excited about our trip to South Carolina for Michael’s graduation from basic training. The whole family is going, including mama. I can’t wait to hug him. We have all felt his absence in more ways than we ever dreamed possible.
I am slowly coming to the realization that something is not "right". At first I attributed it to a variety of different things. It is a certainty that Sam has gone off the rails during the last few months. I am worried about him but all I can do is put out as many "fires" as I can. No he hasn’t started THAT, but it is almost as bad. Life is one crisis after another with him, most of his own making.
Ben is doing well in school. His first six weeks of high school and he brought home "A"s and "B"s. I am very proud of him. He is adjusting well. Lauren is doing well. Hopefully this will be her last semester of college. I am in no hurry for her to leave the nest but I am more than ready for her to be finished with school.
Something isn’t right with me. I feel sluggish and disconnected. I feel numb. My smiles are usually what is expected not necessarily genuine. I have noticed that my heart feels fluttery, almost like the after effects of being terrified. I finally took all of this out and examined it with a hopefully objective eye. I am more confused than ever. I admitted to my husband, and to myself, that I might be depressed and simply too stubborn to acknowledge it. That scares me. I don’t want to go "there" again. I am not strong enough.
Mama says often that the house feels lonely sometimes. She also says "I miss the ol’ stinker" about daddy. I miss him too. I don’t go to mama’s house as often as I should/could just to "visit". I have to have a reason. I can’t walk in the door without my eyes involuntarily going straight to place where daddy’s chair "SHOULD" be but isn’t. It is still a shock to see the changes in the house even though I am the one that made most of them. Every time I walk into the kitchen I find myself glancing into the bedroom out of habit. The hospital bed and other equipment are long gone. I am still "checking on him" even though I know he isn’t there. A new wound is opened every time I have to face that fact.
I no longer recognize the person that is looking back at me from the mirror. I have aged 20 years in the last 2. I am old. Most of the people that I looked to for support (in all its forms) have for one reason or another become "absent". Life is hectic and obligations must be met. Even when something is erased it is not completely gone. There are still faint traces. I am still tracing my fingers over the page trying to find the faintest hint of what once seemed so clear. The smallest impression still comforts and soothes.
As scattered as I may be I have discovered that I am actually sleeping better than I have in years, not necessarily longer, but better. Having said that I am not going to declare myself "rested". I am tired. It seems to be a constant state of being. I saw a movie once in which one of the characters was reacting to the loss of her son in the war. She was grief stricken and angry which is completely understandable. The way she expressed it struck a chord with me. The people around me were baffled and commented on it. They didn’t "get it". After screaming in pain and grief, the woman dropped to her knees and lifted the skirt of her dress and pulled it over her head. She curled into the fetal position with her face hidden by the fabric and sobbed. I know the desperation of rocking back and forth, wrapping my arms around myself and actually "patting" my own chest the same way you would to calm a crying baby. I understand wanting to hide from whatever is causing the pain.
When I was a little girl I used to have bad dreams fairly often. I remember opening my eyes and still being "in" the dream, heart racing and almost blind with panic and fear. Most of the time I was too scared to get out of bed and find my parents or even to realize that my sister was right beside me. There were some benefits to having to share a room, to having a sister. If I was lucid enough to reach out she almost always let me hug her. Most of the time I would just pull the covers over my head. As long as I was under the blanket, nothing could "get" me. There is one irrefutable fact. You can’t stay under there forever. I am slightly claustrophobic and after a ridiculously short period of time I would have to peek my head out to breathe!
The last few months have been difficult. I have only just realized that I have been going through the motions and that I have been doing it with my "face buried in my skirt". I know that I will have to "snap out of it" sooner rather than later because I have to take a breath no matter how painful it is. I will survive, rest assured. I am just not sure whether the survivor will recognizable as "ME".