Paper in my throat

3:40am, Monday before Christmas 2011

I come off of my bed because I cannot sleep. I've read out 2 books for the night, lovely little short kids stories, yet I feel uncomfortable. My throat feels tight. I initially think it's because of the position of my head on the pillow as I'm curled up reading, but after two days of this tightness, even I couldn't fool myself any longer to blame it all on posture. So I came off bed and hobbled down the stairs. My back, shoulder and neck aches so much, and my knee is a bit stiff. The pain meds I took earlier has alleviated some of the back pain but the general feeling of tightness and strain still lingers. My neck just gets worst. My head starts hurting and I wonder if maybe I am dehydrated. Downstairs now, I make myself a cuppa hot chocolate and gulped rather than sipped it slowly. With each motion of this comfort drink squeezing down my throat, it starts dawning on me, as slowly but as inescapable as the first light of day, that I need... to cry. The tightness in my chest, tightness in my throat, ache in my back and neck and tension in my head, are all the repercussions of grief suppressed. The vivid, anxiety type dreams should have indicated this to me sooner, but as usual, I am a master of denial. I need to cry and holding it all inside of me these past 2 to 3 days is doing me no good, no good at all. 

I finished my cuppa hot chocolate and felt compelled to type this. I should mention, while drinking, I opened my bank statement and noticed for the first time there was no increase of $100. No more mommy = no more salary = no more automatic transfer of $100 a month to my savings account. Trivial as it may seem, there's nothing more potent than the rawness of our materialistic 'reality' to trigger a purposeful allowance for concern. Though the money may be of little consequence, the fact that she's gone screams at me in fine green writing on a three fold sheet of paper with my name on it.