Where is my Oscar?

Someone again told me today that it seemed like I was handling things okay. It was a coworker. He didn’t mean it in a bad way. He was very kind about it. Asked me how I was doing. Said he didn’t know how I was doing it. Said that he didn’t think he could do it. Didn’t know how I was able to go back to work when I did. He said that he looks at his kids now, thinks about what I am dealing with, and knows he would never be able to get past it.

I paused. Looked at him. And said that I am not doing okay. I am just apparently a really good actress.

Fucking Oscar-worthy, dude.

We talked for a while about how I am really doing. How stressed I am. How I still cry every day. Still have breakdowns. How my 12-year-old is doing and how that affects me too. And I told him WHY I went back to work when I did.

How I knew I would sink too deep if I didn’t go back when I did.

That there would be a chance that I would want to curl up in bed and never get up again.

What I didn’t tell him what that there would have also been a chance that I would have wanted to go lay down in the exact spot in the road where my son’s heart made its last beat and just lay there until mine did the same.

But since I am an Oscar-winning actress, everyone who sees me thinks I am handling this just fine…