Comfortably Numb

Is there anybody in there?

Sometimes I wonder myself.

Every time I hear the song “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd, it puts me in a trance. My mind wanders off to a time when life was simpler. A warm spring Sunday in college, when my boyfriend and I lounged lazily on the couch and absorbed the bizarreness that is “The Wall” by Pink Floyd. I don’t have to drink or do drugs to be lulled into a state of bliss by this music. It’s psychedelic on its own accord.

Even now when I hear that song, I find myself back on that day. I can still feel the warm breeze that flapped the curtains in the small rental house. I still remember the sensation of being content and snuggled up on that soft couch. Completely relaxed.

No responsibilities, no real struggles, no understanding of pain and loss.

We weren’t thinking about families, babies, life.

We weren’t thinking about saying goodbye to a precious child.

Our thoughts revolved around that day only. Simplicity.

Thinking of that time, of that life, of that girl, I wonder if it was all a dream.

We grew up. We went our separate ways. We married other people and started lives. And I never think about him or that time except when I hear this song. Simple life, when I really had no idea what the song meant, or what it would mean to me. Now, in this time, I know what it means to be comfortably numb.

I have become comfortably numb.

I have found a place where, be it through alcohol or friends, or keeping myself so busy I don’t have time to acknowledge their may be pain lingering, I can hide from my pain … and I am okay with that.

I function through my day. I live my life. I am happy. But I am numb. And to me, that is survival.

It has been over three years since I suffered as I held my two day old infant as she returned to God. And for many, that may seem like enough time to have moved on. On many days, I have moved on. But I haven’t left her behind.

I miss her. Every. Day. I. Miss. Her.

I have become comfortably numb.

Many others are not. Many are still stuck in a place so painful, that the thought of breathing physically hurts. To them, I pledge my empathy. My support. Because dear mother, while you may be hurting, there will be a day when you will either be happy or comfortably numb, or both.

And until them, I am here for you. Even while my heart is comfortably numb, I have room for you.

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katbiggie

Freelance writer at Kat Biggie Press

Alexa B, who blogs as "Kat Biggie" is a wife, mother, and writer. She has three children and one in heaven. She recently self published a book entitled "Sunshine After the Storm: A Survival Guide for the Grieving Mother" which is available on Amazon. She blogs about life after the loss of one of her twin daughters to TTTS, motherhood, all things parenting, advocacy, grief support and social good.

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