Tonight was my brother-in-laws 30th birthday party. It was also my first social outing since Sam's death. I thought being around a large group of people that I mostly didn't know would be much easier than being around a large group of friends. I figured it would be easier to not be known as 'the girl who's baby died,'  but to be just 'the sister-in-law.' Wrong.

I do not feel like me right now because me is supposed to include Sam snuggled in my arms. And he is not there, so I don't know how to make small talk. I feel at least 10 steps behind in every conversation, which is only acceptable socially to people who know my loss. Instead I am faking it badly for a bunch of people I don't care about. Don't get me wrong they are very nice people, but right now bathing myself, clothing myself, and feeding myself feels like a huge accomplishment. Making new friends does not land on the list of things I hope to accomplish in my day.

I left the party very early. Around 8:45, which is lame even if you are elderly. Mark stayed. I wanted him to see his friends that are in from out of town.

On my way home I really wanted to get a pack of cigarettes. I haven't smoked a cigarette in almost ten years, and those were cigarettes I bummed off of people in a college bar. Fortunately, I was too big of a coward to go into a store and ask for a pack of cigarettes. I felt like an underage kid trying to get up the nerve to buy beer with a fake ID.

Tonight I learned that even in all of my grief I still care what people think of me. Or maybe what I really mean is I care what I think of me. When I want to just say, "fuck it, my kid is dead. Give me a pack of cigarettes," I can't.  I think, buried in all of this grief, somewhere, the person I once was still exists and she is trying to hold on to some semblance of who she was once.