Tiers of Sorrow: A True Story of Homicide, Betrayal, Courage, and Hope. by Sandra T. Huerta

Author:Sandra T. Huerta [Huerta, Sandra T.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780615755939
Amazon: 0615755933
Publisher: Tiers of Sorrow
Published: 2013-03-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

LIVING LIFE BEHIND A MASK

A

s a child, I used to love to play the “pretend” game that we all loved to play as children. Whether I was playing the role of a teacher with my younger siblings and cousins, or a famous movie star acting on a mock stage with silly costumes; pretending sent us to a fantasy world where we could be what we wanted to be and reach as high as our imaginations took us. Little did I know, however, that my pretending skills from childhood would prove to be invaluable in the days, months, and years following Sergio’s death.

Although I honestly tried to be there for my husband and kids, and kept busy with household chores; I felt more like a zombie, living without any desire to participate in any family functions. I was just going through the motions, getting things done, but with little satisfaction or sense of accomplishment, and certainly without being able to connect with others. I thought I was doing everything I could to keep going and to stay alive; I thought I was doing okay despite the circumstances. I saw myself pretending as well as I had in my childhood years. I didn’t want anyone to see how much pain and sorrow was lying just beneath the surface; that thin layer of skin, shielding my soul from exposure to the crude elements. Although I was there in flesh, my spirit was elsewhere, crushed and broken.

The first year was the most excruciating. My first Mother’s Day without Sergio was just a week after he was buried and it was simply horrid. I went to the cemetery early that day, before anyone else woke up so they wouldn’t notice that I was gone. I lay next to his headstone and began to cry out loud, hurting so intensely . . . as if my spirit was aching all over, crying from the inside out. Dragging myself from his side, I headed home and mustered all my courage to make it through the day. It was a struggle for all of us. I don’t even remember if I called my own mother that day or not.

I held back my tears as the kids lit fireworks on the 4th of July,

remembering how much Sergio loved the very loud ones. The first Thanksgiving was probably the worst of all of the holidays that year, particularly because traditionally we sit at the dinner table together and after saying grace, we go around the table and say what it is that we each are thankful for. When it came to the part of the table where Sergio’s empty chair sat I was screaming inside, and wanted to run. I was tormented by memories of previous Thanksgiving dinners, particularly the year where we had joked about a silly incident that left him without a date. There was laughter then…but only pain and sorrow now.

His next birthday marked a painful milestone. On his last one we had given him the choice of money or a birthday party.

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