Doris convinced me to start this journal, although l don't know what difference it would make. After all, they would still be dead.
Anyway, I had the dream again last night. We were in that alley, and then I see him. I try to scream, but no sound will come. I try to pull Bruce behind me, but my arms won't move. Finally I try to throw myself between my family and the gun, but instead I stand motionless as two bullets take away my whole world. My whole life.
Vodka and a Valium is the only thing I've found that will quiet that terrible,
powerless feeling that soaks through me when I awaken. But then, when Alfred
wakes me for supper, and I see I know I cannot continue like this; I cannot
keep breaking this dear man's heart by slowly killing myself. Dr. Thompkins
calls it survivor's guilt, and gave me a list of therapists that could help.
I suppose I should call them, but not today.
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April 3, 1980
Everyone wants me to move on, to "bury" Tom and Bruce. It sounds reasonable,
as the sod is starting to grow on their graves already. But somehow I cannot.
My parents want me to move back home, that perhaps I needed a scenery change. For that matter, Mom said, maybe I should spend the year Europe. But as painful as it is to be here, surrounded by the objects of my past life, I can't possibly leave.
Doris thinks I've got too much free time. She suggested that I create a charitable foundation, something to ban guns, or make Gotham a safer place. I'm sure she believes that perhaps this could be my salvation. But as much as I appreciate her help, I know this won't heal me. I've already been approached by various advocacy groups, hoping I'd lend my name to their cause. They want Martha Wayne, The Victim. I don't think they realize that that's exactly what I'm trying to escape. So l had to decline.
I don't want to leave, but it's too painful to stay.
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April 28, 1980
I had the dream again. This time l tried to wrestle him to the ground, but it
didn't work. I fought him with all my might, but he easily batted me away. I
didn't self-medicate this time, the feeling was different. When I woke up, I
was pissed.
The problem with loss support groups is that many people stay frozen in their grief. I may have to count the days before I see Tom and Bruce again, but the powerlessness must go. I'm not sure what to do about it. But that night, I wanted more than anything to kick some ass. So I put on myrobe and headed down the hall to Tom's gym. It looked so strange at four in the morning.
I hit the heavy bag with my clenched fist, and broke four nails. So I changed
my grip before trying with my left hand. Three nails were lost. I guess you
can't kick ass with long nails. So I trimmed them short.
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