Where do I begin?
How do I talk about how I am feeling, without appearing like I am going over old ground, wallowing.
Who am I kidding.
There is no time limit on grief.
I normally lock my grief away. I have locked it deep into my heart in a locked cage in the dark recesses of my heart where there is no light.
But every time, at this time of year, on this date, it shakes that cage. It takes its empty tin coffee mug and starts walking up and down clanging away to get my attention.
It usually starts a week before. Clanging. I fool myself into thinking that this year, this fifth year, it will be different. This year I will be able to ignore it.
But the clanging continues. It gains momentum.
My brain hurts and my heart feels empty, begging for me to release Grief, to give it some reprieve.
I don’t want to let Grief out. I don’t want it to consume me, and engulf me, to the point I cannot function and I cannot breathe.
But eventually, I have to. I have to let it out. I have to let it rise up inside of me, and take hold of my heart. I have to let it grip my heart so tightly I bend over where a silent scream escapes my body.
Such is my grief.
It is dark.
It delights in joining with Depression and having fun with my Sanity.
Sanity is very shaky.
Mom’s voice. I still cannot remember her voice. I run around the crevices of my mind, opening memories, searching frantically for the clear sound of her voice. None exists. At least none that I remember.
I have yet to have a fully formed dream of her. Only shadows exist in my dreams, whispers. I am conscious in my dream that I am looking for her, wanting desperately to look her in the face, into her eyes, and hear her voice. It never happens.
Why did we have to be so close? Is it natural, the closeness we shared?
She was my best friend, you know.
We spoke almost everyday, and when I lived in the UK, we saw each other at least three or four times a week. We would laugh and she would manage to help me calm my ever frantic mind. I never felt judged, or that I wasn’t good enough. I always felt enough. Well, not always, because you know, I was a shitty teenager.
It’s a strange thing to lose your best friend at the age of 42. The best friend that gave birth to you and knew you and nurtured you and loved you. She was 62. I felt the universe should have given me another 20 years with her at least. It should have given her another 20 years.
Life is unfair like that.
Gosh, grief hurts so much.
There’s so much I want to tell her. My grandson, our new home, my new blog, my other new blog, life.
“I’ll miss you so much,” she had said.
But I knew. I knew that wasn’t true. She would be resting, sleeping, finally at peace. It would be I that would do the missing.
Fuck it hurts so much.
Mom, you left us this day. You drew your last breath. That laboured breath that was slow and awkward. And it still hurts. I have yet to find a way to keep that damn grief locked up, and quiet. Frankly, I wish it would just die. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe it reminds me that I miss you. I miss your voice. Why can’t I remember your fucking voice?
I would give anything to have you again. I can’t even bargain for one more day because I know that would be a lie. I wouldn’t be able to let you go again. I wouldn’t be able to go through that pain, this pain, all over again.
And so I have to let the grief out. I have to endure it as best I can. I have to open my arms, lean in and surrender to the universe.
“Take me and do what the fuck you will! I lost my mom this day and I will cry, I will grieve, I will let my injured heart and soul ache and cry out in pain! For today is the day my story fractured, and I have yet to find a way to put it back together!”
I miss you mom. Your first born misses you so much.
Until next year,