Griefaries: Two

December 26, 2021

Approximately 10:30 p.m.

Part of me is mad at her for dying, and that thought alone makes me hate myself.  It wasn’t her choice to die.  It wasn’t her fault her heart was weak from a cancer she didn’t ask for and treatment she needed to survive, but that definitely just ended up slowly killing her anyway.

But I’m mad because she’s not here.  And she’s supposed to be here, because she’s my mother, and how is a child supposed to exist on earth without their mother?  That’s not even a situation.  There would be no children without mother’s, no people on earth at all to speak of.  No me, laying here crying in bed missing my dead mother, who should not be dead.  And I’m so mad about it.  I’m angry, and I have no one to yell at. No one to blame or to hate or to direct all my sadness at.  There’s nothing.  My sadness just festers in my heart, which grows bigger every day, and today it feels heavy.  I haven’t cried like this in quite a while.  But I’m a 23 year old baby who celebrated her 2nd christmas without her mom and that’s just wrong.  That’s so wrong. It makes me so angry.  And I’m typing all this from my new bed in my new room that I only have because my mom died so she didn’t need it anymore and it was just sitting here with every single last reminder that she was dead.  But even taking all those reminders away didn’t stop giving me reminders. Making this into my own room is a reminder.  The garage without her van is a reminder.  This house without her presence is a reminder.  My life that I live every single damn day without my mother is a reminder that she’s dead.  Even when I don’t want to I remember that we buried her.  I remember that she died in that blasted cold hospital really early on that summer day, and now she’s under the ground and I’ll never ever ever see her again. I don’t know how to live with that. 

I don’t want the new year.  I don’t want the resolutions and the fresh starts and the moving ons and every other bullshit fad.  Every day that passes is a day longer I’ve been without her.  And those days easily become weeks, which quickly become months, which turn into years in the blink of an eye, and before we know it I’ll be older than my mom ever got to be, and I’ll have been alive for longer without her than I ever was with her.  And what a cruel cruel life that is.  I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for this.  My mother never asked for or deserved anything she ever dealt with.  And in the end all it did was take her. 

What is all this for?  Life?  And pain?  And suffering? I need you all to know that sometimes, a lot of the times actually, there is no beauty in suffering.  Suffering is just suffering.  That’s it.  It’s just darkness and sadness and ugly snotty tears on your fresh clean sheets.  Dark imagery of loved ones under the earth.  Quickly followed with the knowledge of you putting them there.  And just sadness.  Heart-wrenching sadness that comes at you sideways and unexpectedly, while also never leaving your side.  Sadness that makes you want to push every good and happy thing away for fear of losing it or killing it, while also working hard to make everyone feel happy and loved because you know the other side of it.

I was physically sick this weekend, so sick that the next morning I was exhausted from my lack of sleep and my amount of sick, that I just laid around and slept all day.  And then that night I slept a good 11 hours more.  But even that is not as draining as grief.  I have been this tired for 1 year and 4 months, and I will remain this tired until I myself die.  I guess that’s the cost of loving someone.  Maybe that’s a beautiful thing to some degree, but on the other hand it’s just pain.  Both can exist at the same time, one is just much louder.  If I ever find a balance to them, maybe I’ll come back to this post and prove myself a pessimistic liar.  But I don’t think I’ll ever have to.