Enemy or trusted companion?
I can be open. Be true to myself, yet I despise this time so much.
I dread waiting for it to arrive yet at the same time I crave it too.
But faithfully it always arrives. Soaks my soul. Whispers to me, to let it out. It's safe here, now.
The days are too bright. They don't truly reflect my inner core. It's fake, cheery. I am not.
The days I spend functioning. Being human. Fulfilling my mother role. Getting on with it but internally struggling with the mere act of breathing in and out. Enjoying my boys like every other day but the night comes and I'm alone in my world, darkness as friend.
The world where it's real. The world where I feel.
The world where the waves crash upon my fragile self over and over again.
I don't know what it is, perhaps when the children sleep, the quiet is overwhelming. My duties are complete yet there is always something missing.
Time heals I know. I don't think that missing feeling will ever fade in intensity. It just is.
I wasn't even consciously thinking of her last night when the darkness became too much. I felt that thumping in my chest begin to pound furiously and then the tears fell. It shocked me. Usually it's a photo, a smell, a day, a place. This time it was nothing. It took over. Crying makes me feel heavy and generally worse. It just makes me think more.
- It's the little things I miss. Breastfeeding mostly. I never got that opportunity.
- Through birth I am her mother, a mother to a daughter but I will never BE her mother or a mother to a daughter.
- I cannot imagine her. Does that make me awful because I cannot imagine what she would have looked like? It hurts to think about that. She would have looked just like me but she's not here so why try to imagine?
- I hate seeing photos of me as a child because I see her in me. I'll never see her grow.
- I can't stand this light hearted banter about things she's doing or would do either here or in spirit. Nor her personality.
- She's not an angel or in heaven. Nor am I an angel mummy.
- She was my baby, my daughter, a human person and yes she's dead.
- I hate him, my body, his hands, Them.
- I am not a woman. I am a sliced, mutilated, butchered empty shell.
Well those were quite random and much deeper than I expected to go. I'm not entirely sure blog world is ready for that.