So Here I Am

…months since my last blog post, not even aware of the person who wrote the last one.  I have a vague memory of who that person was or at least who she thought she was or maybe who she wanted to be.  The one writing now, however, is the one who is… me… now…   .

I write constantly in my mind.  But I’ve been so tired.  I’ve been so sad.  I’ve been so dead….not really, that’s a joke.  I’m alive.  That’s a joke, too.  Because I’m not alive.  Well, alive but not living.  When I started this blog I was a person who believed in the resilience of the human spirit.  I held in my mind, even as I was crumbling into dust, images of myself overcoming the most powerfully destructive force in my life; the sudden, unexpected, tragic, horrifying, devastating, loss… theft… death.  of my.  baby girl.  daughter.

Whoever said it, and I forget now who that was; “The second year is harder,” yeah, you were right.  So, from this can I assume the third and fourth and fifth will be harder still?  I’ve seen others do this better than I’m doing it.  I’ve admired them for it.  I, however, am stuck.  Here.  Sad.  Lost.  Isolated.  This is not my cry for help.  If I cry anything other than tears it is, “Leave me alone.”

…and I get my wish.  Day after day after day after day… I get my wish.  Why the fuck am I even here?

5 thoughts on “So Here I Am

  1. It will soon be one year since my 23 year old daughter Kaitlyn took her life. My pain has not eased int the slightest and I am in a perpetual hell. It’s hell in this house and it’s hell outside and it’s hell in my mind and soul. Why could I expect next year to be better? I can so identify with your words.

  2. I’ve been waiting for your next blog post. I’ve missed reading your writing. I think the second year might be harder than the first partly because we can no longer keep pretending that they will be coming back. Now it’s real and the loss just keeps expanding and growing. Everyone else’s life moves on.
    Sometimes I think I have to still be here to remember my son and honor him. I also want to be here for my daughter. I don’t want her to lose her parents after the devastation of losing her only sibling. I’ve read your son’s poetry and writings and he, too, has suffered greatly from the loss of his “twin”. He still needs you.

  3. Come join a group of mothers who feel as you do, eduring all aspects of grief, and by their raw sharing, as you have done here, they lean on one another. Friend me on Facebook. Susan Beresford.

  4. You’re here, and you matter. There isn’t any satisfactory answer about any of this. All I know is that Philip keeps telling me I have to do the work where I am – here is where I am and I’ve a daughter who needs me. Today is two years, and it flew. And I am taking strange comfort in that. Because I won’t be here forever, and each day brings me closer to laying this body down. I want to prepare for that now; I don’t want to go out kicking and screaming, I don’t want to pretend I think death is the answer then find myself shocked and terrified when it happens.

    I don’t believe in “heaven,” but I know something remains. It’s not an idea, it’s my very real experience. Still, I also know not wanting to get up, feeling the impossibility of it all, just wanting to be left alone and why am I expected to function like a normal person? Like what, the most tragic and devastating thing has happened to me and you all expect some normalcy here? WTF?

    You are loved and needed and you’re here because you’re here. I know it might not seem to matter much right now, but you matter to all of us out here reading, never mind the countless people in your life who care for you.

    Go easy, my friend. Cry, despair, isolate – you do whatever you need to do. But remember that whenever you come back here, we’re waiting for you.

  5. Please remember there is no comparison in grief, especially when it comes to the death of a child. There is no “doing better” or “doing worse” than someone else. Your grief is your own. You walk your own path and they walk theirs…and we may not see what goes on behind the face others put on in public.

    People don’t realize that the second year is usually harder than the first. The numbness is gone and the sheer starkness of living a life without our child is the reality we face. We put so much energy into trying to face forward and not dwell in the past that contains our precious child. It takes a lot of energy. It takes a lot of time to integrate the loss of a child into the fabric of our lives…and to find beauty and meaning in the world that at times seems so dark and empty.

    Sending hugs…

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