I don’t normally choose moments like this to write. When the mist comes in and I’m angry, bitter and sad. When I feel like I’m facing the edge of madness. Because somewhere deep down I find a place to justify the heartache, to work it through. To realise that these moments in grief are fleeting. A battle between brain and heart. I wait it out until the victor is my rational brain and the pain subsides a bit.
This will hurt some people. It will make them question if I mean them. And maybe I do, and maybe I don’t. Unkind thoughts aren’t sane, and are mean. They’re mean to me and you. They tell me that you may think my grief has an expiration date. That you are fed up of my crap. That my life is too much, and you’ve got your own sh*t to deal with. Thatyou want the guilt of worrying about me to go away. We are only in control, or out of control, of our own lives anyway.
I think that just because a lot of the time I seem okay, that you judge my grieving. That it’s not enough, and I am heartless. I think you are scared to ask me too deeply because you worry that you can’t deal with the fall out. The thing is though, that won’t happen, because I don’t choose when the mist comes. It comes when I’m sat through the squillionth viewing of The Lion King and the thought that Mufasa is brave, until he’s frightened for Simba’s life hits me like an arrow right in the target. But not when I’ve sat through the squillionth minus one viewings. It comes when maybe you haven’t sent a text. But how can you help that?
It comes when inadvertently I feel like my life should now be judged just as others. That my sh*t is equal to other people’s sh*t. And I will have spent time telling you to think like that, just suddenly, when the mist comes, I don’t feel like that. I feel like actually this pain, this grief of my much loved child, is harder than anything anyone can understand. That actually I need more from you, despite my protestations that I don’t previously, and I expect you to see that. To know that. That at that very time, the time you don’t know has come, the time I wasn’t expecting, I need you to hold me so very tight and tell me that yes, this is the most awful thing anyone should have to endure and it won’t get better, even if we both know it will.
The mist comes and I am majorly f*cked off by you taking everything you have for granted. By you having the audacity to moan about anything at all, worry about anything. That you need to check your privilege. That you need to put your sh*t on a sliding scale and deal with it.
It’s cruel because it’s invisible to you.
The mist is grey, cold. It’s minus three degrees. It makes you come back in damp and in need of warmth and comfort. But it goes. It goes.
When it’s gone I know you’re trying your best. Motives unmotivated. And know that I’m trying my best.