My words feel clumsy as they knock against the walls of this reality, attempting to reach beyond, to reach her. They roll about inside the world I can see, only able to describe the things that belong here... not her, and not how I feel about her passing.
People often ask me how I am, they hope I am okay. Sometimes I want to say:
My mother just died. Images of men taking her out in a body bag keep flashing in my head. A memory of saying goodbye–wanting to kiss her hand one last time before they took her, but her blood had pooled and I couldn't raise her hand to my lips because of rigor mortis–this sits on my heart. I remember her eyes–dilated, dark, and dead. I watched my mother, the person who loved me most in this world, my greatest source of love and comfort... I watched my mom turn into a corpse. How the fuck do you think I'm doing?
This is one of the ways my words are clumsy. I am not mad at the question, and I am not mad at the person asking. But I feel SO HARD, so much. Using words is attempting to squish immeasurable forces and feelings into a measurable unit. It can be frustrating and so I apologize for lashing out; and I apologize for not speaking.
Every time I have entered into a social situation since she has passed I have realized I have lost all normal social functioning capabilities. Any time someone greets me as if my universe hasn't just been shaken up, I feel dizzy and confused. Alone, too. Even talking to some of my closest friends leaves me feeling stranded because they cannot be where I am, they cannot understand. They do all they can, and I love them no less. But I am standing on an island that no one else can see.
I am not ready to leave this place, though. Not sure if I ever will be. No matter how alone and no matter how sad, it somehow feels closer to her. Raw, filled with blood, alive and dead... I feel all these things.
I hope, with all of this, that when, if you (all you living loves who may be left behind) ever stand on your own island between here and somewhere, that I can sit in a boat just offshore. If you ever want to step off the island, just for a moment, you will not have to travel far.
My words are also clumsy in expressing gratitude and love–for these things cannot fit into such restraints. But thank you. I love you. I think I still somewhat fear being judged for my pain, for being too mellow-dramatic or for being stuck. I don't want you to push me before I am ready, but I also do not want to be left. Please continue to bear with me as I attempt to re-settle. I'm sorry, I'm sorry... it will not be a short journey.
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