The week before Mother’s Day was especially tough this year. I believe that when we have external pressures, it accentuates grief even more.
Today was March 17th, a Tuesday. I really didn’t want to get out of bed. I truly didn’t want to function.
Everything was heavy.
Freddie, my husband, saw this red flag. He said to put on any clothes and come in the car with me while I return an item. I truly didn’t want to have to look at other people going about their day.
On the way home, Freddie asked if I would like to go anywhere. I knew exercise helps, and despite every fibre of my body telling me to go home and hide. I said Thorpe Hall gardens would be a good place for a walk. We walked, and I talked about all my concerns, my worries, everything that was on my mind. Can I finish my degree? Can I do my work at H & M. The loss of my son (our son later). Seeing a photograph from someone unexpectedly of Dan, Cheri and me, Mum and Dad was too much to bear.
This is when the scream comes out. The pain, the hurt, the unwritten words never explained. It is exhausting – my body feels like electric powering through it.
It is only when we express these deep-rooted feelings that we start to heal. I have some inkling now of how Dan may have been feeling when he took his own life. I, at times, feel this too. It scares me, yet I am still around over seven years later, still fighting.
After swimming, I make a conscious effort to spend some time blow-drying my hair. I make myself look at my face and apply my lipstick. I vow to myself to speak more kindly to myself. It is very hard, but I have no other choice but to keep going.
Image from Photo by alitaylor on FreeImages