I hate quiet time because when its quiet I remember my mother is dead and I feel like the silence is going to swallow me up. It’s too damn loud.
It’s a blunt pain. A definite pain. A pain that is here to stay.
So pull up a chair.
I can’t feel her or hear her. I’m desperate for some sign that she’s watching over me. I am so desperate for this that I’ve started writing notes to myself in her ‘voice’ …things I think she would have said to me. I’m finding small comfort in this.
I have a shrine laden with skull candle holders, incense, some of her trinkets, Lord Ganesha and Buddha among them and her photos in the middle. I light the candles every day.
Some people have said that a shrine isn’t helpful in the grieving process. I say fuck those people. I will have this shrine for as long as I want this shrine.
I’ve been feeling guilty because I have been distracting myself from grieving with work, children and I don’t know if you’ve heard but there is a global fucking pandemic at the moment.
Covid 19 is going to kill us all and we have to stay inside! One of the weirdest sentences I think I’ve ever written.
So I haven’t made a lot of time for my mother and my pain because I don’t want to fucking feel it its too fucking much and I don’t know if I can really handle all of this.
I am still sober. I am navigating these choppy waters of grieving through a pandemic with phone scrabble and tea biscuits.
That’s all from me for now. I am sorry I’ve been absent, I have missed everyone so much.