It’s me again.
First off, I’m tired.
I really wish people would stop asking “how’re you”, the question itself sends me on mini downward spirals.
It’s now been 8 months since my mum died (who’s counting anyway?).
I still haven’t had my moment of complete collapse, and I suspect that one day it’ll come – at the most inconvenient time.
I feel it in my aching bones and clouded thoughts, In the restless sleep that leaves without rest, and the endless naps to fight said fatigue.
I feel it in the unanswered emails and unopened texts from two, three weeks ago.
In the job applications I no longer have the energy to complete, and the expired courses I once completed at record speed.
Most of all, I feel it in the constant listlessness.
The absence of the desire to plan for any future – because what is life, when death always wins in the end?
“But you look happy, you’re going out”
Well genius, shall I erupt in tears at a rave, or better still, stay inside forever?
Perhaps heavier than my grief is how consistently the love I have thought I had.
The constant, unhelpful utterances of “be strong” and “Oh you’re so strong”.
The failure to hold space for my “bad” emotions. I’m no saint, but I’ve never been one to shut the people I care about out when they lash out at me because they were hurting. So why am I being punished?
Your parents will die too, one day. I hope you find the grace you failed to give me.
“I’m here if you need me”, then proceeding to make my emotions about them in my rare moments of vulnerability. This, I will honestly struggle to forgive.
But, as some famous person said, it’s life.
This isn’t a pity party.
The last 6 months have been about everyone else.
And I need the next 6 to be about me.
I’ll forget (decide not to) to call you back.
I’ll bail on plans last minute.
I won’t always want to listen to your problems.
I may not honestly care how your day went.
I’ll sleep, a lot.
Please be patient with me, or not. You have every right to leave.
Right not, I’m learning to be okay with being imperfect.
I can only hope the rest of the world, to some degree – can be okay with this version of me too.