305 days. It still feels like yesterday.

You have been dead for 305 days but it feels like just yesterday. The events of that day and the days leading up to it, play on a loop in my mind, over and over. There are moments when the flashbacks catapult me right back to that awful day, where I am screaming at you to breathe whilst I pound my shaking, clenched hands onto your chest. I can hear the sirens in the background, smell the fragrant scent of essential oils coming from your humidifier, feel the sweat on my skin. I can feel the vomit rising in my throat as my whole body tenses and my chest feels tight. In these moments, I struggle to tell the past and the present apart. I am there with you, screaming, except I am here, silent and transfixed, unable to separate what is real and what isn’t.

My dreams are the same. I see other mothers who have lost children, desperate for their child to come to them in a dream when I wish mine would stop. 304 nights I have dreamed of you being dead then 305 mornings I have woken to that sucker punch to the gut realisation that you are still…dead. I never imagined that dreaming of you, my own child, would become such a torment that I would wake myself with the sound of my own screaming.

I have heard it said that in grief terms, days are like milliseconds and years are like days. I still believe you will walk through the door more than I believe you won’t. It feels like only yesterday we were chatting, yet it feels like an eternity all at once. It is difficult to explain to anyone who doesn’t live in this world of loss in which I now live. No one wants to be here. No one wants to know this excruciating, relentless pain, but there is huge comfort in knowing that there are others here who understand. I don’t believe I would be here today if it wasn’t for those who were here before me holding out their hands.

Another bereaved mother said “We have to choose hope, or sit in hopelessness forever”. I’m not sure where I am between the two, I feel mostly hopeless but I am still here, still writing, which I guess would indicate there is some hope. I mostly hope I don’t always hurt like I do but I know this pain isn’t going anywhere. I must either to learn how to carry it and hold it within me or succumb to despair. Both seem feasible options to me right now.

I never imagined a pain like this possible. I certainly never imagined a human heart being capable of surviving this. Maybe I won’t. I am still alive but I am not living. I do all the things; get out of bed, wash, dress, eat…most of the time. I am still unable to listen to music or read, to do anything really that I enjoyed before. There is no place for words like ‘enjoy’ now. I struggle to leave the house and take medication to help me sleep and more to function on some level throughout the day, usually adding a few extra over the counter medications into the mix for good measure which is possibly becoming a problem but, like most things at the minute, I don’t care enough to do anything about it. The main goal is getting through the day, however which way.

I have weekly sessions with a psychologist for EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing) that I find extremely difficult and don’t have much faith in it but it’s still early days.

I spend a lot of time chatting to others who have lost children or who have lost a child/someone to suicide and I find this is the most helpful way to pass my time. Which is literally what I am doing every single day; passing time, waking up and waiting until I can close my eyes again.

Most of my friends and family have dropped off the face of the earth, which I’ve found isn’t uncommon for grievers to experience. I got tired of reaching out to ‘friends’ who responded to my desperate pleas with heart emoji’s or unhelpful platitudes and I soon came to realise that there was no place in the after for most people that were a part of my life before. Although at the same time, I have met complete strangers who have showed me such love and compassion that I know I will be bonded with them forever and I am so grateful for that.

I have not had one single second that I have not thought about my child being dead. Not. One. Single. Fucking. Second. People who don’t know this pain will make well meaning suggestions about things you might do as a ‘distraction’. In my experience, there is nothing (other than not being awake) that provides a distraction from this god awful life I now live. The thoughts do vary in their intensity, so sometimes they feel incredibly loud and angry and completely all consuming, making me feel nauseous and desperate for a minute of respite. Other times it’s humming loudly away in the background but I can keep control of it long enough to manage to have a conversation with someone. Either way, the minute of respite never comes.

I find I have a very small window of tolerance; in my environment and with the people around me. Sometimes I feel anxious, overwhelmed and angry and other times I feel completely numb, like I am sitting above myself, watching life play out on film. I can only ‘pretend’ for short periods of time and that is usually when I am with the kids. My 8 year old prefers it when I don’t cry and am not angry so being with her is hard work. Just ‘being’ is such hard work. It feels impossible much of the time but I think I have become better at controlling and hiding how I feel so as not to make others feel uncomfortable.

I battle every day with suicidal thoughts of varying degree. When the thoughts are extremely intrusive, I find I become withdrawn and unable to talk. I would describe it as almost like finding comfort in planning out how this pain might come to an end. Like a get out clause. Most of the time though, I am able to speak about how I feel. I have found the less time I spend alone, so the less opportunity to act on the thoughts I guess, is helpful to me. I have a gained a lot of insight into the suicidal mind that, in the same way you only know this kind of pain when you experience a devastating loss, you can only really understand when you have battled with suicidal thoughts yourself.

305 days and I am still here. Today I want to do all I can to honour your name and never stop speaking of you, yesterday I wanted to join you. Either way, I am another day further away from the last time I saw you. I have to tell myself that I am one day closer to being with you again, that our souls are connected for eternity. The alternative is just impossible for me to comprehend.