Here we are heading into the third month of 2015. Although December the 14th feels so long ago it is as raw and vivid as if it was yesterday. 79 days. 79 of the most agonising days of my life. I still don’t believe this is real, it still doesn’t feel like William is never going to be here with me, but he isn’t and knowing this, means knowing my life will never be better. All of my life I have always strived to do the best that I can, achieve the most I can, be the best person I could be. I have not always done the right things, said the right things and know I am not perfect, but I knew, I knew that when William was born my life could never be better, could never be more perfect than the moment I held him in my arms for the first time. Knowing this I feel like my life has peaked. That it can never be any better than the short period of time I was blessed to have Grumpus. It can only be different, a different kind of different if that makes sense.
The past week since I wrote my last post has been odd. I have been to see the psychiatrist again and they’ve changed my medication. They’ve assured me that everything I am feeling is completely normal. That feeling like I want to go to sleep and not wake up isn’t about suicide but about wanting to be with William. The two thoughts, that to most people are so similar are actually so different. That they can co-exist and it is ‘OK’ to have these thoughts and live alongside them, for now, for the next few months, years and even the rest of my life. I have sat and thought very clearly about these two concepts, consumed with grief, like I’m in a totally different world to the people around me. Sometimes I sit there and look at the people on the table next to me, in earshot, but I cannot hear a word they are saying, I can see their lips moving but no sound coming out. It is very surreal and it feels like I am viewing life through a window. Like a bystander. Observing what is happening around me but not taking part. Like a silent movie.
No matter what people tell me, try to help me, or even impart their own experiences this is my personal journey, I’m not choosing to process this in the way that I am. Everyday I wake up and feel different from any other day, but the same dark, black, dense fog surrounds me. This week I have made peace in my mind that it is ok to feel this way, I know I have an escape route, a safety net or a get out clause and because I have this I no longer feel trapped. Managing these thoughts is key. Key to not tipping over the edge. The only way I can explain it is that my mind is like a see-saw. Continuing to struggle on is balanced on one end, and not being here balanced on the other, not struggling on and giving up. It is a fine line, a fine line that I’m tip-toeing along very slowly, not expecting anything from myself.
I can’t make any sense of this, and I don’t think it is something that can be made sense of or rationalised. I feel like I’m in a bubble, a bubble of grief, my bubble of grief. When I do things, like go out of the house or go into the office it feels wrong, I feel guilty, guilty that I’m climbing out of my bubble of grief and doing something. But I’m not leaving William behind, I’m not betraying him, I don’t love him any less, I don’t think about him any less. In fact I miss him more, wondering what he would be babbling to me in the back seat, wondering how many times I would have to put his shoes and socks back on after he’s busied himself pulling them off. The concept of doing anything in recent weeks has always seemed impossible, now I can do things, knowing that when it becomes too overwhelming, or I cannot cope, I can climb back into the safety of my bubble of grief, too heavy to carry with me. One day maybe, the walls of the bubble might become thinner, and one day the bubble might pop and I will have the ability to live my life carrying my grief with me, not allowing myself to be consumed by it. But for now, I have my bubble. A bubble I feel relatively safe in.
Trying my best to adapt to my new normal.