Every time a special day rolls around, I debate with myself on whether I should write something for, and about, you. My mum.
It is the fifth mothers day without you, and the fifth year I still have so many words I could write about the love I have for you. Five years, and five weeks ago I picked up my phone to call you. You would assume that after such a long time, moments like that wouldn’t happen anymore; you would get used to the loss. And I have, somewhat. But in this particular moment, on this particular day, I forgot. I just simply forgot that you were not at home, with a cup of tea, cuddled up with the dogs. I went to call you, and I only realised I couldn’t when I saw your name wasn’t in my favourite contacts.
It simultaneously feels as if it’s been a whole lifetime, and like it happened just last week. We had a friendship, a relationship, a love that could have put even Lorelai and Rory Gilmore to the test.
I’m coming so far in life, Ma, I’m becoming what I have always wanted to be and it feels so incredibly fucking unfair that you are not here. That you are not with me. You didn’t even know I had this ability to write because I kept it hidden for so many years. And I know, in the spiritual sense, you are with me. But sometimes, Ma, I just need you in the physical sense. I need you by my side, and I need you to call.
I’m tired. I’m tired of people blaming my mental health on grief, and sometimes it’s the funniest feeling. All I want to do is vent to you, to tell you how stupid people are and how annoying I find them and how I want people to get that I struggle with mental health, and along with that, I miss you. I know you would understand, and I contradict myself in saying that maybe if you were here, if you could physically say to me you understand, I would be okay. But I don’t know that, because I will never know a future life with you. I’m tired of people thinking they understand my mind, even when they read these posts; it’s not even the slightest glimpse into what I feel.
I’m tired of people using you as their excuse. That they were “there for me,” all that time ago, as if this gives them reason to pull me down; for me to stay the same, rather than become the person I am supposed to be. I was scared for so long of becoming who I am supposed to be because I thought that meant leaving you behind. There are narcissistic, shitty people I would prefer to leave behind rather than you. But life isn’t fair, and you made sure to teach me that. The loss of you instilled it in me.
Sometimes I can’t conjure up specific memories of you and it throws me into a spiral of existentialism; it’s life, you know, and just because you can’t remember certain things doesn’t mean you’ll forget them (because, obviously, I’ll never forget you), and I get that, I understand that, but I don’t; why? Why did you have to go? Out of everyone? You?
But then there are moments when I get a jolt, and I hear your laugh, so crisp and perfect as if you are sitting right beside me, and I want to catch it in a small jar as if it’s a butterfly and keep it; keep it to look at, to admire, to just simply have. But like the beauty of a butterfly, the memories are meant to fly by when I need it most; you are saying, “hey kiddo, don’t forget I’m still here. I’m still here, honey.”
What is there to say after five years?
You are still, you are always, the most incredible, most beautiful, best friend, best mum, best person I ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I miss you every goddamned day.
“Life sucks and then you die so fuck the world and let’s get high,” — Rosie Helmers.
A note to all the lucky ones; who have a mum they care about, who have a mum who’s still here. Please, for the love of fucking Christ, treasure her. Cherish her and show her how much you love her. Make her a cup of tea whenever she wants one and hug her, and tell her. Tell her how grateful you are to have her. Not just today, but every day. Because you may lose her next week, or you may lose her in twenty years, but when you lose her, there is no getting her back. All you are left with is, albeit a multitude of love and memories, inevitably an ache.
As you search for the perfect gift, remember that you are the best one they could ever ask for.
A note to the ones who understand where I’m coming from; remember the love she had for you, and share it with the ones you still have. Laugh, cry and live for her because she would want nothing less. You aren’t alone in this, however much it feels like it sometimes, and as much as humans, and life, suck — it’s so beautiful.
Because what’s not beautiful about loving something so goddamned much that you hurt so hard when it’s gone?
Happy Mother’s Day. X
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