How am I supposed to live without you?

Tell me, how am I supposed to live without you?

Now that I've been with you for so long

How am I supposed to live without you

And how am I supposed to carry on?

When all that I've been livin' for is gone

I found a profound connection with the lyrics of Michael Bolton's song, albeit in a different context than most would assume. While the track may typically evoke thoughts of lost romantic love for others, it resonates on a deeper level for me. Mourning for me extends beyond that to encompass everything I have ever cherished and been separated from. It's a poignant reflection of the breadth of my losses and the depth of my emotions.

Today, here I am, laid bare. Bidding farewells have been woven into the fabric of my existence. Despite my disdain for funerals, attending them has become second nature to me. I've honed the art of navigating through the sombre rituals, yet I cannot help but feel the pain of others as if it were my own. When tears cascade down the cheeks of friends and family, mine flow in solidarity, mourning not just for them but for every loss we've endured.

In the recesses of my mind, I whisper, "Been there, done that." This is not to trivialise the pain of another but to acknowledge the shared anguish. Each funeral I attend echoes the depths of grief I have known and lived through three times before. Each loss has left me shattered in myriad ways. Now, the sight of a coffin being lowered into the earth evokes an involuntary tug, as if something within me is being drawn into the abyss.

Scattering dust onto a coffin feels like relinquishing a fragment of my own heart to the grave. The last time I felt myself torn apart was when I bid my final farewell to my mother, feeling as though a part of me was being cruelly torn away and cast into the soil.

She was the last remaining family member, and even now, a year and a half later, I continue to mourn her loss. Despite receiving well-meaning advice, some go to lengths to make me feel worse. My book delves into the intricate dynamics of my relationship with my mother, yet despite this understanding, I cannot break free from the grip of the past. I feel trapped in a time warp, like an old turntable on a shelf, appearing content and unique but unable to play music when the stylus is placed.

How can anyone truly comprehend or witness the depth of my pain? I wonder if I'm gradually losing touch with myself. Perhaps I've always been adrift, but before, with someone at home, I felt anchored, assured of finding my way back. Now, with an empty house, the concept of home has lost its essence. Reconnecting with myself feels daunting, especially on days when it seems like an impossible task. This might be why I hesitate to venture out; the fear of losing my way back amplifies the reluctance.

In September 2022, I experienced the passing of my mother. I watched her take her last breath. I knew weeks before that she was fading away, and it was just a matter of time. In those last moments, I sat with her and tried calling out to her with just a faint glimmer of hope that she would hear me or squeeze my hand one last time to remind me that she knew I was still around. But she did not. Despite the overwhelming grief, I managed to maintain my composure and fulfil my duties as her daughter, even in the presence of friends who observed my silent mourning.

A priest recently pointed out to me that I seemed to be immersed in self-pity, and I respected his perspective. Instead of defending myself or arguing against his observation, I acknowledged it. Additionally, someone I know said to me, "My dear, it's time to cut the apron strings," in the presence of a known audience. I saw a sheer lack of sensitivity coming from an individual with a claimed experience in counselling and understanding people.

I do not expect the world to understand the extreme pain and sadness I disguise every day. With corrupting thoughts that bordered on ending it for myself at some point during the last year, a few things kept my head above water. Seeking counselling seemed promising, and I was optimistic about its potential benefits. However, after attending several sessions, I didn't feel much improvement. Continuing would have only drained my finances without alleviating the initial feelings that prompted me to seek help in the first place. Retreats were a lot better.

Sleep remains elusive, and while sleep aids offer temporary relief, I fear becoming overly reliant on them. To counter this, I immerse myself in various activities such as watching movies, reading, and writing, doing everything I can to lift my spirits. Engaging in specific activities and courses has proven to be a blessing, providing a sense of purpose and distraction from the sleepless nights.

I pray that if you are going through a loss, you find your peace soon.

Yours in grief