My Silent Memoriam

Three years ago today, my sister and I were enveloped in a tireless struggle of life and death.

We woke ourselves up, put on our armour and dragged ourselves up for our line of duty. Our love remained resilient and continually gave me strength to live for our mum. I used to remember being told off for falling asleep in random places, and I’d wake up to tears and disappointment for the fact I had chosen sleep rather than helping. Of course, I could not remember finding myself in a bed, least of all falling asleep.

Our mental health armour, our health and wellbeing was being ruptured. I still manage some trauma from that period of my life, three years on. Other things have been are frozen like melted plastic. Frozen, rippled, but smooth.

In many ways, three years ago, we were a sinking ship, desperately trying to hold our mother up, whilst we gulped down bitter, holy water. These were the days that shaped us. We lost our being and soul in those days, believing that any effort we could provide to the cruel world, would anchor our sweet mum to it. To us.

In the run up to my sweet Mum’s anniversary, I tussle with a new grief. The grief I feel from these final days, is my loss of innocence. These days were the days I learned the world wasn’t a safe place. Magic wasn’t real. No one would save me. After these days, the fantasy books I loved so dearly would be locked away in a big black trunk, to be replaced with poems about grief, books about real things I could count on.

I was no stranger to it: fear, loneliness and loss. The grief I feel is for the loss of the hope I had that someone would, or could, sweep me up in love and make it all better. That was my mum for me, and I have locked off that hope in a cold wing of my heart. I dare not visit it, because it is a desolate way to live.

My grief is for the people we were when we knew Mum as a concrete figure in our life. These are the girls we carry in our hearts now, but who ran and hid for 3 years.

Life after death was disruptive, cold and frightening. I grieve for the fact that I berated myself for what I saw as weakness. I grieve for my inner child who was told to toughen up. I grieve for the girl who told herself she was alone now.

In my silent mourning for Katie and I, I yearn to go back to whisper promises of the future to them. I would dare them to dream, and and to have hope.

21 would look at 18 and tell her the depth of sadness, loss and anger she feels will be matched one day by joy, belief and hope. It would not heal me, and I probably would have just turned away from the noise. I just want anyone who is going through pain, suffering, loss to please hear me.

The point in trying is that one day, life will look completely different to anything you thought possible. We know with harsh certainty that everything changes in life. It can, and will, one day change for the better. You are doing more than enough. You don’t deserve this, no, but one day, you will stop asking what you did to deserve it. You will one day smile uninhibited. Hold on, my friend.

Evee x

13 thoughts on “My Silent Memoriam

  1. By the time my mother died, after my attempts to care for her and the home, I felt tired, numb. Exhausted really and–as you say–frozen. It was that way for a while. My mood looked to change because I was still trying to care for family, friends, and home. But I think I did a bad job of everything. I might as well have been myself through everything.

    Your narrative is both sensible and moving. I appreciate–I am grateful–for your sharing it. For sharing your story.

  2. I’m so pleased that time has given both you a new perspective on your loss. You never stop feeling it of course buy you can see how it recedes with the years. Not so for all of course a some suffer mental health poblems for years afterwards for a number of reasons.
    But, I do think your blog has saved a number of people from that fate because of your willingness to share your story annd theirs. Yes, I do include myself in that. Thank you both.
    Huge Hugs

  3. Hello. I chanced upon your blog through another one I’m following, and your words truly resonated with me. I’m sorry to hear of what happened. Just like you, my Mom died of cardiac arrest as an aftermath of stage 4 metastatic cancer. We laid her to rest in the middle of last month.

    Just like you, our family — especially my Dad, who had been married to her for three decades — saw that “life after death was disruptive, cold and frightening.”

    But a family friend of ours who’s a practicing psychiatrist says: “Grief is a rollercoaster of emotions. One moment, you feel like you’ve moved on – then another moment, you feel like breaking down and crying. The five stages of grief isn’t a linear process that you coast through from stage 1 to stage 5. You jump from one stage to another.”

    The key, then, is letting time do its work; living day by day; and engaging in cathartic activities, he adds.

    I know my words don’t really hold much water here on the internet, but I pray for your continued strength. (On a side note, following your blog!)

  4. Over board and in the depths of it all, somehow we learn to swim and keeping our heads up. For if we look down too much, it brings the waters up into our very being and we start to struggle.

  5. Beautifully expressed, Evee. You and Katie are doing such a great service by sharing your stories and offering others the opportunity to share theirs. This platform provides people a place to mourn with grace and move towards healing. Your own lives testify to the fact, new chapters can come alive with hope and future dreams. Blessings!

  6. After being a caregiver for my mom, dad, and husband Larry, I can identify with your writing. The numbness and underlying feelings of relief are real. 💕
    I am blessed to have witnessed at least a portion of your growth through your posts here. You are both amazing women. 💕

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