Next month it will be two years since my mum passed away, but it feels more like a decade.
Her demise was painfully slow – not just months but years of loosing her a piece at a time. The only way I could cope was by detaching myself. I didn’t realise I had done it and in becoming ‘not-my-mum’ she became Mother.
Over the next decade she struggled to understand money, became unable to walk, could not recognise familiar faces, and eventually in the last year, lost the ability to communicate at all.
By the time her final days arrived, I had built a stone wall inside. I felt nothing when she finally slipped away. I went through the motions of saying goodbye, attended her funeral and helped to sort out her things. I still felt nothing.
I told myself it was alright, because I had prepared myself. I had already grieved and therefore didn’t need to. My Mother had died years before, so I was fine.
I have carried on as normal and moved on.
Only I have not.
In my quest to protect myself I have severed the string that connects me to anyone. I’m scared and confused. I have no idea how to reverse it. Instead of feeling hollow, I feel as if I am full of rock.
My path is long one; it is uneven, overgrown and steep. If I can make it to the top, I know that the path will be clear. I am making my way up, I can feel the prickly brambles scratching my hands as I pull myself up. It is exhausting, but I feel alive.