Feb 25th. Why did I write that? Because my mind really doesn’t know. Might as well be February although it is actually June… no, it’s not, it’s July. July. Not February. July 25th. And what does it even matter. Sunday. I’m sitting at a typewriter because I had the house to myself for a few minutes and thought I should write what was on my mind before it slipped away. Your sisters are off to Toronto. Nice that they have each other. I hope they can talk to each other. I know we don’t talk about you. They’ve become a part of that group of people in my life that I have to guard against - the ones who can’t allow my pain or that I don’t feel safe with expressing my pain. That breaks my heart. I don’t trust my interpretations and I don’t believe my observations anymore so I hesitate and hold. Everything is like that.
My two surviving kids won't talk about their sister, either. Won't say her name. It hurts! I want to scream, but I don't if they are within hearing distance because I'm afraid of losing them, too. I am absolutely scared to death of losing them, but my fear is based on an illusion of what we had. I'm now facing the truth that they are no longer who they were to me, my kids. They don't understand, even though they have kids of their own. If you haven't lost a child, you have absolutely no idea how deep this grief goes...to the very bone. I want to know if they even think of her, but I dare not ask. At seven years of grief, I have no one left. It is actually a relief in some ways because I no longer have to guard myself the way I did a few years ago. There is some good in that. I upset no one by what I say about or to my daughter. The hole you speak of is a place I know well. Your words completely describe that place. Pinpoint accuracy. I appreciate your abilities and all that you share because you clarify my reality, which is such a great gift. Wish I could hold you and cry with you and talk with you about our precious daughters. Hugs. Shirley
This is all so hellishly shitty, this new life, and you’ve nailed the shittiness, Tara. And I’ll say your beautiful girl’s name: MILA! You spectacular young woman! The world needed you. Your mom needed you. She needs you still.
My two surviving kids won't talk about their sister, either. Won't say her name. It hurts! I want to scream, but I don't if they are within hearing distance because I'm afraid of losing them, too. I am absolutely scared to death of losing them, but my fear is based on an illusion of what we had. I'm now facing the truth that they are no longer who they were to me, my kids. They don't understand, even though they have kids of their own. If you haven't lost a child, you have absolutely no idea how deep this grief goes...to the very bone. I want to know if they even think of her, but I dare not ask. At seven years of grief, I have no one left. It is actually a relief in some ways because I no longer have to guard myself the way I did a few years ago. There is some good in that. I upset no one by what I say about or to my daughter. The hole you speak of is a place I know well. Your words completely describe that place. Pinpoint accuracy. I appreciate your abilities and all that you share because you clarify my reality, which is such a great gift. Wish I could hold you and cry with you and talk with you about our precious daughters. Hugs. Shirley
Here for it all XXXX
This is all so hellishly shitty, this new life, and you’ve nailed the shittiness, Tara. And I’ll say your beautiful girl’s name: MILA! You spectacular young woman! The world needed you. Your mom needed you. She needs you still.
Huge hugs to you, Tara.
~ Deb