So. Life goes on.
Life goes on, the earth still turns, people are born, people die.
The sun moves across the sky, the moon chases.
Day turns into night, which turns into day, which turns into night, which continues to day.
Monday comes and goes, the next moment it’s Friday and then Sunday and then Wednesday and before you know it the year is half gone.
You wake up, you go to sleep.
Body processes food into waste.
Humans process life into waste.
Waste becomes waste.
Life becomes waste.
You end up wasting your life.
Day in, day out.
Lungs take in oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide.
Carbon dioxide is taken in by the trees, and they give oxygen.
Circle of life.
The Lion King.
Life begets life.
Death begets death.
This is what has happened to me. I have died, in a sense. Physically I am in one piece, inhaling and exhaling, oxygen to carbon dioxide, sleeping and waking, eating and wasting. I even started volunteering at a local cat rescue group once a week. I am alive. But at the same time, I’m not.
I think back on everything that has happened in the last three months. I lost two of the people I love most in the world. I have taken on the care giver role. I am (in conjunction with Mr Hippo, of course. That goes without saying) taking care of Beatrix, mum’s cat. I care for her. I care for Levi. I care for Tiffy. I care for Mr Hippo. I tidy and clean the house, to the best of my abilities (hello old/new friend, CFS). I volunteer at a cat rescue (I will not say where right now, I am fearful of people knowing my location too much) which is wonderful but also soul destroying. I care. Except for myself.
It will seem strange – because you (if you follow my Instagram account or Facebook page) you will see photos of me, selfies, dressed in nice clothing and pretty makeup – that I don’t care for myself, or of myself. But it is true. I pretend to look together. I pretend to look fine, normal, happy. But I’m not. I am in love, for certain. I love so many people. And I know I am loved. Hence why I am still here. But I don’t care about myself. Not anymore.
I live. Because I must. I exist, because I must. But there is no happiness to my existence.
I am tired of condolences. I am tired of telling people WHY. Why I will need an extension on my phone bill, why I can’t pay the insurance, why I am not working, why I am sad, why I am crying, why I can’t see the light to anything. Why. I am tired of people saying “I’m sorry for your loss”. Say it what it is: shit. It’s shit. It’s shit that my mum died and yet evil people live. It’s shit that the place she is now, according to particular people, is HELL because she didn’t “repent her sins” on her deathbed. Because she didn’t believe in some imaginary person, she is in HELL.
I know people mean well. And I am sick of it. I am sick of the “well intentioned” people and their “well meaning” words. Most people don’t know what to say, so they say the same thing “sorry for your loss”. “Sorry”. Sorry for what? Sorry that my mum died? Sorry that I – and my family – are suffering? Sorry that I have lost faith in everything? Sorry that you don’t know what else to say because you haven’t experienced the horrible sight of someone you love deteriorating before your eyes turning into the baby and you the mother and watching them die in your arms because their heart couldn’t keep going? Are you sorry? Are you really sorry? Are you sorry because you know it hurts, or are you sorry because you don’t know what to say? If you don’t know what to say, say nothing.
I don’t know what to do with this blog from here. It does nothing. I do nothing. I am thinking of deleting it. Or letting it sit, sit and fade, gather dust, put up a “CLOSED FOREVER” sign, setting it on fire and walking away from the flames.
One thing is for sure, it is no longer a place that I can be happy. It is no longer a business. It is no longer my life. My life is not what it was, it won’t ever be the same. I need to walk away.