Aftermath of Grief

I have considered deleting this blog and let it go. I haven’t written anything in so long, but it’s not like anyone is ever going to read this, so I might as well send my thoughts in to the abyss of the internet.

Something called to me today and instead of working as I had planned to, I opened up H4P and just needed to get some stuff out. So here goes.

I though of Ed Sheeran’s Supermarket Flowers today and it made me cry. It made me want to get some stuff out.

When I think about my mom, I usually feel a sense of lack. I know I was an unplanned child and they could barely afford to feed three kids. I used to wonder why they kept me.

My childhood more or less taught me how little I was worth. I know my parents loved all of us, but a little girl who’s sibling are too old to want to play with her, her parents’ constant struggle for money and lack of normal socialisation can’t really develop a sense of self-worth.

I now know I am able to give that to myself. I have worked on healing and growing and am finally starting to feel happy and healthy.

I am able to see the patters I have developed and can grow from them. My story is a source of wisdom, not pain and I know that now. I am no longer bruised and I wear my scars proudly. I know I can do better and be better, but there’s still this wish inside me to fix what cannot be fixed.


I miss my mom, but most of all I miss the potential of our relationship. She was taken away when we were starting to get along again, when we shared laughter again and when, for the first time in along time, I felt like she didn’t despise me.

She died just a few days before my dad’s second anniversary. They said she died of sudden heart failure. One minute here, the next se was gone.

Bread and bread crumbs still on the counter, clothes waiting to be folded, a book on the nightstand unfinished.

Just. Taken.

She was a little over sixty and was finally getting back on her feet. She was finally starting to live again after a lifetime of hurt and pain.

She had it rough and lived in a time when women still didn’t have a right to speak, had abusive relationships with men and was dealing with a world of trauma and abuse. She found solace in reading, working in the garden and long walks. She was financially dependant on my father and never got the courage to step outside of her comfort zone- even if it was a comfort zone of anguish and misery.


We had a troubled relationship. After my dad’s passing, I think she thought I was going to stay at home, no nothing but help her around the house and … become like her.

I felt like she despised me, was jealous of me and was constantly looking for ways to make me feel like she felt: trapped. And she succeeded. I did feel trapped, I was miserable and I felt like I was beginning to live her past. I was bitter, always afraid of what’s to come and I didn’t know how to be anything but hurt and angry.

I felt like I stared to sound like her, I started treating people around me like she did and I started to be even more afraid of everything. I was becoming a fresh version of her and I hated every moment of it. Just thinking about it now makes me feel sick.

Any time I’d try to step out of the mould, she’d give me dirty looks, talk shit about me to my sisters and her friends and tell me, with something that looked like despise in her eyes, that I had changed. And I knew she didn’t mean for the better.

I was beginning to really get sick and in my mind that was all I deserved. I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly. I would day-dream about just slipping away into nothing and finally become the nothing I thought myself of being. I was seriously traumatised, depressed and just utterly miserable. I was angry and was constantly self-sabotaging and blaming myself for everything.

I felt financially and emotionally trapped, I was completely dependant on other people. I felt like I was trying to reach out for help, but no one understood me. I needed someone to pull me up, tell me where to go and just love me. People around me tried, but I didn’t see it as help, but more control, more pressure.

I was too weak to see that only I could pull myself up.


Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse: they didn’t.

My mom met someone and they quickly realised that they’re a match for each other. Her focus was off of me. She found someone positive in her life and I heard laughter coming from the downstairs apartment for the first time in a long time.

I was starting to relax in our relationship and started to see a ray after a ride in a long, dark tunnel.

I was happy to help her in the garden and we shared a good laugh while trying to re-plant some bushes. That’s my last good memory of us.

Her and her partner started to make living arrangements and she wasn’t at home as much. She started to get a brightness in her voice and her eyes told me more that sadness.

That only lasted for three months. She soon died.


I at least knew the procedure of burying a loved one. I knew how to organise a funeral and I knew approximately how much pain I was in for for the next few days leading to the funeral and the feeling of it all being over right after.

I just didn’t know where to stash all the unsolved emotions, where to hide the guilt for whenever I was so angry with her or how to fill this emptiness. I never got a chance to say goodbye.

This was a hole in my heart I was not prepared for.

I have come a long way since then, but I still find myself crying when hearing a certain song, I still sometimes crave for the warmth I wish she gave me and I wish I could mend us for her.

My mom was a good person who was dealt with crappy cards and was lost because of it. She had a kind heart, broken too many times and she probably felt like she had nothing more to give. She felt unloved and was never taught to show love.

I know she loved me and did the best she could. If I could fix the little girl, hiding … broken … inside her, I would tell her she’s loved, belongs here and has a right to be here. I’d squeeze her tight and tell her how much I love her. All of her. She’s perfect the way she is and she doesn’t need to prove her worth to anyone.

I wish I could do that for her while she was alive, but I do that now. I go into a place in my heart, find that little girl and tell her all these things.

I do that for myself, too. I am working on dismantling all the damage my childhood has caused, breaking the cycles of trauma and saying goodbye to the behavioural patterns which are not mine.

I forgive my parents for all they have done or have not done. I know I am now responsible for the way I see things and do not blame them anymore.

I accept the fact that I’ll still find things to work on, to forgive. That’s alright. I also know I will forever be grateful to them for giving me life and loving me as best as the possibly they could.