It would have been Mum’s birthday tomorrow. 77. That’s what’s on my mind this evening.
Strange that her birthday doesn’t bother me as much as the anniversary of her death did. Her birthday, I just remember happy times. And I will go and buy her a little present and keep it for me. Last year, I bought her a mug with ‘best mum’ on it… and I drink from it and think of her. And I will go to my favourite coffee shop and eat cake. And think of her and all my favourite moments.
On the anniversary of her death, all I could think of was her in that moment and her red toes being zipped in to the coroner’s bag, her skeletal, toothless face disappearing too. And alI I could think of, was that I was the only one thinking of her. And that too made me sad.
That, and the fact that when she died, I selfishly felt so much loss, not just the feeling of loving someone, but because I lost someone who loved me. I look back and realise all the undertones, the start of my IBS, my anxiety, the feeling I never felt enough for anyone, that nothing was right, that my paradigm was all an illusion…and even running away didn’t help! I realise that was the start of me feeling unloved. Or maybe it was the end.
I am a little too tired this evening to try and conclude the thought process I am following.
But I think I used to think grief and grieving was all about missing someone because I loved them. And today, perhaps it dawned on me more than ever, that I am grieving the love I felt and the love I miss.