I feel guilty.
When I wake up, my heart doesn’t split into a thousand pieces. My head doesn’t pound with questions asking me why us, or how are we here. When I reach for a mug for my coffee, my hands don’t shake when I see Mum’s mug.
I think of her, and I miss her, but she isn’t on my mind all of the time anymore.
How is that possible?
I love her, but how can that be true if she isn’t on my mind forever? If I don’t feel the pain of losing her, am I honouring my love for her?
I have questions and I have grief, but they don’t rule over me anymore. There were times when the heart ache was so agonising that I wished for it to be over. Now, I have ways of coping with it, that makes it no less painful, but makes it more bearable.
The human heart is not incredible, it is not beautiful, it is not powerful, like I used to think. It is just stoic. It’s just doing its job. It simply forces you to survive.
It keeps pumping, it keeps your blood moving, it keeps you functioning. The human heart is resilient.
It can be ripped open, with blood overspilling from it, beating slowly, steadily, in a graveyard of twisted and broken ribs.
Yet somehow, it heals. And becomes thickly woven with scars.
And yet somehow, it began to get easier. I don’t know how. I don’t know when.
I know that I don’t think I will ever feel completely healed after losing Mummy, but it gets easier, slowly. There are still some days where I swear I feel my heart breaking. A physical ache deep in the cavities of my chest. The loss and the weight of the world just seems so unbearable, and I relive everything. Tears fall so thick and fast that they hit my chest and I scream at the silent sky.
Yet somehow, these days are less frequent now.
It makes me feel sad. I still feel the lonely void of missing my mum. I wish she was here, but I’m accepting that I won’t see her for a long time. That makes me feel guilty because… how can I just accept that? Why aren’t I fighting harder, why isn’t the world crumbling to dust, have I just given up?
My heart keeps pumping.
I keep living.
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