It’s another anniversary. I wrote a post on the day it happened.
In my post I said that I believed we could make it. We did make it. We were okay, my mom and I, until the end. Looking through her stuff today made me think of how I’d help her at her appointments. She didn’t mind my looking through her stuff, would even tell me to look in her purse to get things for her long before she fell ill.
Those relatives I mentioned possibly getting closer to —that never happened. I’m still not close to anyone, especially not after my mom.
I said that Dad would have just wanted me to be happy. And am I? I can feel that I’m not. At times I feel alone, but then I can feel fine with that, can embrace it even. Then there’s feeling that I don’t like living here. I can have moments when I wonder why I’m even alive when my parents are gone. I suppose I felt my purpose died with my mom.
When my parents were still here, I wanted to see what it would be like living on my own. Now I’ve gotten to experience that, and I have times when I feel like I’ve had enough. “Great, I’ve had the experience of living alone; now let me just not live at all.”
Today I oscillated between feeling sadness/frustration and feeling I’d be okay. Maybe the whole belief thing—feeling certain of something—can foster a self-fulfilling prophecy, whether I believe I’ll wither or thrive or somewhere in between. Though life can completely surprise you as well no matter how certain you might feel, so I don’t know.
Currently Untitled 