In two days it will be two weeks since my mother died. For the next couple of days, my son will be sleeping over with his cousins at my brother’s place. Alone at home, I expected to be moping around morbidly. But I’m not. I’m OK. That makes it worse somehow.
I’m not used to cooking every day, because I haven’t been. There’s a McDonalds within walking distance, and I’ve been wasting too much money there. But apart from random momentary lapses into the time machine of memory, I’ve gotten used to my mother being gone. This leaves me feeling guilty.
At least nobody has said, “It was her time”. She was supposed to come home that same day; all we knew was there were blood clots on her left lung and that she had to be tested at the hospital. They were supposed to diagnose her, not kill her. So no, don’t tell me it was her fucking time.
My mother never liked Christmas, and now neither do I. Most wonderful time of the year, suck my sweaty balls… I didn’t even get her recipe for traditional English trifle, or more importantly, the stuffing she used on the turkey. Most of all, I will never talk to her again.
Tomorrow night it will be a week since I quit smoking cigarettes. I have succeeded, and I know I will never smoke again, just as I knew I would never use meth again within days of quitting five years ago. I should feel proud, shouldn’t I? But I feel nothing.
It’s now the 19th December 2018. That means four days ago, my son was back with me for three years already. I’d been looking forward to this for months. It’s huge. I was planning on writing about that, writing about how happy we are, and how close we are. (And we are close.) But now I don’t feel.
The irony now is, I’m not that sad about my mother’s death – I’ve accepted the unpleasant fact that she’s gone. Now, I feel sad for not feeling sad. Crazy, huh?
It’s no longer about going through the day, and finding something I want to tell her, and then remembering she’s dead so I can’t. Instead, I find these things I would normally share with her, but I’m well aware that she’s gone, so it hurts. Tonight, there’s a comedy starring Tommy Lee Jones on TV. She loved that man. It’s those little things that jump out and remind me that life is shit.
We’ll be fine, Josh and I. But can this year be fucking over already? I think I’m almost done with mourning, and despite the sombre tone of this post, this dark mood and these dark posts will be gone soon. Everyone and everything dies, even grief.