So, on May 1st, my mumma left her body.The Viking and I and my uncle Dave were with her and it was beautiful, and scary and heart-breaking. I wasn't going to blog about it, because well, talking about death is a sure fire way to kill any convo, isn't it? But I figured if I'm going to be an all singing, all dancing advocate for showing up in all your YOU-ness, in life and business, it will sometimes mean that I'm turning up to the page broken and tear stained, full of anger and with no 'message' or insight to share with you, and that's okay.
For some it'll be too hard to read. Others will feel awkward and not know what to say, others will want to reach out and share their experience, while others will unsubscribe fearful that for the next few months their inbox will be full of 500 words rants about how I've become an orphan in the space of a month, or how death sucks big ones, or how we should all be freakin' grateful for every minute or some other amazing enlightened insight that someone's put on a pretty picture and shared on Facebook.
Do you know what? I might do that. I might not too. But whatever spills out, I will keep writing. I will keep sharing.
The only constant throughout my auntie, my dad and now my mumma leaving their bodies is that writing this shit down makes it better. When I'm raging at the universe and asking 'why me?' When I get out my yoga mat, only to think 'sod it' and eat yet another bag of chocolate buttons. When despite everyone's best efforts to say or do the right thing I just feel like my world has imploded. Making a blanket fort, lighting a candle and heart riffin' has been my medicine. Along with enough white bread to bring on a carb-induced coma. I write about the guilt. There is so much guilt. Did I spend enough time with her? Did I tell her I love her enough? Did I make her proud? I write about how sad I am that my pops didn't love me. How he was able to literally erase me from his life and how when Rich and I were called to clear out his house, he had replaced pictures of me with a family I didn't recognise. I write about how I pray to baby Jesus each night to keep that beautiful Viking of mine safe because I don't ever want to be without him. Right now, all I know for sure is that if I write it all out, if I spill my heart in word form, it helps it to hurt less.
What I don't know is how the fuck you're meant to pay bills when it's all you can do to take a shower. What I don't know is how to deal with this fire that's literally burning from the inside out. What I don't know is how to manage the tears, rage, silence, guilt.
I know this isn't pretty, it's like watching me stood naked, making huge ugly tears with snot running from my nose, right? That's because I am.
How does that makes you feel? Tell me. What are you not saying because you're fearful it'll be like pulling a really ugly cry-face in public? Tell me that too.