4/10/25
We’re in the new house. We go back to the old house every day to work on setting up the moving sale, and make small repairs. On Monday I had therapy, and I told Amy about how hurt I was when N.ate didn’t tell strangers in Mexico City about P, and she asked why it hurt so much. I said because I already feel like she’s fading away, she’s flattened out, I can’t wrap my arms around her presence, I can’t sink my teeth into her memory. She suggested writing down memories of her. I told her I’m already writing this grief journal and I would endeavor to add memories here as they come up. And so I will. But not today.
Later that same day I went over to the old house by myself. I laid down in her bed and cried. I cried long and hard. I haven’t cried like that since maybe the week of her death, and even then it was only once or twice. It felt good to cry. I felt relieved. I told her over and over that I was sorry, I missed her, I loved her, and mostly I was really sorry. I still feel like it was my fault and it’s hard to imagine ever not feeling that way. I can’t see a logic where I didn’t directly contribute to her death. Me, her unkind, impatient, lecturing, disappointed mom. The way we argued that night. The words I said and the tone in which I said them. I can’t forgive myself. I don’t want to.
(I’m still off my Sertraline. I don’t think the Big Cry would have happened otherwise.)
It’s hard to believe we’re just moving on. We’re buying a house and fixing it up and airbnb-ing it (eventually). I’m back at work. I’m so kind and patient with my patients. I’m helping elderly ladies shower and use the toilet. And she’s gone. I can’t believe this is real life.
