There's something wrong in the state of Denmark… and I think I may be it.

Tag: loss

I’m feeling pretty fucked up…

Everything’s fine. I eat. I sleep. I carry on. But everything feels pretty fucked up anyway.

I guess I’m not a part of anything, choosing rather to stand at the outside of it all looking in. I remember very little and feel really stupid a lot of the time because I can’t speak intelligently about anything anymore. There’s a lot of talk about stuff I should do but nothing ever happens. Very little is progressing and I can’t blame anyone but myself for the stuck-ness.

I can’t remember the last time I felt excited about something. And it scares me how dead and dull I feel inside.

Yesterday I noticed Hudson’s photos again. They’re always there but they’ve become part of the paint on the walls – not noticeable until you really look. And again I was struck at how this just can’t be. He can’t be dead. I remember the day those were taken. He was fine. Sucking his fingers. Smiling. Breathing. He was fine!

How can it be that he’s not here anymore.

It’s weird that this still happens to me. This disbelief. This horror. This intense sadness. It’s all fresh again.

I guess I should be grateful. In return for these odd days, I have a kind of neutral peace for the most part. For the most part I don’t see the photos or the paint. I just carry on.

But there’s something wrong. I feel as though I’m on the edge of something. That something needs to budge or I’ll fall off. It’s constant tension and anxiety and, to be honest, the tears and sadness are a welcome respite.

I want my life to be normal and meaningless again. I want to care again. I don’t want to live in fear of loving something or someone cos they could die any minute. I’m not living. I’m existing. I’m avoiding life and the living required to be a part of it. I want it all to mean something again.

I want to be normal again.


I guess it had to happen…

Two months have passed.

As I watched your father cry on our patio this morning, through my own tears, I wondered if we’re ever going to feel okay again.

Neither one of us slept well last night. And both of us woke up feeling as though no time had passed at all.

I still feel like I don’t know how to be without you. I still wonder where you are. If you’re okay. And I still know we aren’t. Okay, that is.

We function. We eat. We sleep (most days). We get up. We get dressed. We go to work. We cry. We mourn. We breath. We see our friends. Gods know, we even laugh every now and then. But we don’t live. We won’t plan. We’re stuck. Because moving forward means leaving you behind. You can’t move forward with us and the pain in knowing this is as fresh as it was two months ago today.

I think things like: by now you’d be sitting on your own. You’d be eating solid food. Your laugh would be the one thing I lived for and your smile would make everything alright.

You will forever live in a picture in my head; one where you never cried or told me you hated me. It’s unfair. I wanted to hear those words. I wanted to see you walk, talk, scream in a fit of tantrum. Throw your toys. Smack your father. Throw a ball at your dog. Belly flop into your pool. 

But I can’t picture you older. I can’t even imagine how your face would change. You’re stuck too.

And I can’t picture a tomorrow without you. It feels wrong. And yet, there is no tomorrow with you.

And I don’t know how to find a place for the reality that is.