Poem: Wreckage.

Wreckage

 

A stain to my soul, a blight on my heart,

A plague of melancholy dousing my spark,

A bruise to my ego, a scourge on my mind,

A scar of a feeling I can’t leave behind.

It clings like a shadow, and haunts me at night,

Mixing Mars Black with Titanium White.

I’ve all shades of grey, I’ll never be pure –

I cannot return to the brightness before.

Eternally altered, crippled with pain,

Adorned with scars that I etched in your name –

To speak in a language that cannot find words,

To show you the conflict, the longing and hurt.

I called out to you, to salvage my soul;

My cries went unanswered, now time takes its toll.

Here at rock bottom, I scramble for air,

With the muck of shame adhered to my hair;

The grit of reality burns in my eyes,

I kneel in the rubble, and speak to the sky…

Begging for mercy, a prayer for my life,

I implore Him to spare me the fate of the knife.

In need of salvation, at my lowest ebb,

I pray for forgiveness for all that I said,

The actions I took, decisions I made…

I hope that in times the wounds will all fade.

My skin tells the story of trauma endured,

A smear on my being, which cannot be cured –

I live on the Border, and love to extremes,

Whilst loathing myself, with low self-esteem;

I get too attached, and feel too much,

I need careful handling, a delicate touch;

I need loving louder than most in this world;

I’m a quiet, emotional, passionate girl,

In need of a saviour, a hand I can hold,

To prove there’s a warmth in a world icy cold…

Merely a dream from this hell down below,

Buried by wreckage from letting you go.

I clamber through darkness, towards the unknown;

This path to recovery I travel alone.

Lost and abandoned, distraught that you’re gone,

I, by myself, must strive to go on.

It will not be easy, the journey’s uphill,

But I’ve strength in my blood and I always will.

Poem: Death Of A Muse.

Death Of A Muse

 

Those long Autumnal nights… wind howling, leaves dropping,

Teaching me the lesson of ‘letting go’…

But somehow I cannot resolve to releasing you;

Now the trees are bare, and the wind continues to blow.

A bitterness on the breeze, a frosty bite to the air;

Tears freeze upon my cheek and I blankly stare,

Watching you slip out of my life, as swiftly as you fell into it;

My heart ices over, and slowly shatters, bit by bit.

The coldest winter in memory

And the sunshine of you is no longer here,

Just a chilling void inside, and a stagnant tear.

There is no snow this winter – what I wouldn’t give for it…

Snow is enchantingly pretty, reflecting the light,

But with you gone, it just rains all day and all night.

There is no upside to your loss – I’m broken,

Paralysed by all the love I had to leave unspoken.

I feel it welling up within me again… the sadness, the pain,

But I dare not let my teardrops add to the rain.

You’re gone forever… it’s as though you died,

And nothing can bring you back – not the blood spilt,

The pleas made, nor the tears I have cried.

Reality remains, you are eternally my ghost;

My heart’s harmony, you played it the most.

But that tune is deceased, it was silenced when you went…

Nobody will understand how much your presence meant,

And the effect of your absence – the deafeningly silent screams;

Now you taunt me through my dreams.

Your ‘death’ almost killed me, for you continue to live,

Like I never existed, and your memory is all you left me with.

Your memory and my feelings whirring in my heart and head,

Making me feel the answer to this grief and pain is to be dead.

Your loss splits my heart in two and starves me of words –

They fly south for the winter, like migrating birds.

You were my muse, but now this is my aim –

To block out your face and to forget your name,

To bury the memory of your heart-warming voice;

I have to erase you, I have no other choice.

Distance and time are all that will heal my heart’s bruise,

No pain can compare to the death of a muse.

Faith In Therapy = Zero.

 

*Mentions self-harm and contains bad language*
*Names have been changed*

 

So I limped through my CBT course, dealing with transference on my own. I had to tolerate my feelings. My self-harm worsened more than it ever has. I ended up harming at the sessions twice, and after the sessions even more times. I ended up at the MIU twice – two of only three times in my life I’ve sought treatment outside of the house.

The only thing that kept me going was knowing I’d see my individual therapist at the end of the course, and finally get to talk about what happened, and where to go from here….

If I had known what little help I would receive at the end, then I WOULD have quit the group much earlier. On Friday I had that appointment, and it’s left me feeling even worse, and has now tainted my whole experience of the course – which was hard enough already. I now feel resentful and hateful towards the service as a whole. I then feel guilty about this, as the two who ran the course were very nice people, and I’m grateful for their efforts. I guess I’m just beyond help.

As a whole they have at one stage or another, all made me feel like a burden. I don’t know if they’re aware of what they’re saying and doing, that contributes to this feeling. Or if I’m being oversensitive. But surely as a mental health service they should be accommodating to people’s sensitivities, and aware of how they’re compounding people’s self-esteem issues.

When I went in for my appointment, my therapist asked how I was, and I said I’d been better – she asked what I meant by that. I explained my sadness at the end of the course. We talked about the course and I said it was difficult, because of the transference issue. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. I told her about the six pages of writing I gave to the therapists running the group, who said they’d give it to her. In that writing I had explained what led to me harming myself in the break in week three. She didn’t even seem too bothered that it even happened. She said she hadn’t received anything in writing form.

She then went on her computer to look at my notes and started reading out something I had given to James, the therapist I was transferring on, something which I had no idea would end up on the system!! I told her it was something much earlier than that – week four…. she eventually found something and started reading it out…

It was perfectly clear she hadn’t read a single word of it. So what was the bloody point?! I was led to believe she’d support me at the end. But if she wasn’t even aware of what the problem was, then what hope is there for someone needing support?? It makes me angry with James and Sarah, the facilitators, for obviously not communicating with her properly. They obviously don’t sit and discuss issues and patients. If they had then I might have had more support at the end. That’s why I thought my therapist had made the appointment for two days after the end of the course – because she knew everything and knew I would need the support. But it became blindingly clear she didn’t know a fucking thing!

She made me explain to her about the transference – now, I shouldn’t have had to do that. Because it was all there in writing. I had explained how I felt, what I needed and didn’t need (e.g. to be told it can’t happen – I fucking know that!), and what had led to the self-harm incident. I had copied my homework to show the effort I had gone to, and how that was scuppered, leading to a feeling of powerlessness and being trapped. If she had read it she would have understood and therefore made me feel supported, and like she actually gave a damn about me.

I had to explain how I felt about James. She said ‘What, do you fancy him?’ – and the way in which that was said made me feel stupid. It trivialised it and felt like a judgement. No I didn’t ‘fancy him’, I was in love with him. I couldn’t tell her that. I don’t trust her. So I just called it ‘feeling attached’. Eventually saying I ‘liked’ him. When asked what I liked about him, I didn’t feel able to properly talk about it with her. She wasn’t the right person to talk about it with. My answer in my head was ‘Everything’. It’s easier to say what I don’t like about him, because the answer is ‘Nothing’. There you go, are you happy? Does that explain it? I loved the bastard and that’s why it’s breaking my heart into tiny splinters now I will never EVER see him again.

The answer seemed to be that I have to just endure the pain. Thanks. If I knew that was the answer – that I was alone with it, then I might as well have not put myself through the last eight weeks of the course, accumulating a new scar for each week… I might as well have left in week four, saved myself an extra two months of falling for James, if I had known what little care I would be shown at the end, for all of my efforts.

 

 

Oh and not to ruminate about it. These therapists, are they even human?? Have they ever experienced a mental health problem? Have they ever suffered a broken heart or a bereavement?? If so they would understand that when you lose someone you love you don’t stop thinking about it. Especially only two days after losing them. I’m sorry I couldn’t just bounce back and be positive about it. Nobody knows the level of attachment and loss I feel right now. Nobody knows how it feels inside. Nobody knows what it’s like to be doing something and suddenly have one single thought of ‘I’ll never see him again’ pop into my head, and straight away I’m in tears. This isn’t ‘ruminating’, this is being attacked by my thoughts and feelings. This is my heart breaking. This is grief. Some things I can control. I can control my thoughts and emotions in some aspects of my life, but this is too overpowering, and the complete lack of support I’ve been shown with it has only made it more overpowering.

At the end of my appointment I learnt that was the last of my sessions with the service, and I broke down. I seriously couldn’t believe that having just faced an ‘abandonment’ in the sense of a traumatic loss, only two days before… I was still in crisis from that loss… and here was my therapist abandoning me too. Do these people have any clue about mental illness? Any mental illness would make people feel this way, but with BPD it is criminal to put someone through two abandonments within two days! What were they playing at?

I was offered one more review session, only after crying about it and saying about the sense of abandonment. I feel worthless and like I had to demean myself, by practically begging to not be abandoned and to have more help. And now having been offered it I kind of don’t want it now. I feel like I’ve manipulated them. Which makes me feel shit about myself. And I feel like a burden. I feel like they want to be rid of me.

I wonder why I was only offered four sessions, when others were offered more. Why is it I always get treated differently, as though I’m a nuisance? My trust and faith in my therapist has been broken. I never really warmed to her anyway. I’d much rather have had one of the group facilitators as my therapist. They might actually have cared about my wellbeing, and they know what I’ve been through these past weeks. But the whole service has turned toxic for me now, so I guess it’s time to cut ties with them, go back to the doctor and see what she suggests… unfortunately I don’t think there are other options. If these people had said I’m too ill for them to help and ‘stepped me up’ to the community mental health team, that would have helped. But otherwise I’m stranded with no support. My life obviously doesn’t matter to anyone.

It’s just such a mess. I came to therapy, to help me deal with grief. To deal with issues from my past, and the scars it’s left me with. To feel better about myself and about life / other people. I have come away hating myself, harming myself, wanting to die, having every belief I had confirmed by the therapists. I’ve been told that transference goes away by itself and if it doesn’t then I have to not work with the person I’m transferring on. I’ve been told I had to make it quick if I wanted to ask or say something to them at the end, as they had to be out of the building at a certain time. I asked for help in speaking out and had that ignored, for my own good apparently – to push myself. I’ve been told I have to do the work on myself, my therapist can’t do it for me – WTF?! Did I ASK for that?? No. I simply requested more support. It’s not my fault she’s not qualified enough to help me, and that no help exists out there for me. I’m sorry I’m clearly such a burden…… that’s the upsetting thing – I came to therapy partly due to feeling like a burden to everyone, and they made me feel like I’m a burden to the mental health services too. They’ve made me feel the only option is to do everyone a favour and drop dead… another reason I sought help, as I was having urges to throw myself off a bridge. They’ve done nothing to help that mindset.

And my therapist had to say it to me that my feelings for the other therapist I was transferring on, are obviously not reciprocated…. I didn’t need telling that!! In fact that’s why I wrote what I did, to explain what I did NOT need telling. I know it’s a hopeless situation. I know even if he wasn’t a therapist and wasn’t married, he wouldn’t look twice at me. Nobody ever does. I don’t need to be reminded of that. And I most definitely don’t need another therapist, a woman telling me how a man doesn’t feel about me. That only reminds me of my past. There’s been no sensitivity. This whole thing has been handled wrongly from start to finish. Their lack of expertise, and support has made me feel I am beyond help… like I’m too complex for them, and they can’t wait to be rid of me. That’s why I’ve been offered this appointment for Tuesday – to get me off their books by the end of the year I bet. They’ve kicked off the self-hatred and paranoia in me. It’s made me go into the ‘I’m sorry for having needs, I’m sorry for breathing’ mentality. Therapy should be reducing that, not provoking it. But unfortunately this has.

My self-esteem and self-worth are at an all-time low. I feel more shit about myself than ever. Their lack of care, concern and support has made me feel worthless… of little value… the fact I virtually had to beg for support has dragged me backwards. I needed to discuss the transference and the self-harming with my individual therapist at the end, as I thought I would, to try and rescue my self-esteem, but she’s only made it worse.

One of my goals was about trust and forgiveness. I had to forgive the group facilitators in order to continue the course, but clearly I’ve not really forgiven them. And I learnt to trust the members of the group to tell them about the transference in the end. But otherwise I’ve learnt not to trust people – particularly therapists. How that can be good for potential recovery I have no idea. They all broke my trust at some point. I can’t believe a word any of them say now. I don’t believe any of them gave a fuck about me. I was led to believe my individual therapist would support me at the end, having been informed of my struggles – that was the only thing getting me through the last sessions…. so to have her be clueless about it all, how can I ever trust her? And for her to abandon me at the worst time too….. my own doctor said they were unlikely to abandon me at the end of the course, as I’m clearly not well, but something’s obviously gone wrong somewhere in the system, as abandoning me is exactly what they’re doing… showing me that my life means nothing.

 

 

I wish I’d never used this service. At first I thought I was lucky, as not every part of the country has this kind of IAPT service. I thought this CBT stuff is better than zero support. I was wrong. I think such a short course of CBT for something as devastatingly complex as BPD is actually HARMFUL AND DANGEROUS.

CBT is about ‘being your own therapist’ – now, admittedly this is a fair point, that we all have to be that eventually. But the reality is that some people need more support, at least to start with. Fair enough I’ve done DBT, and had that support….. many years back now. I’ve been unsupported for four or five years, and last year my mental health declined. After my first loss it got even worse. And now after this therapy it’s the worst it’s been in years. I feel out of control. I feel at any minute I could snap and ‘do something stupid’. I see no hope or light anymore. I just want all the pain and sadness to stop. I hate who I am. I hate the illness I have and how it makes me think and behave. But to give me four sessions of individual ‘support’ and then say ‘It’s all up to you now’, wash their hands of me, and leave me to the demons they unleashed, it’s not on. I have heard that therapy can make things worse before they get better…. so how is it okay to make things worse, without being there to make sure it gets better? How can it be okay for them to open up all these painful wounds and then dodge all responsibility for how we cope with them, once deserted?

I am angry, because I feel they should be accountable for what’s happened here. I almost wish I’d made an official complaint about the way things were handled in week three, which led to me harming myself on site. But I was quick to say I didn’t want anyone blamed. I didn’t want James getting in trouble, and took on all the responsibility. But do you know what? If he had handled it better, I wouldn’t have felt the need to cut myself…. and if I hadn’t cut myself that night, things would not have spiralled down like they have. My self-harm is the worst it’s been in years, since that night. I do it more often, I do it deeper. And if they had dealt with it all better and with more urgency, then I might not have plummeted to the depths I’m in now. So I hold them partly responsible. Yet they seem to think I’m the one who has to resolve this, alone.

So I have no faith in mental health services anymore. And it’s just continued the pattern in my life, of people causing me pain and harm, and refusing to be accountable for it… abandoning me and making me pick up the pieces. So yeah. I wish I’d never used this service… I’d not have met James and experienced this transference. I’d not have got back into harming so badly. And I’d not have my beliefs solidified, and self-esteem shredded.

I hate to complain about things, and I hate to seem ungrateful. But I feel this service has failed me. I thank them for their efforts and I appreciate them running the course. But communication with each other failed, and individual, direct support failed. As usual I’m a casualty of the system – a system not geared up to help someone with BPD. They don’t know enough about BPD, and consequently have made me endure things nobody with BPD should have to endure alone. I’ll always resent that. And I will be reluctant to reach out for support from the mental health services ever again. This has done far more harm than good. The only good thing to come out of the last three or four months, are the other members of the group, whose support has meant so much to me this past week. I hope they will remain friends for a long time.

Now I have to recover from therapy. It has become one more trauma to overcome. And I now have to do that without professional support. My faith in therapy = zero.

The Darkest Night.

 

*Self-harm warning*

 

Last night I had my final session of my CBT course. It was hard. I cried a few times. The final mindfulness was the hardest point, knowing I would never hear that voice again – the one that spoke to me on a deep level, and helped me to just be. These were the very last moments I’d be near him, and I knew it. I had to wipe my eyes halfway through – I couldn’t keep the emotions inside any longer. I went straight for the tissues at the end of the exercise… And then it was over. It was time for goodbye. Most of that time is a blur now… I had gone into a dangerous place in my mind. But a couple of members of the group gave me a big hug, which made such a difference.

A group of us went to the pub next door afterwards, and had a drink to celebrate getting to the end of the course… although for me it was tinged with ‘drowning my sorrows’. I had just faced a horrendous loss, that nobody will ever understand… one I’m reluctant to write too much about, as it’s making me tear up again, and after last night I don’t want to release these emotions when I’m alone… it doesn’t feel safe.

Let’s just say it’s the most painful experience since losing my granddad earlier this year. It was a goodbye I didn’t want to say. It was the pain of a break-up and a bereavement at the same time. And the hopelessness and powerlessness of never seeing him again for the rest of my life, is too heartbreaking to express. For more on this, just read the rest of my posts about transference – that will explain what I’ve been through and why it hurts.

This week I started opening up to people about the transference. I sent a message to a member of the group who wouldn’t be at the last session. This gave me the courage to reach out to others for support, and I told someone during the break, which further gave me courage to tell the rest of them in the pub afterwards. Needless to say I broke down in tears. But they gave so much support, comfort and understanding, that in that moment they saved me from myself. If I had walked out of that session and gone home, I dread to think where I’d be right now. They softened the fall a little. They didn’t judge me, they rallied round me to lift my spirits, and they’ll never know how much I appreciated that.

I went home thinking I’d be alright. I knew I was still in immense pain emotionally, and nobody could save me from that. But I hoped I could just get off to bed and not ruminate. I watched my TV programme, but my lip kept wobbling towards the end. I wanted to go to bed, be alone and let the tears come out again.

But once I did, they wouldn’t stop. Wave after wave of grief attacked me. It felt like someone had taken an ice cream scoop to my heart…. like a part of me had been violently ripped away against my will. Yes I’d got through the actual event of ‘goodbye’ – even though I was so upset at the time I didn’t actually say it, or say thank you… just as well I wrote a card then. Yes I had got through it and not died…. I was still standing. But… that was never the issue. The issue wasn’t saying goodbye. The issue is forever without him. It’s like with my granddad, the worst part isn’t the moment he died. It’s never seeing him again. It’s the gaping hole left in my life, and knowing I will never see his face again, look in his eyes, hear his voice, and actually interact and have a conversation with him. I will never hold his hand again, or hear his laughter, or hear his stories. It’s all gone.

I feel awful saying this, but the loss I faced last night feels so much worse than when I lost my granddad. I must explain this, because nothing can be worse than losing a close family member. I love my granddad so much, and I’m not coping with his loss. But we all knew about it. We were all grieving. In losing this therapist that I’ve been transferring on, nobody knew… except the therapists, and they wouldn’t help me. So I have been totally isolated with it. I haven’t been able to tell anyone and have real support through it. Nobody knows the intensity of what I’m feeling. Perhaps that’s made it all the more intense. But it feels like a break-up with someone I never even had. I know transference is about the past, and not about the person in front of you. I have never experienced it before, but I know a bit about it, to know that what I’m about to say is likely not the case, but sometimes you have to just let the words hit the air, to lessen their impact on your heart. I loved every little thing about him. I feel like I loved him. That’s why it hurts. It feels like I was rejected and dumped by someone I loved, who I never even had. And at the same time it feels like he died. Because there is no place for him in my life now. He’s gone, forever. And I’m in tears again right now, as I write this. That’s how shattering this is for me.

Nobody can take away this pain that I’m feeling. Except him. But that cannot and will not happen. In an ideal world I would have had one session with him afterwards, to discuss it properly, and draw a line under it, and have closure. But I can’t have that. So now I just have more grief, more heartbreak, more negative feelings to deal with than when I sought therapy.

I cried almost constantly for an hour and a half. I sobbed into my pillow so that nobody would hear me. I tried for all that time to just let my emotions be. I tried to not act on them, and I resisted the urge to harm myself… for an hour and a half. I let the waves come and go. But I didn’t see an end in sight. I knew my heart was irreparably broken, and life wouldn’t be okay now. I knew it. I even said to myself that self-harm wouldn’t even solve the problem, it wouldn’t change the fact I’ve lost him forever. But that didn’t help my state of mind. That made me feel suicidal. It made me think if this pain can’t even be stopped by self-harm then I don’t want to continue with life.

So unfortunately I opted to put my faith in physical pain, to reduce the emotional. And again, unfortunately, it did work for me. It brought the emotional intensity down. And brought me to a state whereby I was thinking more rationally and could phone the Samaritans.

Once I’d patched myself up I typed the number into my phone, and for about ten minutes I sat, hovering my thumb over the call button. I kept going over in my head what it might be like to phone, and worrying about what if they don’t answer? Worse, what if they do? What will they say? What if I don’t connect with the person I’m speaking to? What if I get upset and start crying loudly and wake everyone else up…. it was almost 1am at this point – I’d spent almost an hour trying to hurt myself and deal with the aftermath. The worst of the emotional pain had gone, but I knew I needed to hear someone giving me hope. In the end I let my thumb fall onto the screen and waited for an answer. It rang for ages and I nearly gave up. And then a voice came through…

I didn’t know what to say. I told them I’d hesitated about calling, and was anxious as I’d never called them before. The woman on the end of the phone had a soft, caring voice, and I really felt I was talking to a human being – I don’t know what I’d expected, but the woman had a ‘mumsy’ feel about her. In all honesty a lot of what people said last night – both on the phone, and at the session – is a blur. It was 1am, I was exhausted from crying for two and half hours. But I remember how reassuring it felt, just having someone listen to me and try to make me feel better. She told me to take my time. She said we were already into Thursday, so my individual therapy session was the next day. She told me how worthy I am, and that I can phone anytime. I said now I’ve phoned once and it wasn’t as scary as I thought, I might use their number again if I have an urge to harm myself. She by no means solved my problem, as it’s not one that can be solved. But for about 15 / 20 minutes she made me feel less alone at a very lonely hour, in a painfully lonely state of mind.

By the time I got off the phone I was so tired, so I settled down to watch a stand-up comedy DVD before sleeping – I even managed to laugh several times during it – only a couple of hours earlier I thought I’d never smile again. I thought that was it forever. By about 3am I got off to sleep, but didn’t get a lot of sleep. I’ve had a tiring day. But the amount of support I’ve received today has had such an impact on me. Friends old and new have all contacted me to offer support and encouragement – and that does so much more for a person in distress than anything else in the world.

These friends have given me hope and light in the darkest time of my life. And in a little over 12 hours I’ll see my therapist, and finally get to discuss everything. I’m scared. I’m worried what she’ll say about my self-harming and the incident in the third session. I’m worried she’ll dismiss my feelings about the transference. I’m worried she’ll judge me for it. I’m worried she’ll say they can’t help me anymore. I’m scared of what’s next. I’m worried I’ll just cry and cry, and not be able to get words out – that will be so embarrassing for me… I hate getting upset in front of people. And I’m afraid of having it confirmed that there’s no answer to the pain I’m feeling, and I just have to keep going through it alone. I want a solution, but I fear no solution will be enough to fix this now. I knew this would happen. I knew it would be another loss to add to the pile – I said that weeks ago! I honestly feel I have more to grieve and more to recover from now, than before. It took me months if not years to recover from the last loss like this… only this feels much stronger, and the circumstances are more painful… at least with the last guy I could say he was an arsehole. I cannot say the same here… in this case he’s everything I want and deserve.

Maybe if I’d taken the opportunity I was given after my incident, to quit the group, I wouldn’t have built up such strong feelings for him. Maybe I wouldn’t be dying inside right now. Maybe I wouldn’t have an arm chock-a-block full of scars and be unable to stop harming. But then, if I had quit in week four, I would never have met such wonderful people, who have all really been there for me this week. “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance” as the song goes… you’ve got to take the good with the bad. There are such good things I can take from the last twelve weeks. I only hope in time life stops hurting so much, so I can cherish those positives. Right now I’m swamped with darkness and pain. A monster’s been released in me, and I need someone to help me contain it. I can’t do it on my own.

Poem: Obliteration.

Like an ice cream scoop to the heart, leaving me hollowed inside;

Like a newborn ripped away from her dying mother’s womb,

Never to be nurtured, protected, held in love by the one she needs;

Like the death of a soulmate who never knew of my love…

My arm cries crimson tears of trauma,

Painful drops of agony for the loss of you.

No closure.

No goodbye,

At least not enough to suffice.

My soul grieves for you;

Irreparably broken-hearted I must now limp through life,

As though a necessary part of me has been severed…

As though a limb has been rawly amputated…

Harrowing pain,

But not enough to kill me, and extinguish my misery.

Merely the maximum pain and disability one could feel, without death.

The weight on my chest stifles my breath.

But like the ocean on a calm day, the chaos occurs out of sight,

Beneath the surface.

This burden is only mine to bear;

No other would notice it’s even there,

But for the wounds on my skin –

Such ugly reminders of a time that almost killed me…

Of a hurt too powerful to fathom…. too complex to convey…

Of a man I loved and lost against my will.

I’m on death row for a crime I didn’t commit;

My only sin, falling hopelessly in love with the impossible.

Forlorn I sit here, counting the hours I have survived

The cruellest separation –

Not yet twenty four…

It may be darkening now, but the sun shall rise again tomorrow,

And the next day, and the next…

Life will go on.

Yet that is the harshest reality of bereavement…

‘Life goes on’,

Regardless of whether we wish it to or not…

His life continues, whole… complete,

And I suffer a fractured… no, splintered… no… an obliterated heart;

Scrabbling to find one piece to salvage and keep for myself,

One remnant of my heart to keep beating every day

For the rest of forever without him.

How can I do this, when there’s nothing left of me?

It died last night.

I died.

My heart died.

And yet my body remains,

Forced to exist in this cold, empty, pointless world…

The light in my life has been snuffed out;

I no longer see a future.

This moment is all I have… and this moment is nothing but torture…

Intolerable…. unbearable…. dangerous.

Abandoned to fend for myself,

His hands are washed of me, and my fate is of no concern henceforth.

I’m simply a number… of no importance,

Easily forgotten by one I will never forget.

Gravity weighs heavily on me today,

And there’s nothing anyone could say, to take this anguish away;

It’s mine to carry…

Sink or swim…

And I’d rather drown in the darkest depths,

Than live eternity without him.