You want to know, what darkness is?
You want to hear how much I’m fucking hurting?
If I say it’s my fault, all my fault, if I accept that; if I acknowledge what a terrible, terrible person I am, will that make everyone feel better? Is that going to bring him back? (Please..?)
Darkness is this.
Darkness is having to walk past that spot in your backyard, every day. And see him, slipping a rope around and his neck. (“To show everyone what a terrible person you are”)
It’s remembering begging him, please don’t do this. Your daughter is right here. Please.
It’s being alone. So very, very alone.
You wanted me to reconnect me with my children? OK. Done. Now the rest of the world can fuck off. I only have enough room for so much connection.
My kids are fine, relishing in having their mother back.
It’s me who’s drowning.
But I don’t want to ask for any help, I don’t need any help.
This is all I’m worth now. Worthless, except as a mother. Now everyone knows what a terrible person I am. And, I guess, eventually, my kids will know it too.
I killed my best friend. I had the most perfect, happy, purple life. And I fucked it. I ruined it. It could have gone on forever if I were better.
As I’ve been told, repeatedly, my best is not good enough.
So. I’m a husk, a shell of a person. Any identity I thought I was rebuilding is kind of.. gone.
And that’s probably a good thing.
When I was feeling strong, and stable, and as positive as could be.
But no one cares about me. My children are everyone’s main concern. As they should be.
It’s been less than six weeks. If I’d had a cesarean section, I wouldn’t even be allowed to drive yet. To lift a basket of washing.
I wish this pain, it were visible. A tumour on my skin. Something infectious. Something ugly ans horrid and disfiguring, to suit how I feel inside.
Like the worst person in the entire world.
Dark is knowing that everyone that knew him, blames you. Feels this is your fault.
And dark is the startling, painful realisation that they are right.
Darkness is hearing cars come home, and thinking they were his. Darkness is three piles of washing, not four.
Darkness is hating yourself, hating what your life has become.
Darkness is surviving,only because your children need you. (But what kind of mother can I be, if I killed my husband?)
Darkness is a little boy who asks you, twice a day, as you cuddle him before he sleeps, if his daddy misses him.
And answering yes, he does, but thinking “But he doesn’t miss mummy…”
And darkness is sitting in your garage, smoking, sobbing, talking to a ghost. Telling him his daughter has learnt a new word today.
And that you miss him, more than you thought were possible.