I think too deeply. I write too much. I watch every movement for answers but all I uncover are more questions. Questions of why, and how, and what the fuck? They swim around in a spiral like a shoal of fish, circular, darting. Lively and collective.
I feel dizzy with them. I sit down. I write. But no answers.
I am sat in a coffee shop watching a little boy no more than 3 years old, note the colour of every passing car from the window. Each one more enthusiastically than the last. “Red. Blue. White. Racing car yellow”. He is shrouded in innocence, making sense of the world in his own way. I thought about Robyn. About him walking and climbing. About him making sense of the world and counting traffic. About his loss that I just cannot seem to swallow and move on from. I feel like I am fighting my way out of a plastic bag, suffocating, tiring.
Will I ever find the exit from the pain.
I thought about killing myself, to feel nothing but that is not the answer.
I thought about pushing it all away, ramming it into a cupboard and forcing the doors shut. The weight of my back against the wood.
But that is not the answer.
I thought about basking in the sunshine of Oskar’s achievements, that proud mummy, beaming smile way. I thought sunbathing in the positives would drive out the cold shadow of grief.
But I found I traced Robyn over the top, trying not to break the tracing paper with the pencil, I could not see what was underneath, what was happening in real time.
So that was not the answer.
What is the answer?
Filling the void?
It has been over 23 months and I still do not have the answers.