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Letter to my someday daughter, upon my death; or Things I wish my mother had written down
This is going to hurt.
When my mother died, the loss of it ripped through me, shredded my deep inside parts with buckshot precision.
People will tell you you will be ok.
That in a year, you will not miss me so much.
That you will get past this raw and gaping hole in the places where you were safe.
It's not true.
It doesn't get better, just more normal.
There will be days when you will forget how much this hurts.
Someday the happiness will flood back in and you'll remember what it is to be a human being again, not the shadow that you had become in my absence.
It will take a long time.
It's ok for it to take a long time.
You are allowed to be angry at me.
To hate me for leaving you, even though it seems irrationally cruel.
You are allowed to take joy in strange small things.
Like how the purse you wanted to borrow that I never let you borrow is yours now and I can't say no anymore.
You are allowed to joke about it, even when other people tell you it's not funny.
You are allowed to think it's funny.
You are allowed to not think anything is painful anymore once you have survived this pain.
You will become invincible.
You will become acutely aware of what it feels like to lose.
You are allowed to silently hate your friends for still having their mothers.
You are allowed to feel all your feelings.
You are allowed to want to die.
Feel everything.
Give yourself permission not to feel everything all at once.
You are allowed to go a little bit crazy.
You are allowed to watch terrible television and eat terrible food and not sleep for weeks because you are afraid of your dreams.
I did not want to leave you.
The aching awfulness that you feel, I feel it too.
I don't want you to be afraid or hurt or sad, ever ever ever.
But this is a thing you have to live through.
And you will.
You are strong, so strong, even when you're not.
You are allowed to let this be a crucible through which you judge your friends.
The ones who stay, even after it has been months and you still cry every day, the ones who wash your dishes and do your laundry when you can't get out of bed, these are your real friends.
Let the rest of them pass through your fingers.
You are allowed to not have energy for them.
You are allowed to hold your time as a precious thing in your hands and not give it to people who don't deserve it.
You are allowed to hate women who are older than me for living while I did not.
You are allowed to keep all my things, or get rid of all my things, whatever makes this easier for you.
Everyone does this differently.
There is no wrong way to grieve.
This is going to hurt.
When my mother died, the loss of it ripped through me, shredded my deep inside parts with buckshot precision.
People will tell you you will be ok.
That in a year, you will not miss me so much.
That you will get past this raw and gaping hole in the places where you were safe.
It's not true.
It doesn't get better, just more normal.
There will be days when you will forget how much this hurts.
Someday the happiness will flood back in and you'll remember what it is to be a human being again, not the shadow that you had become in my absence.
It will take a long time.
It's ok for it to take a long time.
You are allowed to be angry at me.
To hate me for leaving you, even though it seems irrationally cruel.
You are allowed to take joy in strange small things.
Like how the purse you wanted to borrow that I never let you borrow is yours now and I can't say no anymore.
You are allowed to joke about it, even when other people tell you it's not funny.
You are allowed to think it's funny.
You are allowed to not think anything is painful anymore once you have survived this pain.
You will become invincible.
You will become acutely aware of what it feels like to lose.
You are allowed to silently hate your friends for still having their mothers.
You are allowed to feel all your feelings.
You are allowed to want to die.
Feel everything.
Give yourself permission not to feel everything all at once.
You are allowed to go a little bit crazy.
You are allowed to watch terrible television and eat terrible food and not sleep for weeks because you are afraid of your dreams.
I did not want to leave you.
The aching awfulness that you feel, I feel it too.
I don't want you to be afraid or hurt or sad, ever ever ever.
But this is a thing you have to live through.
And you will.
You are strong, so strong, even when you're not.
You are allowed to let this be a crucible through which you judge your friends.
The ones who stay, even after it has been months and you still cry every day, the ones who wash your dishes and do your laundry when you can't get out of bed, these are your real friends.
Let the rest of them pass through your fingers.
You are allowed to not have energy for them.
You are allowed to hold your time as a precious thing in your hands and not give it to people who don't deserve it.
You are allowed to hate women who are older than me for living while I did not.
You are allowed to keep all my things, or get rid of all my things, whatever makes this easier for you.
Everyone does this differently.
There is no wrong way to grieve.