It’s 5.30am and I’m rekindling my relationship with my bedroom ceiling. Wonderful (!). I wish I could tell you it’s another “unfortunate” bout of ‘pregnancy insomnia’ or that baby kicked me so hard in the ribs she woke me up (as usual) because, you know, she loves me so much (!). Alas, no, this time it’s far more complicated…
You see, during the day, I can busy myself with mundane daily tasks such as doing the washing up or catching up on a bit of Jeremy Kyle (thanks Jez). I can pretend it’s not happened and live, somewhat content (in a way), in my bubble of distraction; burst occasionally by the rapidly increasing amounts of resentment, anger, frustration and sadness I’m trying desperately to repress… But that seem to be spilling out – particularly aimed at one person – like some kind of slow burning Tsunami (yes, I know that’s not possible but it is nearly 6am so stay with me and cut me some slack).
It’s only at night that my subconscious (kindly!) lets me experience my actual feelings towards recent events and seems to take pleasure in such horrors.
I can’t help, as I turn my light off to go to sleep and take comfort in the growing warmth of my bed, but see – now as regular as my closing relationship with my bedroom ceiling – the full and final image of the last time I set eyes on him and walked out that door. This gives me even more respect for my Mother, I have to add, since she was there in that final moment and still finds the strength to function to some degree of normality. Maybe she’s a better person than me.
It all sounds ridiculous, pretentious, overly-emotional, I know. But, again with the slack, it’s been a matter of days and it’s still so fresh. One day I’ll stop thinking about it, but for now I have to just accept it and purge it. It’ll just take a while.
I’m aware that what I’m about to say is wanky and pathetic. Believe me, I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head, everyday, for the last 4 days at least – but I can’t help but feel like he sacrificed his place in this world to make room for my baby. It’s bollocks, but it gives me comfort.
Now, excuse me whilst I recoil in shame and embarrassment at the fact I’ve just shared, publicly, an intimate emotion…