Numb

“Trust the process...” they said. I didn’t know what the process was, let alone what it entailed. I had just buried my beloved. Life was just a strange dark mess. I didn’t have the mental capacity to handle what the world was expecting of me. I was just flowing from one day to the next. The only reason I got out of bed each day was to see off the kids before the left for school and as soon as they would leave, I would slide back into my bed.

There was some warmth about sleeping all day. I felt hidden. I wanted to be invisible. I didn’t want to be seen or heard. Being in bed the whole day felt like the only thing that could soothe my aching heart. I would compare my heart to a crying baby; being in discomfort but can’t say because of what, so it resorts to crying as a form of expression.
I honestly don’t even remember motivating myself to snap out of it. I was completely worn out and in total surrender to the pain.

I appreciated having a car then. It allowed me to leave the house without fear of being stopped on the street by those who knew what had happened. I would just wave and drive by whenever I saw someone I knew on the street.

It’s not that I didn’t want them close to me, but I wasn’t in the spirits of chatting to anyone. I couldn’t even recognise myself – I had become this absolute fragile shadow of me. I wasn’t welcoming to everyone. I wanted to hide, not because of shame – but because I wanted sheer silence. I didn’t want to be asked how I was. I just wanted complete utter peace. Unfortunately explaining how you feel to those around you usually involves communication in the form of speaking – and that caused so much turmoil within myself. I felt like I was betraying myself by not giving myself what I needed – so I stayed in bed in order to achieve this.

It’s been two and a half years since my Mbu passed on and I no longer feel this way – well, on most days I don’t; but there is a young widow out there, whose journey just begun. This piece is for her. I totally get you.