On Friday my friends in Munich are having their annual Christmas dinner and for the first time I am not going to go. I will avoid it, like I avoid so many things now. Meeting one or two friends at a time is fine for me, as long as I can focus on somebody or something. Yet in a social group in which one has to make small talk, in which conversations are just thrown back and forth, I think I would just feel lost and alone.
What hurts even more is that I even avoid seeing the kids that Lennon grew up with, his peers and friends. I used to say that I would find it hard to ever leave Edinburgh, as I would not want to miss seeing those toddlers grow up to become children, teenagers, adults. I loved them and felt responsible for their well being too. They were part of our life. And now that this awful tragedy happened I feel like I can't face seeing them as it would just make our loss so much more real.
I even avoided speaking to my little nephew on his forth birthday as I knew I would just break down in tears hearing his little voice and knowing that I would never hear Lennon's again.
When I meet new people I make sure that they only have a child of around Bessie's age and and if at playground I see a mother with two happy siblings I avoid eye contact.
But how long can I keep this up for? Or will it do more harm than good to keep avoiding situations that make me face what I have lost?
Sometimes I wonder what I am scared of, as the most painful thing has happened and there should be no more fear. Maybe I am scared of not being able to control my tears, of breaking down again and again.
I am sorry and apologise to all those beautiful kids that I avoid. It's nothing personal and I, more than anyone, would wish that I could still watch you grow up, together with my son.
I was just reading "A Grief Observed" by C.S. Lewis and thought of you. He was talking about why he decided to write down his reflections after his wife died.
AntwortenLöschen"In so far as this record was a defence against total collapse, a safety-valve, it has done some good. The other end I had in view turns out to have been based on a misunderstanding. I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process. It needs not a map but a history, and if I don't stop writing that history at some quite arbitrary point, there's no reason why I should ever stop. There is something new to be chronicled every day. Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape."
Still aching for you and missing sweet Lennon's face at playgroup.
Love,
Jackie
I lost my 2.5 year old daughter in May of 2009, in a horrible accident. I ask myself every day about ways I could have prevented it, could have done something different. And I still avoid being around children her age. I'm able to now at least see her best friend, whose mother has been my friend for a few years and helped me through losing my daughter. But it makes me sad every time and I'm sure in some way it always will.
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