Make Believe

I don't feel anything....Part 3

Today should have been the day surely where "feelings" kicked into place. They should have rocked up all guns blazing screaming at me "I'm fucking here! I'm here! Deal with me!" but they just didn't. Not a single thing. Still the emptiness inside. Still a vast vat of nothingness.

All today did was leave me with so many more questions. More and more questions which coming away from it all I have to realise I'm probably never going to have answers for. Never will I have answers. Saying that out loud... never will I have answers. You know what? That's bothering me most of all. I'm turning these questions over and over in my mind. Nothing. NO ANSWERS THERE.

I thought she was more sentimental. I actually did think the life she had with us meant something. Today I got closure on the fact she wasn't sentimental at all. Not even a little bit. The things I found out today prove that.

Running off on a different topic or maybe its all the same I'm not sure anymore. I write because it empties my head of all these thoughts I have no idea what to do with. My head is a magical place and sometimes the most dark place of all. Sometimes its both at once. There I go again... anyway!!!!!

My point is that I worried so much and have done my whole life that I'm just like her. Today proves a huge part of me isn't. I'm sentimental as fucking hell. I keep cards, I keep letters, I even keep bloody train tickets, I keep concert tickets, I keep anything and everything that's got memories attached to it. I ponder and I sit with my quite frankly box of crap and I remember and I smile at all this stuff with all my memories and I love it. I love these stupid bits of paper with my whole bloody heart.

Having to go to a place you've never been a step into someone's home who you thought you knew once is the oddest feeling in the world. I truly expected to be freaked out. I expected panic attacks, running out of the place sobbing, I dunno maybe even feeling uncomfortable but not even a thing. Not even when we were told what room the body was found in. Still nothing.

I can hear it all now, its the shock your in shock. I'm not. I have accepted the fact she's dead. I am almost robotic in my reactions to everything even phoning random numbers I found for solicitors/life insurance people crap. The "I'm sorry for your loss" bog standard answer didn't deter me from my "Have you got a fucking policy for this woman or not?" question I had. I figure for all the people who have said sorry for your loss? If all those people put a pound in a pot? That in itself would pay for the funeral. Job done.

I think its safe to say there is no will. For someone who spent years saying how much she hated my Father and what a terrible awful man he was isn't it strange now how now he and I are the ones dealing with it all. Bearing in mind we were considered the scum of the earth in her eyes how now at the end we are the ones dealing with her personal effects and the affects of the bad decisions she made since leaving?

Funny how for someone so passionate in her hatred. I mean it, that the word I need, trust me. She was PASSIONATE about her hate of my father and her marriage and all it stood for. How now its left to him and myself to do what's needed. We don't have a choice. As next of kin its our responsibility to deal with it. Mother, where are your friends now? Where are there? Where were they when you needed them helping you and by your side?

There was always going to be this toss up between her pure hatred of my father and the expense it would take to have a will draw up and made to make sure he didn't get any of her shit. For having money meant everything to my Mother. So I guess it meant more to her to have the money than to make sure he didn't get anything.

To be honest I don't think there is any money. Personally I just hope that the small amount of stuff that is there will raise enough to cover all the expenses. The last thing I want my Father doing is worrying about this expense when she chose to walk out on him and not look back.

When I say small amount of stuff I mean of any value. If I wanted to sit and read through every note she made that ever existed on every single scrap piece of paper, notebook, post it note, envelope, back of a cereal box I could still be there in 5 years time with no answers to my questions and only more confusion.

For you see my Mother didn't keep a diary, oh no, she kept notes, she kept notes on anything and everything and spent longer trying to analyse other people and their actions rather than actually living her life. That's my worry. I don't think I'm that bad but I do that. I think there are actions, consequences and reasons for all human behaviours. I hope that if I randomly start making notes on the back of cereal boxes that someone who cares for me checks me in somewhere or even better that they don't let me get that fucking bad in the first place.

You know what? She was fucking good at hiding her true feelings when it came to showing others around her. Anyone she was in contact with would have seen that side and not the cereal box note taker side.

The true difference? The genuine difference? How I know I'm ok? That I'm not like that? People give a shit about me. I have lost count of how many people right now are checking in on me. Even simple, are you ok? messages, even I'm here messages, even you don't need to talk but I want you to know I'm here, I'm fucking here for you Becky messages. That's the different between us.

I'm not shutting anyone out. I haven't, I don't always reply, sometimes I do or I give the standard answer. I'm writing it out, I say. I'm just writing it out. These people know then? I can't talk to them. I just can't do it. What I can do? I can write it out. Don't talk to me, please don't. Please just read this.

xxx