Living a Lie

I want to die. I want to die. Please G-d, just let me die. Please take me. Please, please take me. Ariella, please take me to you. I want to be with you. I need to be with you. I can’t do this. I can’t be here without you. I beg you. I am on my knees begging to be with you. I need you. I need to be with you. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this anymore. How can I give myself a heart attack? Can I will myself to die? How long will it take to die of dehydration? Starvation? How can I cause a natural death to myself? Are there painless ways to die? That song, those words, that book, that story line on a TV show. A picture, a place. So so many ways that I connect to you. That bring me back, that remind me (as if I could forget), that shake me to my core. When will this end? How can I make this pain go away? This is never ending and unendurable. On the outside I look okay but inside I’m shattered. These thoughts play in a constant repetitive loop, especially at night when I have nothing else to occupy my mind. I toss and turn, pull my hair, hold a pillow over my head, in vain attempts to drown out this noise, but it’s futile. I just want it to be over.

A couple weeks ago I was asked the question again. Do I have kids? I hadn’t been asked that question since Ariella died and then I get the question twice in two weeks. Maybe it was so I could redeem myself, answer honestly, not deny Ariella. And I did redeem myself. As much as I knew it would lead to an uncomfortable encounter, I told this person, an instructor at my gym, that my only child, my daughter, died last year. She reacted as anyone one would, with condolences and apologies. And then she said that she didn’t know why she asked and I could tell she felt bad. I almost apologized to her. For saying the truth. For being a downer. But I did nothing wrong. I told my story. This is me. This is who I am now. My identity. It’s not up to me to make it okay for others. Because it’s not okay. It will never be okay. If it makes others uncomfortable, so be it. If you don’t want to know my story, don’t ask. If my story might make you uncomfortable, or sad, don’t ask. Being a mom was a large part of my identity. But it wasn’t my only identity. I was a wife, a friend, a daughter, an occupational therapist. Being a mom didn’t consume me. But being a bereaved mom is my only identity. Because everything I do now, everything I am, is through the lens of grief. I am still the other things but my life story took a sharp detour. It completely careened off the path I imagined and now every thought and every action is accompanied by loss and sadness and heartache. I never imagined this would be my life. Life was great and then out of the blue everything fell apart. And now my life from before seems like it wasn’t real.

I am living a lie. I lie daily. Multiple times a day. Anytime someone asks “how are you?” or “how’s it going?” Maybe I answer a little more honestly if it’s someone I know, but usually not. It’s exhausting. It is so tiring to try to function in society. To be able to be among people and pretend like everything is okay. To smile (though that’s easier to hide now with masks) and make inane small talk and just get through the simplest of transactions. It is still so unimaginable to me that I do things like go to the store and act “normal” when my world has fallen apart. I am living it and I still find it unimaginable. How is this my life?