What is grief but a farce?
Am I grieving? I can’t say I am. I am laughing as hard as I can and as often I can. I am nervous. I laugh easily, though not sure, entirely. I prefer my work over anything else, i.e. periodically calling my husband, chatting with my mum or dad or even meeting friends. I want to be busy. Right now I am writing to keep myself busy. I have furiously read three books back to back, hardly retaining most of it. Momentarily enjoyed their narratives and shed a tear or two where required.
I resorted to watching dumb Hindi soaps and poured out my time, and love for my canine friend. I keep assuaging myself I am physically fit, which I am, albeit overweight now. I am hyper. I react wildly to things that are of no consequence. For e.g. my husband eating up the chocolate bars I was so looking forward to. Was I, really? Not sure. However, angry I was. My hatred is stronger and so is my remorse.
I judge and I repent. Yet I refuse to forgive. Am I holding onto too much? Did it weigh her down?
I am not sleeping much either. I can’t. I can’t hold my thoughts for long. I have betrayed her. I can’t think of her in good light. I cannot think of her for long and I am not sending any blessings her way.
Whenever I think of her unmarked grave, it’s hazy and I feel dead-sure that I won’t find her resting place. Right now it is not hurting as much as it should. I should have held her once.
I am fit as a fiddle. I am guilty. I killed her. Or maybe she simply died. Was it the rare Chinese food indulgence? My busy self at work? Or the long drives I insisted upon? Did I give up too soon? Was I more afraid of the pain I was going to be in? Was not convinced that I would be a good parent?
Maybe I was too amused that she happened to me so easily. I never spoke to her enough. I never sang to her. I never bought the books or read as much as I meant to.
My over-analysis tired her of me.
I am jealous when I ask people about their kids. I am jealous when I see other little ones perfectly fine. How are they whole? So fine? She was whole too.
Introspection is not doing me any good. I cannot keep away from it even. Everything is a farce. Like my grief. They say I will move on. Time will heal. But why? I don’t want to heal. I want to hurt. I want to hurt badly. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I want to be a wreck.
I am unable to be so. One more inability to feel. My only wish is to be able to undo it all.