My daughter is dead. This truth ruled my life. I could feel it creeping in my mind, waiting for one innocent action to trigger its existence. The most mundane chores in my life were absorbed in it. I couldn’t shop, clean or even get up in the morning without its brutal reminders that it was still there.
I yearned for the pain to go away and the inviting bliss of a numb mind to take over. People campaigned for me to heal and move on but my heart, my pain, wouldn’t let me. The pain became my blanket; surrounding me in the darkness and holding me tight while I tried to balance what was left of my life.
Her laughter haunted me. I would lie awake at night dreading the memory of the most cherished sound in the world. I struggled with the pain of losing that sound and the pain of hearing it when I knew it was only a memory; my mind became a torture device that tormented me relentlessly.
I became a watcher. My days seemed like I was watching a movie. Sitting at the park or looking out a window, I watched life being lived every day and going on without me, without her. Eventually I would become too numb to watch anymore and sleep would find me.
In sleep’s arms I found her once again. I could smell her hair, touch her face and watch her smile. Her laugh would ring throughout the dream and I knew I could live there forever with my baby, with my daughter. We would spin together in the park, hold hands on the beach or lay in the grass and watch the clouds drift past us.
Waking was like my own hell. It ripped me away from the peaceful sleep, her in my arms and my life whole again. It brought me back to the torment, the pain. I woke up knowing she was gone and knowing I had killed her. I had done the unthinkable. I was no longer a mother, I was a murderer and I was left alone to suffer until my mind shut down and I was taken from this hell. My only wish was that it wouldn’t take long. This is what I deserved, I no longer tried to fight it.