I have been busy.

I have been happily busy.

We have been travelling around the country, seeing new and beautiful places.

I have been working with children and enjoyed every day of it.

I have been spending quality time with my daughter, creating precious memories and having loads of learning experiences and fun together.

But in my busyness, I neglected my grief.

And I am back to not sleeping.

And back to nightmarish dreams.

I don’t dream with my boy but I dream myself in situations that highly frustrate me.

The last one was being in a dilapidated house full of rubbish and cockroaches and piled up high with junk.

And I was there with nothing to tackle the mess.

Feeling completely enraged, frustrated, hopeless.

I have been ignoring my grief but I have done myself no favours.

It is pure rubbish what people say,

that God heals all the wounds with a magic wand,

that if you “put your baby to rest and allow his soul to float to heaven”

that if you ignore your heart’s pull to sit down and just be with your memories and your pain,

that things will get better.

They don’t.

Reality checks are necessary.

No.

They are mandatory.

I miss my son.

I am still very angry for losing him.

I do not care that the number of my “friends” has halved in the last few months.

I NEED to remain true to myself

and to the memory of my son.

I am a bereaved mum.

Carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I am not okay.

I am still extremely vulnerable,

extremely forgetful,

easily stressed.

Cause the death,

the death of a son,

is not to be taken lightly

and does not heal in eight and a half months.

I fell on the grief path.

But it is time to pick myself up and carry on with my journey,

remaining down will mean I am a coward

and it will mean I have betrayed the responsibility I was given.