I miss Sophie so much; I can't find the words to describe the pain and hurt of not being able to talk to my child—a person you spent their whole life caring for, nurturing, loving, and just enjoying. Someone I'd talk to on a daily basis; we'd laugh almost every day. Now it's gone, just gone like that. I somehow have to understand that I'll never be able to talk with Sophie, never hug her, brush her hair, be there when she asks for advice or help. Time's a great healer, they say. Really? So why am I hurting so much? Why do I still find myself crying most days? Why do I miss her just as much as I did 5 months ago? Why do I feel guilt if I smile or laugh?
When we first lost Sophie, I would spend a lot of time in her bedroom, surrounded by her things as she had left them. Her beautiful smell lingered in the air, and for some reason, I found it easy and comforting to be in her room. Now I struggle to go in there; when I do, the smell of Sophie has left the air. I find myself apologizing to Sophie for touching her belongings, for being in her room. It feels so wrong being in there without her.
Weeks ago, I found comfort in certain songs that we shared together; now, the same songs break me. I can't listen to any of them without breaking down or turning the radio off. Why am I finding things so much harder now?
Yesterday was pretty hard, not for any real reason (still a bit shaken up and on edge over some sick phone calls). Maybe this phone call has affected me more than I thought it had. Why does anyone think they are allowed to abuse someone in their own home for no reason? I've never been scared to be in my own home. This has put me even more on edge. As the sunset yesterday evening, I needed to rearrange some things outside. Home alone, I had no choice; in the dark. I find myself scared of the dark nowadays. As soon as the sun goes down, I try to stay indoors. If I need to go outside, I ensure that someone is with me. Failing that, I now always carry my mobile phone. As night hits, all curtains are closed to block out the dark. This sounds so silly—a grown woman scared of the dark. The dark has never bothered me before. Now, it's not a place I like or enjoy anymore.
Outside alone I’m doing "that walk"—the walk I did in June, in the dark up the drive when I found my baby. Again, I found myself veering off the tarmac and walking across the grass; for some reason, I was drawn to the tree. At the time, I was nervous and emotional already. As soon as I got to the tree, I broke down; I cried and cried. For the first time since that night, I studied the tree; I clung to "that branch." I couldn't stop crying; this time it felt like I'd been there for ages—in fact, I'm sure it was only minutes. When I pulled myself away from the branch, I turned around and leaned into the tree as if asking for the strength to hold me up. Leaning against the tree, I lifted my head up, opened my eyes, and my mind said, "Before me is the last thing my beautiful little girl saw before her eyes closed for the last time." I stood for a long while taking in the view—the image of our home, Sophie's last vision. What must she have been thinking? How scared and alone she must have been. How much of a failure I must feel as a mom, to not be able to protect her, to not be there for her when she really needed me. I closed my eyes, as Sophie did, for some reason; my mind wanted to live out Sophie's last moments—wanting to know how she felt, what she saw, to see if I could catch any glimpse of understanding in those final moments. The darkness behind my closed eyes became a canvas for my imagination; I was painting scenarios and emotions that I can only hope differ from the harsh reality of Sophie's departure. The tears slowed down, and I knew I had to go back home. As I look towards my front door, I saw a reflection of light dancing on the door - it was heart-shaped. I looked and looked to see what could be the artifact that was giving off this dancing heart-shaped image. I couldn't find anything. As I got closer, it faded, so I stopped and watched for a while, thinking, 'Is this a little something from Sophie, something to ease my suffering a little? Is it Sophie telling me she still loves me, she still cares, and that she is watching over me?' So many things I'll never know the answer to."
The tears never stop, and the pain doesn't ease, but I'm still here, and somehow I need to find a way to carry on, to build a new life without Sophie. There are days when I feel I might wake up from this nightmare, when I might chat with Sophie again, hear her beautiful laugh, or enjoy her snuggling in bed with me while we fall asleep together, with my arms wrapped around her—a place she felt safe.
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