My Very Own Type of Torture 

I know I’ve said this before and I will probably say it again, I’m terrified of writing, opening up and embracing my emotions to me seems like my very own type of torture. On one hand writing about everything that is going on within my life was the norm, it was always ‘something just happened, take my phone out or grab the nearest object to write on and bobs your uncle, however just the thought of allowing all the emotions that I’ve built up over the last 2 years pour out, breaks me. 

For example, there is a poet I follow and he is amazing, so open and raw, a true natural talent. He is organising a poetry/spoken word get together and I’ve always loved going to events like that. 

I thought to myself Joyce why don’t you try performing, why don’t you let your voice be heard, I was getting all excited thinking ohh maybe, I’m far from talented but expressing myself through poems or spoken word pieces has always been a passion of mine, and while all these thoughts were going through my mind I’m piecing together sentences and being flooded with emotions. Suddenly I stopped, I mentally forced my brain to shut down, I was being drowned in emotions I’m still not ready to go through.

And so for the foreseeable future, I will be stuck in a bittersweet limbo between my passions and my fears. 

This is my very own type of torture 

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Letter to Joyce

I’ve been watching you, observing the way you go about your day, smiling without a care in the world while your around people, and forcing yourself not to feel when your alone. 

Ú9This road your on, it’s dangerous. 

I watch you eat away your sadness, countless TV shows blurred throughout the nights, involved in everything around you, as if I am not here. 

I am sadness, I am pain, I am grief.

I am the heartache you have been putting off. Struggling with the small portions of me that are able to seep through the cracks in the walls that will forever break, until you deal with me. 

Until you let yourself feel, until you stop the pretences, only then can you start to truly heal. 

This road your on, it’s dangerous.

Letter to Him

For a while after we last spoke I wanted to see your face again. I found myself looking for you as I travelled the streets of London, scanning every face that had even the slightest resemblance, not quite understanding why I wanted to see you, but needing to nonetheless. It helped me cope with the loss of my dearest friend.

Countless times I have wondered what my reaction would be like if I ever saw you again, too afraid to look at you but even more terrified to look away.  At the beginning I wanted you to see me broken, see me torn apart but as times moved past I have toughen my skin, rebuilt my walls, not allowing myself to stoop any lower when it came to you, I then couldn’t stomach the thought of you seeing me vulnerable, seeing how much loss I’ve had to endure. It wasn’t until then I decided I couldn’t let you affect me anymore, you had to be removed from my mind and my heart. 

 

That was all until I saw you today, lost in my own mind, amidst the blending faces, I saw you. 

And my heart broke again.

 

Thoughts 2

 

People ask me all the time how am I coping, how am I dealing with everything going on, and I never really answer, I just swerve past the question or put on the best smile I can and say outright ‘ I don’t know’, and that is the truth, I have no idea how I am dealing with this all, actually food is the biggest help, but all jokes aside all I know is that with the mercy of God I wake up every morning, knowing that I have this sadness in my heart, knowing that I am a woman full to the brim with love and affection and sadly I have no one to share it with, I wake up knowing that today is another day and I have to smile and get on with it, so that’s what I do, get on with it.

It can be hard sometimes, that smile can be so fake I’m afraid my face will crack, when I see children on the road my heart squeezes with pain. But who hasn’t experienced pain or sadness, everyone goes through a traumatic experience at some point in their life and we all have to find our own way in dealing with it. 

The thing I wish for the most is a companion, I remember last year when my brother passed away within three months of his death my mother met someone, married him and he was living in her house, and at the time even though I knew she was in pain and she needed a companion I was angry because I have younger siblings and they to lost a brother and needed their mothers support and comforting and the only parent they had was looking for comfort in another mans arms, I was vex to say the least. However since losing my own son I can honestly say I can understand why she did that, I still don’t agree with it, but I understand that need, that craving for someone to be there for you, someone to call when your down, hold you when it’s all to much, to grow with them be each others rock in times of need.

The thing that gets to me the most is that I am so damn loving, I have all this positive energy to look after, care for someone, love then endlessly and i don’t have a physical person to do that for and it annoys me so much. It’s not just this sexual, carnal thing which is very much included, its just to have someone you know, love, care, kindness, affection, togetherness, exclusive, growing, building the list goes on.

I want to be a mother again but before I can be a mother I need to be a woman.

Six Months to Soon, Happy Birthday My Child.

Last week on the 28th July marked the 6 month interval since my baby took his last breath. Yesterday was his 3rd birthday. 

I had a major breakdown during the early hours of yesterday morning, reliving the day I gave birth, the 19 hour labour and the rush to get to theatre. Reliving the first time I heard him cry, the first time I saw his face, the first time I held him in my arms. 

Out of nowhere this all consuming wave of agony blew over me and the wails just kept rolling in, over and over. I woke up the whole house, but I couldn’t help it, everyone just had to wait until exhaustion overtook me and I passed out. I felt so bad for them when I woke up later that morning, they all stood around me, taking turns to cradle me, whisper it was going to be okay, but they all looked so helpless. I just wanted to hug them and tell them I was okay but every time I opened my mouth the only thing that would come out were cries, heart rendering cries. 

Later on that day I went to visit my boy at the graveyard. After fixing up his plot, I sat down at the head of his grave and spoke to him. I only ever tell him good things, even though he is not physically with me I can never let him know I’m hurting inside. So I joke, I chat a whole load of nonsense just so I have something to say. I know it may seems abit weird but when I’m sitting there it’s the only time I actually feel at peace. When I know I am close to him.
So much has happened in the last few weeks I’m surprised I haven’t been sent off to an asylum. I sometimes even have to wonder how I am even surviving let alone coping with everything that is going on, I think the only answer is living in the moment. I only think about what is ahead of me within the next 24 hour period, and that is how I survive. When I start thinking about the past or what is to come in the future, I just get so sick, all these health issues arise, so I just don’t think. I busy myself with shows and movies or pointless conversations until sleep overtakes me or I work long hours so that I am too tired to even think at all. It’s the only way I can ‘cope’.

With the inquest weeks away, it is harder to ‘cope’ when I am being reminded daily about what is to come. On top of that my son’s father has decided he does not want anything to do with our court case so it’s all on me. I have to defend my son on my own. It really hurts me to think my baby’s father did not help out much at all when he was alive, and he purposely chooses to not defend our son now that he’s dead. I cannot even explain the course of emotions I feel towards that man. But then again it may be a blessing in disguise, I won’t have to see his face again. 

I do apologise if this post does not make sense, I just needed to write what I was feeling at the time. I needed to let it all out, as jumbled up as it is.

Until next time.

Bumface … Who Knew?

Just a few hours ago I happen to be on my laptop drafting my witness statement, watching a Korean drama on my tablet and while my phone somewhere lost in the duvet. At 11:45pm my phone, tablet and laptop all pinged simultaneously as a reminder of Bumface’s birthday. I had to laugh. I was well aware that it was the day before my ‘use to be’ best friends birthday something I had been trying to forget, whereas normally for as long as I can remember I would be all giddy writing his birthday essay beforehand just so that it’s one of the first, if not the first message that he reads when that clock strikes 12am.

It pains and angers me to say this but I still miss him, still think of him regularly. I know a few friends of mine will probably be calling or messaging me later on today asking me to get my head checked, but its the truth. I still care for him very much, I wonder how he’s doing, how he’s coping, it’s coming up to two years since his dads passing, how’s he dealing with that? 

With all the crap I’m going through right now, someone who outright couldn’t care less about my life shouldn’t be on my mind at all, but I can’t help myself, even though he stomped on my already broken heart with his shit stained shoes, he’s my Bumface. 

Sad right? 

It has taken me over a year to even come to terms with the fact that our friendship is over, and after lots of tears, questions, Instagram stalking and of course his ‘essay of resignation’ (I call it), I’ve finally accepted it and I am learning to let go. I will never forget him, or the good he has done for me. There was always this torch still alive within me when it came to him, this love, compassion, gratitude towards him, then again I’ve had this infatuation with him since I was a little girl. 11 years we had known one another, 7 of those years he was my person. But the torch has to be blown out, however I’m feeling, or whatever I’m hoping when it comes to Bumface needs to come to an end. 

When Bumface wrote me his ‘essay of resignation’ I was so hurt, I’m not going to lie it brought tears to my eyes, however it was the best thing he could do for me. The way to make an impact on a writer is through words, and that is what he did, left a huge scar on my heart. After the initial waves of shock horror, sadness and anger, I saved that ‘essay’, for myself, to read whenever my heart falters when it comes to him, whenever I want to force my sister to lend me her Instagram login so I can pree his instagram, or whenever I feel like I’m in too deep and my lifejacket would be hearing his voice, I read what he said, over and over again, until I feel the familiar waves of shock horror, sadness and anger wash over me again and again.

I know I cannot ever fully forget him, but what I’ve recently realized is that I have a good small circle of friends, real true friends that are here for me during this awful journey I am going through, and even though I may not open up to anyone the way I would with him, I am grateful for what I do have, and I hope to someday find someone that I can be fully open with once more. 

Where Thou Calm Before The Storm

Again I apologise if there are mistakes on this post or it does not make any sense, I feeling like ramblings and how can you ramble and correct mistakes?

I’ve been meaning to blog for a couple day now, and I have been trying to put it off because I now know that people who actually know me in real life read this, and its so embarrassing, having people who I choose to have a brave face in front of, seeing how broken and messed up I am. I feel to bury myself far into the depths of the earth and never come out.

My anonymous space to be true to myself is now a known blog of a mad woman.

Last week I had a meeting with the panel members who all had a hand in writing the serious incident investigation report I received some weeks ago. I was so scared going into the meeting, my heart was beating ten times faster than normal, I felt sick and faint, overall totally unpleasant. The impersonal response I got in the report was so overwhelming I couldn’t even read it all, it was so cold, so detached. Going in I couldn’t bear the thought of being face to face with the exact people that could turn my tragedy into an emotionless stack of paper. However 10 minutes into the meeting it was the first time since my sons passing I felt anger, real pure anger towards the ‘professionals’ that I went to countlessly with my sick child however it was in their ‘professional opinion’ that he wasn’t sick enough to warrant a stay in hospital for further tests or a simple blood test. While these ‘professionals’ were blabbing on trying to cover the mistakes made by others, all I could see was red, I just wanted them to shut their mouths, for the first time since I’ve been having these meetings I actually spoke up for myself, tears streaming down my face because the anger was just consuming me, shouting at these people that are trying to take me as a mug. If I wasn’t in the amount of internal pain I was feeling in that moment I could say shouting at them was so liberating. I’d finally given everyone a glimpse as to how I was feeling inside. And to be frank, I think they were scared, scared not because they were afraid I would do something to them, but because they could see that even if it took every ounce of strength, skin, blood and bones on my body, I will go through with this case as far as it will take me.

Nearly two hours later, my tear ducts dried out, the anger slowly draining out of my pores, the meeting had finished. To me it was pointless, all these things they are going to change within the hospital when it comes to the care of children etc, it doesn’t mean anything to me, I haven’t got another child, having another child seems so alien to me, changing the rules now, now that because of their stupid rules and procedures my son is dead, now you want to change them. It doesn’t mean a thing to me.

After coming out of the meeting, we sat in the waiting area, my family talking with my lawyer, me sitting there too drained to even swallow my spit, a child about the same age my son was came into the waiting room with his dad and sat behind me. That child then starting singing nursery rhymes as they do at that age, oblivious to the horrors of this world.

I went limp.

I was like every bone in my body turned to mush and my insides were trying to come out. Then came the wails of a childless mother.

My family had to carry me to the car and for the rest of the week I stayed in bed, in and out of reality.

Just as I start to think I’ve started the healing phase of my grief, starting to accept that fact that I’m a mother without a child. I’m pushed five feet back from where I started. When I really think about it this is literally just the beginning. The actual inquest is months away, and after that, taking it to civil court, that whole process could take from months to years depending on whatever they throw at us.

When exactly am I suppose to heal?

Or better yet, how?

When can I get my calm before the storm?

 

 

 

Laugh to Keep The Tears Away

I can only laugh, because if I don’t I’ll be forever crying, and I’ve got no more tears to shed.

Thursday was one of the hardest days of my life, and it wasn’t even the inquest. I’m not sure what I was expecting the pre-inquest meeting to be like, I think I thought it was just a small meeting with my lawyer and barrister and a few other professionals to discuss the agenda for the actual inquest.
I was so wrong.
I met with my solicitor and barrister for the first time, and went through what I feared the most, combing through every detail of the last few days my son was alive, repeating myself over and over so that they can have an hour to hour record of my baby’s last days. In between the wails of a childless mother and the frustration if reliving the darkest days I’ve ever experienced I had to find some inner strength somehow to keep going. After what felt like hours under friendly fire, I went to the bathroom, sat down on the floor and cried my eyes out. As I sat there sinking into the floor I took my phone and did what I always do when I’m feeling lowest of the low. I called Bumface, I know he’s blocked me, and I know I’ll just hear the ever continuous engaged tone, however it’s an action I cannot give up, my love for him covered with the illusion of hatred and the blank response I’ve received over these last few months help harden my heart to any sort of emotion. With the death of my boy and Bumface’s ‘letter of resignation’ to our friendship, I am just numb.
So I came out of the bathroom, the engaged tone still lingering in my ear, numb.

This pre-inquest meeting took place in an actual court, like real court, the kind of court you see in movies or TV shows. I felt so small sitting in the oversize chair next to an over-sized table with my lawyer and barrister directly across from the coroner.

I don’t think I really realized how big this case is going to be until I sat there listening to what my lawyers, the opposing lawyers and the coroner was saying, although it was all mostly lawyer jargon. It was all ‘witness lists’ and ‘statement’ and ‘my client this, my client that’, this is all real, this is going to be the biggest fight of my life.

After sitting in court, twiddling my fingers and biting the inside of my cheeks, the meeting was finished, and as soon as I got down the stairs I broke down, not because of what was said or people opinions expressed during the meeting, I cried because even though this is going to take all of me to deal with, I am still a mother without a son.

I Can Only Come Back From So Much

Later on today starts the long soul draining process of the inquest into my son’s death. This is something that I have both longed for and dreaded in equal measures. I want to get justice for the appalling treatment I received leading up to his death, however reliving those last few days over and over again is chipping away at what little I have left, repeatedly describing every tiny detail of his last days bring back the feeling of losing him all over again. The walls inside my head cannot take it, I am now forever filling in the cracks before any sort of grief starts flooding in.

I cannot handle it, I cannot do this.

I spent my birthday in bed all day shifting between sadness and anger, between tears and rage. I am 21 years old, I should not be going through this kind of pain and suffering. I’ve come back from learning my father wasn’t in actual fact my biological father, I’ve come back from being raped, I’ve come back from growing my siblings while my littlest brother was sick, I’ve come back from divorce, I’ve even started to come back from my brothers death and I’m pushing though the pain of not having my Bumface around anymore. But my baby, he was all I had, he was my light, I needed him more than I needed anything else, and I know that is bad, but he gave me the strength to fight, to make a better life for us both.

And now it’s just me, alone, and in pain and I cannot accept that. That fact cannot get registered in my brain.

Tomorrow I’ve got to go and listen to x amount of people tell me that the choices I made in my son’s life lead up to his death, and I’ve got to do that without anyone holding my hand except my own.

*21st*

It’s my 21st birthday today, and all I can think about right now is how much I want a silly childish birthday message I’ve received every year for the past 7 years. I know I won’t be getting one. But it’s the thought, the little bubble of some sort of fantasy happiness I can have for 24 hours before my real life consumes me in darkness again.

The last few days I’ve been even more stressed then I’ve ever been. Since finding out the coroner that preformed my son’s post mortem has decided there will an inquest in my son’s death I’ve been on edge, wondering what the hospital are going to say, how they are going to back each other up and refuse to admit any wrong doing.
In a few days I have one of the biggest meetings regarding my son’s case, and I’m petrified. How can I face the people I went to when my son was ill, how can I face them when they repeatedly sent me away even though my boy was so very sick.
How can I?

You know before my whole world turned into a fucking mess, I knew I was gonna get divorced. I had accepted that, it was the best thing for us both, and I remember sitting down one evening on my own and thinking, ‘I am a strong black, young, single Muslim mother and I couldn’t be more happier’.
I planned all the things I was going to do with my son on my birthday,  on his birthday, the things I wanted to get him for Eid, where I wanted to be in my life, how I wanted to raise my son on my own. I was happy. I had family,  I had my three closest friends, I was good.

How fucking wrong was I?

Happy birthday Asha, your plan really panned the fuck out.