Dear Ave,

How are you? It’s been a while, Ma.

I have at least two drafts that I haven’t been able to publish. My last post is almost 3 months ago. For some reason I couldn’t write anything coherent enough to post. But today, I am sick. It started 2 days ago at work, when I felt suddenly dizzy and my BP dropped. And then yesterday I nursed a massive headache and had a very sore throat and a nasty cough. And I guess this is my body’s way of telling me to stop, that it’s had enough. That I need to stop before I end up killing myself.

It’s been a year and a month since you died, and so many things have happened since then. I got married, I went for a promotion at work, went through a spring, summer, autumn and winter, celebrated my birthday and another Christmas, went home for your first year death anniversary, went for our honeymoon in Japan (Tom and my first time!), went to watch theatre shows in London, eat at restaurants and do the same things I was basically doing when you were still alive. I lived, or I did my best to appear like I was living.

It was difficult Ma. The first 6 months were the worst. It seemed like you were with me at every waking and sleeping moment; the first and last thoughts were always of you; and most of the time I would open my eyes with you in my mind, dream about you and fall asleep with thoughts of you. The tears came suddenly and out of nowhere, and I could only describe the pain as “wrenching”, the kind wherein you had to talk yourself out of it, or you know you would lose yourself or your mind. The number of times I curved myself into a fetal position and used sleep to escape from the physical pain, only to wake up feeling raw and scraped, vulnerable, exhausted and numb at the same time.

Dreams of you kept me going. You came into my dreams so many times during the worst time of my grief, and you comforted me, made me feel better. I remember the very first dream, and it was just days after I had come back from the UK after cremating you and putting your ashes in the temple. I dreamt that I was back in one of the bedrooms at home, and you were sat beside me, your hand on my lap, and you were happy and smiling and telling me how God was real and he was with you, and he had a hammer in his hand, but heaven was annoying because people kept knocking on the gates. It was so you; you felt real and you were there. I woke up with a smile, and the feel of your soft hand on my lap. You saved me with that dream Ma. It was during the lowest point of losing you, when I just wanted to be where you are, whatever form/dimension you were in.

When you died, Ma, there was this feeling of being a real adult, the feeling that I needed to look after myself now, to be strong, vocal. No one else in the world will ever protect me now and I needed to look after myself. I had to “grow up”, fast. Papa had just died three years ago, and you were gone too. The rose-coloured glasses were gone, and desires of romanticising life went completely out the window. I felt hardened, that I would not tolerate any shit from people. That was one of the things I felt.

The second was a need to pretend everything was OK. That despite the fact that you were gone, I was strong. I was not going to let your death weaken me; there was a need to prove that I was alright. So in April last year, after a 6 month hiatus, I put on earrings, came back to work, smiled and talked and worked and pretended. I was very good at it, I realised. I was so good at it I remember colleagues telling me how I was “glowing” or how I looked really “well”. God forbid the grief would show on my face; you would absolutely hate it; you have always adored beauty, and if I had stopped looking after myself, I knew you would not like it. Days before you died, you had told me that I was beautiful, and it became so important to me, that the next few months, my motto became: “Stay enraged inside, beautiful on the outside.”

Haha, I know, right.

I ran away. Now it is clear to me that I was running away. I worked–hard, relentlessly, and I put my heart and soul into work, so much so that I put my worth into it. Pulling the performance/numbers up, it became a tangible target that I was very happy to help achieve. My perfectionism came out more than ever; I would feel satisfied when we were hitting the targets but also so disappointed on days when we weren’t. Work saved me; it distracted me from my grief and I am thankful for it. It showed me what I was capable of doing but at the same time, I was driving myself too hard, putting too much stuff on my shoulders, so much so that I couldn’t switch off even when I was not at work. I would talk to Tom about work, rant about work, feel good while I was at work, feel lost when I wasn’t at work. It was like a drug.

The last four weeks have been rough at work. So many things have happened that have opened my eyes, broke my heart but also made me realise lots of things.. I am exhausted and my body is now telling me to stop. (don’t worry, I am just sick with flu-like symptoms, not something severe or anything– well, yet, thank God). The sun is shining, it looks like a great day outside, and I am stuck at home with pain in my eyes, uncontrollable sneezing, a very sore throat, a productive cough and whole body ache. But my mind has never felt clearer.

I need rest, and I will take it.

Grief is a continuous journey and your body will go on until it guides you and tells you to stop.

I hope Ma and Pa, wherever you are, you are proud of me. And I hope I can start learning how to balance life and work and the grief of losing you. And I hope I can become less angry, and stop beating myself up. In the lowest of times I know now that my default is to be strong, it is something that I have learned about myself, and it is something that you instilled in me. I am not one to cower or to let life beat me down; your tiger strength and determination Pa, and your gentle resilience Ma– I have these both. I am your daughter, and it’s more evident now than ever before.

I love you both and I miss you.

Love,

Hershey

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