I keep forgetting the details.
We were talking the other night about how Karen’s gall bladder emergency was a major trigger last year for Brigitte’s breakdown. But then we remembered the boy who was stalking her, and talking about killing himself, just beforehand.
I’d been so focused on the aftermath that I’d forgotten that when Michael’s parents rang me to say he’d gone missing I had to keep the conversation short, as I was waiting in the car to pick up Melanie. To take her to a hospital appointment about eating disorders, and realising I could only choose one crisis in that moment.
There’s an old drawing about a patch of misfortune, Karen and I laughing that it was the point in a movie plot where you’d say it was too farfetched, that couldn’t all happen to one family.
Each death, each close call with it, used to give me a burst of feeling… live life to the fullest, you never know how long you’ve got, bla bla bla. But it’s never sustainable, both the shadow and the motivation fade.
Now I’m trying to flog myself to a similar feeling… be glad it’s not worse, not being at school is better than self harm. But that’s even harder to sustain.
Mostly I’m just trying to have no expectations, but failing at that too. Mostly I expect it won’t get any better, missing the things that are gone. People, dreams for the future, simple pleasures.
Sometimes I expect it will get worse.