Survivor’s guilt

So as previous post explained, last night I broke down in tears in the pouring rain after calmly contemplating suicide and deciding a carrier bag suffocation job wouldn’t be “flattering” for me once I was dead.

All in all…mental breakdown….ahhhh…

So now rather than try to ignore it happened/is happening, I’m trying to analyse and understand the reasons as to why. Last night it became very clear that I am struggling with grief; every morning I wake up hearing my baby scream, and realise I can’t hold her ever again…that’s very hard.

But I wondered if there was other stuff going on as well…related to grief in some way, but making it harder for me to process the grief or feel it properly somehow…

Survivor’s guilt plagues me, and I try to ignore it…but beginning to realise this isn’t a great plan. Why was I the one who made it? Why was I different? Why was I allowed to be spared? Why? Is this the world’s great punishment for me – be spared and be so alone in the memories…

sometimes I feel like my strength is my worst enemy. Because to die would be kinder… certainly in my past at least. To die would definitely have been the kindest. And yet, I kept those kids fighting every day. I gave them false hope despite knowing, deep down, that they wouldn’t make it. I kept them going through those horrors, when death must have seemed kinder and sweeter. They’d experienced laughter, and love…even in all of that. Maybe to keep fighting was pointless.

So why did I? I feel like I’m being punished for making them fight longer, for making them stay on through it all. Did I fight for them simply for my own sake? Was it just so I had company? I sincerely hope not. I hope that I fought for them because they deserved it, and I too was holding onto false hope.

But now I’m on my own. I no longer have toddlers clambering over me asking for stories so that they can distract themselves from the new wound. I no longer sit perched on a bed at night, stroking my fingers through the young children’s hair softly, singing to them with tears in my eyes. I no longer wake in a morning with them all cuddled up to me, the sensation of their heartbeat the most comforting feeling in the world. I no longer can go through hell and know there’s a few people there who know *exactly* how I feel, and so I’m not alone.

There’s none of that. Even with amazing friends, doctors, psychologists, social workers…I am completely on my own in this, and plagued by the fact I’ll never hear them laugh, never wipe their tears, and never be able to apologise… I’ll never bathe their wounds, and they’ll never hold my hand whilst I cry and sing silly anti-clown songs.

I can visit the sea, when they didn’t even know it existed. I can do simple things like buy food, and know they’ll never eat it. I can laugh with my friends who they never met, but who they would have adored. Each smile I share, each laugh I have, even each time I cry or scream…it feels painful because they can never have that. I’m forced to feel on my own, and that to me feels like a punishment. A punishment for having survived, and for being strong.

My strength leaves me with a worse sensation than death. Because they are on the other side, in each other’s company…

And I am on my own with guilt.

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