We're now approaching anniversary territory... Nearly a year since my beautiful boy was conceived. As far as anniversaries go I understand it's not the most profound but to me it marks the beginning of a journey in utero which was the only meaningful relationship I had with Freddie. This combined with various other issues has made me a bit mentally unstable. I seem to remember The Madness of King George being something to do with blue urine; so I'm not quite in the same league, though I do have a bladder infection and some very strange digestive issues which in my bat shit crazy world at the moment probably means something serious. I mean now more than ever I've realised that terrible things can happen. To me. So why wouldn't these health issues be a precursor to something more sinister. Sadly this thought has festered, along with a crushingly awful wave of grief, my period and also a confirmation of school for September for Tilda. I've got to let my daughter go (in my mind this is far more profound that the actuality), and face the empty space left behind. So I've been so anxious this week I can't sleep. The level of anxiety is unprecedented - it has completely taken me by surprise. I can feel it pulsing through my veins like some dodgy psychedelic drug and I feel peculiar. Sometimes the panic is about Freddie, other times for Sam and Tils and the rest reserved for me and try as I might to be rational, it just ain't happening.
The oil drum soup that I have made during this journey is thick with realities, fears, sadness and desperate hope... But it's consistency is like jam, I can't stir it freely to make these thoughts more fluid and elastic - it is clogged, tangled and stuck. In short nothing is making much sense apart from an over arching fear that I'm cartwheeling down a precipice with momentum propelling me further and faster - my life is out of control and sinister. I have moments where I'm able to be rational and tell myself that it won't always be this way and it will pass, but rampant panic normally blocks out the less ludicrous thoughts. In the weirdest moments I envisage my final resting place and wonder how near I can be to Freds, not that I'd know, but it's comfort of a sort. I think of that night when I was rushed to theatre and I imagine my life before, and I wonder if on some level I knew I was hurtling towards this catastrophe. But this is madness, the worrying, the missing, the ache.
It seems that blue urine and a title may be marginally more preferable.
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