16 years. And the days that take me further away from that moment seem to be moving faster.
Timing is a funny thing. Of all the weeks in the year, I heard from a good friend that her father is ill and in a coma. Tomorrow I see her, as I planned to weeks ago, 16 years and 6 weeks since I was in the same headspace as her.
What can I tell her?
What did I tell her? I told her that I probably have a fair idea of what is going on in her head right now; that I don’t know how it will end; that I am here should she need me; that only she knows the best way to work through this and that family aren’t necessarily right about how she should react, behave, whatever …
I don’t know what to think of this date. This mark in my personal history that changed me forever. It makes me different to the other kids who only grew up with one parent yet still have the other alive, it makes me judge those who grew up with two or even still have two as an adult differently, it means my view on my own personal death are ambivalent at best.
There are many things about the day itself that I have never, and maybe will never, forgive people for; there is the occasional self indulgent wonder of what might have been had Bapuji come out of his coma as everyone was hoping for (I never had that hope, I knew the night I found him); and then there is the slightly more guilty feeling that if I could turn back the clock, if I could change history, if Bapuji could be here now, I wouldn’t want it. It’s a horrible thing to say, and I’m sorry Mum and Bhai if saying this hurts you, but it’s true for all the various reasons we have talked about on many occasions.
To those of you who are about to say “oh, you’re father would be proud to see what you’ve grown up into” – I don’t care if Bapuji would be proud me now, I really don’t. It makes no difference to me here or there. He wasn’t around, he doesn’t get the right to an opinion on my life, nor does he get to have it bestowed by others on his behalf.
I don’t care, if I were to be honest, if Mum or Bhai tell me that they’re proud – I don’t seek their pride, only their love which I have in bountiful and unconditional measure. I cared, when I was going out with David, that he was proud of me but I felt, right or wrong, that is love came with a host of conditions so pride was something I so desperately wanted from him. I’d like to think that I don’t care for anyone’s pride, but I could be wrong about that …
And so, here we are again, another year, another day that will pass by like any other. I reflect upon it because I have to, not by any sense of moral obligation or because I haven’t blogged for a few days but because … well, I have no idea why.
I’m not sure who this post is for or what purpose it is meant to serve just as much as I don’t know what to do with this day that I want to be like others, but for some reason cannot just let pass …
I wonder what I’ll be thinking this time next year?