My mom died two weeks ago, and part of me went with her.

I'll start by saying that this is not a full retelling of the day I heard from hospice that it was her time. I thought I'd be able to write that by now (after all, I'm a writer and do better when I put my thoughts and feelings into words), but it turns out putting all that into words is too much for me right now.

And when I say "too much," I, of course, mean the emotional load of grief, but I also mean the focus and energy, too. I've talked before about how when I'm faced with something I know I need to write, whether it be an article or my main publication Through the Mythic Glass, or a blog like this, or even just journaling, and I feel resistance, then my body gets soooo tired.

The Resistance (as Steven Pressfield calls it in his book The War of Art) is strong, with a capital "R".

The title of this blog post may indicate a grand exploration of my mother's passing, and its effect on my life, in memoir style, but that's not an accurate representation of what I'm able to explore right now.

So, when I say a part of me went with her, I do think that there are very emotionally deep things to explore with that: like how now, even in my mid-thirties, both of my parents' passing makes me feel like an orphan, and with her as my last living relative, I feel as though I've lost the last real tether of my childhood, and in a sesnse, a tether to myself.

There are so many real, deep things to uncover and unpack about her passing, but if I'm being honest, I just don’t have the energy to do that.

My mom's passing is the first time in my life that someone that I was actually close to has died (I had almost no relationship with my father past age 10), so this is the first time I'm experiencing grief in a "real sense."

One thing that I had not anticipated was how exhausting grief is.

I expected the sobbing by the bedside in hospice, and the sense of emptiness when I got home the day of her death. As the hours since her death turned into days, I also expected to still be in pain: not a sharp pain, like when she passed and immediately after, but I expected time to begin to dull it, which it has now that the days have turned into weeks.

What I was not expecting was how the grief process would be so fucking taxing on my mind and body.

Crying always leads to a migraine for me, so I knew that I would not be feeling well (not just emotionally but physically) when she died. But I wasn't prepared for the brain fog that stuck to me in the weeks following. That fog feels just as thick as the humidity here in the Midwest during July. It feels like moving through tar and trying to breathe thick, heavy air.

Doing things I used to do before her death exhausts me so much more quickly now; getting started on anything (like sitting down to write this) requires more inertia to get going.

So, when I say that when "my mom died, and part of me went with her," I do, of course, mean it in a bigger, more life-changing way. But today--right now--what that means is the version of me that got through the day with ease.

I know that time heals all wounds, and that, eventually, though grief will always be there, I'll be able to carry on with my life normally, but for now I'll keep slogging through it.

That is the task of the living, isn't it? To carry on?
I intend to do so.