Dementors.

I had a good day today, being among friends and educating the kids, but for some reason gloom settled over me just before I left. I'm not sure where it came from, perhaps the straggly edges of a conversation I couldn't quite deal with, or perhaps the sound of carols and talk of christmas. Perhaps it was realising I can't cry, or sensing again the void in me within stretches where feelings should. Even when bad things are happening now, when grief looms or peril loiters, I seem empty of feeling. Other people worry, or cry and nothing comes out of me, nothing. I don't seem to have any more space for loss, not my own, or other people's. I don't run so fast from the things that make me flinch, because I can normally bear the bruises. I'm uncomfortable with bearing bruises; it smacks of acceptance. Or disinterest. Or lack of love. Or just some piece of me which broke and no longer has feelings.

The gloom clustered about my chest all evening, unexpectedly pouring out in a galled and bitter conversation about Christmas. I hate christmas, I really do. Too much stuff, too much broken family, too much dead son. All still the same and Bene being here doesn't fix any of it. A stupid pointless hideous convention of things which cause me more hurt than happy. I'm not looking forward to it. It's crept up. I'm forced to play the happy ending card and I don't feel happy enough for that to be the last page in the story. I am happy, I am and grateful. It's not the same as thinking any of this is fair.

I miss my boy. I have my new boy but he doesn't stop the first one being dead. Everyone else here has settled to 7. Everyone else can refer to the youngest two and mean Josie and Bene. I don't think I will ever get there and it hurts to be the only one left on this side of the fence. Only I seem to still mind. I'm happy they don't, I don't want anyone to hurt, but I'm lonely here. I'm lonely, tearless and tired. I need some time to process, but it never comes, never will. I miss him without tears.

I couldn't read all the October posts full of grief and loss and longing and honour written by other blogging baby lost mothers. I felt bad. I didn't do it. I couldn't read them. I didn't honour my boy. There is no time for him in our busy life, no time to stop and reflect on his space, the space sat closing everywhere but in me. The tearless space. Christmas is coming and everyone weeps for their lost ones but me. I don't. I cry in stupid moments when some idiocy transports me back to grief but I can't remember him and I can't forget him and I'm trapped between the worlds.

Gloom descended. Christmas is coming. Bene's first christmas, our third without Freddie and very little leeway to sit and weep for the boy who should be here. And I still hate christmas and I don't feel grateful enough and I feel too damn grateful and I'm crying because I don't cry, writing about how I don't write about him, missing not missing him enough because I miss him so much.

It's so fucking unfair.