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I was merely a month old when my mother passed away. Puerperal fever, they said whenever I would ask why my mother was not around. I was never as dumb as other children who the fancy words might have swayed; I knew that puerperal fever was only a medical way of saying that, at only a few weeks of age, I had committed matricide. The ultimate sin, the unforgivable crime, the no-refund one-way ticket to hell, the capital M. Murder.
If I were to ask you, what is a lie that everyone believes, what would you say?
“Money cannot buy you happiness”? Yes, of course, it can.
“I love you”, is definitely a lie, but a very cliché one.
The answer is this: “it gets better.”
It gets better. I shiver at the sound of that horrid phrase. It is something that everyone says, that everyone hopes for, something that kills anyone who dares let go of it. It gets better. Of course, it has to get better! If not, then what is the point of anything ever? If it does not get better, why do we not quit? Why do we not lie down on a field and watch the heavens until we die? It must get better, but it does not. No matter how happy one can be, one is always just another tragedy away from falling apart again. And again. And again. And again.
I have been with child five times. I have seen only one survive. I am sure many women relate to this. There is no greater pain than the loss of a child, except for maybe the loss of four. I survived each of these losses, but I lost a part of myself every time. I love all five of my children more than anything, living or dead. But I guess I should have known that being blessed with five wonderful children would never happen to a murderess like myself. Because it does not get better.
The World Health Organization says that close to 800 000 people commit suicide every year. That is one person every 40 seconds, and for every successful suicide attempt, there are 20 more failed ones. In my not-so-humble opinion, I dare say that these people have been told that it gets better too. But for them, it never did. Now, I am not saying suicide is the answer, heavens no! I am merely stating the facts, that for 800 000 people every year, it never got better. Of course, if they had stuck around for a while longer it may have gotten better, but we have no way of knowing these people individually, no way of knowing the pain they have felt. We only know ourselves. We only know our own truths.
Time does not heal all wounds; time only dilutes, in the same way that ice would dilute a whiskey that is too strong. Time numbs your wounds, but it does not heal them. Does it ever get better? Does it ever get easier? The short answer is no. The long answer is no, it does not. In my lifetime, I have suffered; I murdered my mother; I was disowned by my father; I lost my husband to the cruel grasp of the sea; I lost four children; and I have seen more tragedy than most ever will. So, do not dare lecture me on pain. Do not tell me it gets better.