It’s been 295 days since my mother ended her life. I don’t exactly remember when I stopped counting the days, but I believe it was around day 100.

I remember those first few months, thinking I’d never sleep again. Vivid nightmares, fitful evenings, restless days. I think back to that time period as the “zombie days.” These 295 days have felt like a decade and likewise feel like a liminal gap — as if none of this is real.

I sleep now, most nights. At least once a week I’ll wake in the middle of the night and will be unable to coax myself back into sleep. Nightmares subsided for the most part, too.

But if I’m honest, every moment is just as miserable. And it’s not… and it is. The breadth of experience is so uncannily vast that one can feel happy, miserable, stricken, and calm simultaneously.

It’s exhausting. It’s tragic. It’s heavy. It’s not all miserable… but, also, it is all miserable.