When my Mother died, I felt her absence and my anger towards the ever-moving world.

It was
as if she never existed. And all the condolences and the tears of the people around me could not
make her real again.
I struggled with the fact that I would never hear her voice again. But the absence… that was a
reality, a fact of life. Just like the bills that were waiting to be paid. Just like the fact that I had no
job and no girlfriend. Just like the fact that I was still fat.
It was there, like a hole in the soul. No matter where I went, the hole went with me. Like an
ever-present parasite.
I didn’t cry at the funeral. My sister did. I didn’t feel the need to make a show out of my grief. I
felt that it was mine and mine alone. The pained expressions of relatives and strangers did not
helped in any way. If anything, I took their sorrow as an offense.
How could they know how it feels like? Trying to save someone who seeks to destroy
themselves, doing everything you can to prolong and improve their life only for them to accept
death almost gleefully. How could they know how this feels like?
You probably lost someone too. But you’re not me and whoever died on your side wasn’t my
Mom. So no, I don’t relate to what you’re feeling. I relate to what I’m feeling right now. And it’s
a pretty shitty feeling, to be honest.
My Mom taught me everything I know. She taught me how to be polite and always tell the
truth. My Mom lied to me, to all of us. She wasn’t taking her medications yet she pretended she
was. It was all a show. A scam. Like our ‘perfect’ life together.
Our family existed on lies. Keeping up a façade. From each other, from the rest of the world.
Taking our pain out on the one who’s closest. Causing suffering with every word, with every
gesture then going about your day like nothing happened.
It was all a routine. Pretty standard, right?
What they don’t tell you is that you can find this in almost every home in Romania. We all got
our crosses to bear, our individual secrets and our personal shames. Like I said before, pain is
personal. We cannot compare suffering because it’s not quantifiable. But we always seek to do
just that, without even realizing it.

She taught to be fair and correct and do not cheat or deceive people. She taught me to wear my
heart and intentions on my sleeve. Or, like my sister says, she taught me how to be a sucker.
My Mom had a tough life. A life filled with disappointment and half-won battles. She was
definitely a connoisseur of defeat. She also insisted I learned French.
Don’t really know why. The hell do I need French for?
But I obeyed. I tried my best to be a Good Son. In the end, I couldn’t save her from herself. Right
now I have to take a break, writing all this crap makes me angry.
I’m angry at the futility of it all.
The bureaucracy, the endless stream of documents, just to get someone committed to an old
people’s home. And after death, there are more forms and applications to be compiled and
signed. Write a request for a burial. Write a request for a request.
Insane shit, like that.
Romania is a doomed state. To remain here is madness.