I want to call my mum.

It would take me many thousands of words to sufficiently explain my relationship with my mother, so I won’t. Suffice to say, for the last few years of her life I would visit her for an hour or two every month or so and that was pretty much the extent of it. An occasional text or call between visits, but that’s it. It was a loving relationship, just very strained by far too many reasons to discuss now, that's possible a story for another time.

I’d go about my life and gradually a guilty feeling would creep up on me. A little voice whispering in my ear Hey, you haven’t spoken to your mum in a while. Isn’t it about time you paid her a visit? You could call. At least take out your phone and send her a text you lazy shit, it’ll take thirty seconds. Yeah, my inner voice is a jerk, don’t worry about it. But I would put off visiting because it was always such an emotional drain. I wouldn’t call because I didn’t have anything to talk about. I wouldn’t text because she’d probably call back instead of text back and then I’d be stuck on a call with nothing to talk about.

Eventually, though, the voice would get loud enough that the scales would tip. The discomfort of a visit would be outweighed by the discomfort of my internal voice yelling at me for being a bad daughter.

Mum died eight months ago.

Before her death I hadn’t seen her for three months. Not unheard of that I’d go that long without visiting, but it was pretty rare that I’d leave it that long. On this occasion I had a good reason though. I’d moved overseas.

When I moved I promised myself I’d do better about calling her regularly once a week. That lasted exactly one week. I thought that living in another country I’d have plenty of new and exciting things to talk to her about, but it was just the same as always. I think this is a failing on my part, I’m a terrible conversationalist. I can’t do small talk and it’s not until days after when I’m rehashing the conversation again in my head for the ten thousandth time that I think of something interesting I could have said.

So I’m here, living in a foreign country, and three months in, mum dies. I go back for the funeral and leave again.

A month or so later I start getting this strange, guilty feeling. It takes me a while to place it but eventually I realise it’s my old friend. Hey, you haven’t spoken to your mum in a while.

Um, what? She’s dead.

Isn’t it about time you paid her a visit?

I live in another country, I can’t just pop around for a cup of tea. Oh yeah, and she’s dead.

You could call.

I mean, I could. But there’s no point. Because she’s dead.

At least take out your phone and send her a text.

And I seriously considered it. Even though, you know, she’s dead.

I’m fairly certain that this particular guilty feeling is borne out of me not having really processed her death. I know she’s dead. I know this. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel her absence, I don’t feel the gap in my life that she occupied.

All I have is this guilt tank. Before she died the tank would fill up until I paid her a visit, that would empty the tank and over the next month or so it would gradually fill up again until I went to visit. The tank was emptied and and the process starts over. Over and over.

I’ve got a guilt tank that’s eight months full and no way to empty it.

Maybe this is where my grief starts. I know that everyone grieves differently and the process is not linear and you can’t apply someone else’s experience to yourself. But I honestly have been wondering what’s wrong with me that I haven’t really grieved my mum’s death after eight months. Sure, we weren’t super close, but she was my mum and I loved her.

I don’t know how to deal with this feeling of guilt that I have no way to purge anymore.For the first time I can remember I actually want to pick up the phone and call mum. But I can’t.

She’s dead.