to love for the hope of it all

On a completely separate and much less selfish note. My heart aches for my life in Montreal and with my grandparents. I will forever wish that those five years had somehow lasted a lifetime, or that Covid hadn’t completely altered my life there in the way it did. Calling my grandfather for his 80th birthday, without being able to be there to celebrate in any way makes me feel so guilty. Not being there at all over the holidays, or even really mentally there in phone calls is so heartbreaking after feeling like they were some of the only people who ever truly understood me. I could never forget my granddad telling my mum that she raised an amazing and interesting daughter, not just because I’m his granddaughter but because he genuinely enjoyed hearing my perspective on things and discussing them with me. I miss that closeness and routine and the long rants about whatever was on his mind and I am so constantly worried about something happening to him with his bad health and being an ocean away, without having seen him in nearly a year. 

Talking to anybody in my family about my life in London is impossible without feeling some form of guilt. Some form because of my financial dependence on my dad and the life it allows me to live, guilt about the fact that I can’t help my brother in any way with his mental health, when I went through the same suicidal thoughts and depression but found a way to deal with it; can’t really help my mum in her situation because I can’t magically convince my dad to settle the divorce for a reasonable amount. I think that’s also part of why I didn’t want to spend the holidays with family in Turkey and instead spend it borderline alone here. Sometimes I can’t handle the guilt that comes with having made the decision to be selfish about my life and pursue what I wanted to by only thinking of myself. I wonder sometimes if that’s why I’m so unsure about my life here and what I want, because it’s honestly probably the only instance of the most intense selfishness I could ever have. 

I know that removing myself from the places that made it impossible for me to function, both Istanbul and Montreal by the end, is what was ultimately best for me; as by the time I left I was a shadow of myself, I don’t know how to get over the guilt of it. I’ve never known how to. It feels like a form of survivor’s guilt that I’m truly unfamiliar with in every other aspect of my life. Although I have occasionally practiced it with friends, the guilt I’ve felt then has never truly been as bad as this is. I think particularly about my brother, as I literally know the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness he’s feeling, but can’t help whatsoever. He can barely find it in himself to message me due to his guilt. I feel I’m barreling the conclusion that nobody in my family is particularly good at dealing with guilt and that’s why I’ve never really been equipped with the tools to do so. It just means that I have to learn them myself I suppose. Somehow, someway, to get on with my life without falling apart at the seams constantly.

I think I’m starting to get why people think I’m strong, despite the fact that I don’t particularly want to be. I just need to keep going, keep trying and doing whatever I can.