Sunday, 10 June 2018

In between again

I have a theory. I doubt it's new but still, it's mine. That there's some kind of boundary separating this world from another. I don't think anyone can see it but I'm sure it's there, like a one-way mirror, impenetrable usually to our earthly gaze but there nonetheless. Or some kind of ethereal muslin that lies like an invisible mesh somewhere above our heads, permeable only by spirits or mystics or people in an altered state. I haven't thought this through. And yet, I'm sure it's true.

When Paul died, it was like the gauze between those worlds was shredded to pieces. At times I felt like we were both in limbo somewhere in between, neither of us able to settle into our respective worlds. I was aware of his presence, heard his voice, felt his touch, saw signs of him in herons and robins, in rainbows and clouds. At the same time as feeling that I was drowning in the violent waters of grief, I felt buoyed up by the certain knowledge then that it is life and not the afterlife that is a mirage. At times there was such peace in those early days, like all the extraneous crud of life had been stripped away until what remained was pure love. In those early weeks, it was the ordinary, everyday world that looked strange. The people going around their ordinary, everyday business seemed bizarrely deluded in their apparent misconception that life is solid and knowable, in their belief that everything can be understood by science and reason.  I was on another planet or on another plane, in a different realm, sitting on my wall of in-between, unable to join the land of the living for fear of losing him. I saw signs everywhere I went, the path beneath my feet littered with feathers, heart-shapes appearing in clouds and pebbles and frying pans. I journeyed with a spiritual treasure map, collecting clues in fragments of phrases found on scraps of paper or song lyrics, in the titles of books or in the interpretation of runes. Life was one long found poem and though I was lost, paradoxically, I knew that I was found too. Am I losing you? I haven't thought this through.

I thought of signs and of that permeable layer again this week though as I sat on a different wall of in-between. I have been stranded for a while in the land of relationship ambiguity, not sure whether to stay or leave, hovering somewhere between single and still in cahoots with the man I have been loving for the last year. We had pressed pause on the story of our love and I've been zooming in on the issues, rewinding through the freeze frames, searching for clues, wondering which way to go. I followed the signs into this relationship but it's not been an easy journey and we have come to a crossroads. I didn't know what to do. So I did what I have become skilled in. I sat with uncertainty, in between, and felt it deep in my bones. I wrote. I walked. I swam. I talked. I breathed deep and searched for peace. I read my own words and they echoed back to me, reminding me of the things that I've learned and lost and gained and found and somehow I worked my way back onto my own path, trusting in my own feelings, walking alone again on solid ground.

On Thursday, Paul's birthday, I walked alone to his bench. I'd forgotten it as I did last year. Last year I woke in my new boyfriend's arms and the realisation that it was Paul's birthday threw me into a tailspin. The clashing of those two worlds, the old and the new, was too violent and I crashed headlong into a pit of depression and anxiety. Looking back, I wasn't ready for a new relationship. It was too much for me. But, having learned how precious love was, I didn't want to let it go. And, as my therapist said, the only way to get over my fear of loving again was, simply, to love. And so I did, step by tentative step, tiptoeing into an unknowable future.

Anyway, where was I? I'm losing myself. Paul's birthday. I forgot. But the night before, I dreamed of him again for the first time in many months. And the next day, in one of my writing groups, I picked the title 'Dance in the City' from a random scrap of paper and I found myself writing about my memories of him for the first time in many, many months. And then his ex-partner reminded me on Facebook and so I set aside what I was doing and walked to his bench. As I paused by the pond in the park I looked up and saw a heron sitting, regal, in a bush and I smiled to myself, though I brushed it off. The gap between the worlds has closed these days and I live with the living, coloured once more by their scepticism. I took out my phone to take a photo and as I did, the heron swooped from his perch and flew right at me, looping in an arc over my head and returning to his place amongst the purple blooms (Note to self. Must learn plant names). I walked on and as I walked, white feathers drifted from the sky, falling at my feet, littering the pond and I remembered how I used to believe in this stuff but I couldn't quite stretch my mind to embrace it, to reach him, though I saw the rob rob robin, bob, bob, bobbing alongside me.

Yet, in spite of it all, there was this feeling, that something, someone, is still holding me. 'Are you here?' I asked as I sat on his bench between the strong arms that remind of his. 'I'm always here,' he replied. And I rested a while on his bench and knew that if I just keep walking, the way will always become clear, that there's a voice inside that does know what to do. The paths twist and turn and I keep choosing the scenic route, the road less travelled. For now, my boyfriend and I will walk on different paths, still in view but on different sides of the pond. I'm ok with that. I've had worse. So much worse. We're still alive and can stay connected and maybe our paths will converge again. And, if they do, that's fine too. For now, I need some time off from love to simply love myself. As I read the signs, I know that I must stay aligned to my own true north.

Saturday, 10 March 2018

Two years ago my love died

Two years ago my love suddenly died. You probably know the story by now. He felt rough at work. He went home and spoke to his mum. He told her he had a headache. He evidently took some pain killers, lay down on his bed and died. He was out of touch with me and I was out of my mind with worry. It took a couple of days for me to sound the alarm, three days for his friends and I to break into his house to find him there. He was only fifty-three. We'd only been seeing each other for about eight months. We loved each other deeply. And he was gone.

I never expected to write those words: two years ago my love died. Of course I never really thought that he'd die at all (which of us does?) and a year before that I couldn't even have conceived that he and I were about to fall in love. As Joan Didion wrote: Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant. We can go from single to in love in the skip of a heartbeat, from coupledom to widowhood in the time it takes for a heart to stop. Still, somehow I never thought I'd write those words, 'two years ago'. I never thought I'd feel like a graduate of the grief club.

I remember when, in the wake of Paul's death, I first joined online support groups. I was reaching out in desperation with the newly bereaved and I'd see these people who would post on Facebook: two years ago, five years ago, ten years ago. Somehow I knew I would never be one of those people. Two years seemed like an impossibly long time. Whilst not literally expecting that I would cease to exist, I simply couldn't compute that time could keep passing like that: not for me, not when my heart was shredded, not when my nerves were tangled like knotted rubber bands, not when I was resonating with grief like a freshly-plucked guitar string. Time slowed down in those days. It was an ordeal to get through each second, each minute, each hour.  A day could feel like a week and some moments of grief could be so intense that it was like time had vanished entirely leaving me staring into an eternal void. It is hard to describe that feeling now. It is hard to recall that feeling now. Truth is, it is hard to recall a lot of things from that first year.

Sometimes now, when I'm with a friend, they'll be talking about something and I'll look at them in surprise thinking: I don't remember your brother being hospitalised / your dad remarrying / your best friend having a miscarriage. Perhaps I'm exaggerating but for the first six months or more my head was so chock-full of grief that I had no room for anything else. I don't remember much of that time at all. Of course I vaguely remember Brexit and that awful day when the Tories got re-elected but, honestly, it felt like small-fry compared to my personal devastation. In fact, I almost enjoyed seeing other people collectively mourning for a brief time. At that time grief moved into my life wholesale and I was consumed by it. I wrote because it was the only thing that brought relief from the unrelenting pain. I shared, I think, because I felt so alone. People sometimes say that I I was brave to share my feelings online but I didn't feel brave. I felt demented. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't set out to write a blog. I didn't intend to share it. I wasn't expecting to find myself writing for The Huffington Post about grief or being nominated for grief blogger awards. I wasn't expecting any of it. But life changed in an instant. The ordinary instant. And I changed with it.

No, I didn't expect to be one of those people saying, two years ago. I didn't expect to be one of those people writing messages of hope to the newly bereaved. I certainly didn't expect to be one of those people who fell in love with someone new so soon. Was it too soon? In some ways I wasn't ready for it and perhaps it seemed too soon for some, but those of us in the club know that there is no timescale for grief and no rule book about how much love the human heart can hold. If a year seems like a short time to you, I can tell you that the year I spent grieving alone felt a hundred times longer than any other year of my life. It's like dog years or cat years or light years. In grief terms I grieved for at least 101 years before I fell in love again. Unless you've been through it, don't question it. Life changes in an instant. The ordinary instant. And everything changes with it.

Even though I remember my bereavement counsellor telling me that it takes on average two years, eight months and three days to fully process a major grief (that fact, for some reason, is etched on my muddled brain), two years still feels like a major landmark to me. Perhaps it's because I remember asking her at what point I could train as a bereavement counsellor and her telling me that they advise two years. Because, the theory goes, by the end of two years you have processed your own grief fully enough to be able to help others and because, she said, after two years people often feel like they want to return to the land of the living. Although I was sure at the time that I just wanted to write about death and talk about death for the rest of my life, I can understand what she was saying now. Although I do want to help people with their grief, I do also want to return to the land of the living.

So, how has it been today? I've felt the anniversary of Paul's death looming like a cloud on the horizon or a distant rumble of thunder for the last month or so and today, when it came, I certainly felt the rain. My body feels water-logged with sadness even though I've only shed a few tears, even though much of the day has been filled with smiles and laughter.  Still, the two year anniversary has felt very different to the first year. Today, I marked the occasion by having a nice walk with some of Paul's friends, stopping briefly to lay a rose on his bench and to observe the way the weather has taken it's toll on the woodwork. And tonight I spent some quality time with my wonderful daughter and relished that pleasure. Fittingly, we watched Titanic (she for the first time) and I felt the parallels with my own story: a brief and life-changing love affair, a catastrophic incident and a woman clinging to a life raft. I could labour the metaphor of icebergs and rafts but I won't. I have written so much that I am running out of words. Running out of steam wasn't The Titanic's problem but it is mine. I can't write any more about grief. Still, I take the message of the film to heart. Make it count. 

In the end, in order to make life count, I know that I have to rejoin the land of the living. While I live with an awareness that each day might be my last, I also have to live with the assumption that life will go on, for a while at least. And though I cannot lose the knowledge of what death and grief can do, I'm thankful that the shadow of death no longer sits on my shoulder. Though I know the worst can happen, I no longer expect it around every corner. The world feels mostly benign again. (Though, of course, there is Brexit, Trump, the Tories.........)

In fact, at what might be the end of my blog, I return to the blog post which is still shared daily over and over again and reflect that I no longer sit, as I did, on The wall of in-between, with one foot in the afterlife. I made it back from the brink. It is hard to shut the door in order to keep living but, at the same time, I know that it is possible to do as I hoped and keep Paul's memory and influence with me in the whole of my heart and live whole-heartedly again.

And so, I end the day thinking about Paul and about love. I was privileged to know him and my life was enriched by his love. May I enrich others with my love and may I reach a hand out to you if you are stranded on a life raft and whisper like Leonardo di Caprio, 'Don't let go'. There is a life still out there to be lived if you can just hold on.

Tuesday, 20 February 2018

It's coming around again

I don't understand it and I can't explain it, how somehow the mind and the body seem to store up memories like a hard drive, how they're in our wiring and make-up, like pixels in a photograph, so many tiny pinpricks of sadness, invisible to the viewer, but integral to the whole. How we don't even need a Facebook reminder saying 'This time last year' for us to remember anyway, snapshots popping into the mind unbidden, feelings hanging around like too many open documents on the desktop. Am I pushing this metaphor too far?

The build-up to the anniversary started on Valentine's Day this year, or perhaps it started earlier this month, in a teashop in Robin Hood's Bay when I remembered last year's lonely clifftop walks, last year's empty hotel bed, last year's poem inspired by a teashop trinket: You, Me and the Sea. Only this year I wasn't alone. I had a hand to hold on the cliff and the warmth of love in my bed and I was happy, really happy. And sometimes that makes me sad, so sad. Because I am still here and Paul is not and without his death, I wouldn't be where I am today, with the man I am with. It's an unfathomable equation.

My boyfriend isn't a fan of Valentine's Day and I woke this year thinking about last year when Paul's bench was magically fitted on the 14th February like a gift from the gods. I remembered the year before too and the card that I'd bought him and never sent. I had an urge on Valentine's Day to take it and put in on the bench but I wasn't sure if I wanted to let it go or keep it forever and the day ran away with me anyway. So I put it back on the shelf in my little shrine to Paul. I wanted to write about it but I had too much to do so I mentally clicked 'save' on those thoughts and feelings and carried on. I am good at carrying on. Even the broken-hearted have to find ways to carry on.

Sometimes my writer's mind finds my surroundings mirroring my internal world and today I noticed that I am surrounded by broken things. Every day I walk past my mother's ornamental hares with the broken ears at the front door and into the house where all of the clocks stopped months or years ago, where all the lamps need re-wiring or bulbs replacing, where even the bed I sleep in (my mother's old bed) is on the verge of total collapse. The frame keeps coming apart and the slats that hold the mattress keep falling through the gaps. It is not a stable foundation for sleep, especially now when I wake with the fearful lurching feeling that is back again as March approaches. At the moment the bed is a broken raft and every morning I feel lost at sea with the waters of panic and anxiety rising again and those words from C S Lewis finding their way to me like a message in a bottle: no-one told me that grief feels so much like fear. And I recognise those feelings. Ah, this is grief again. My mind is remembering even when I want to forget. And my body is remembering too. It is worn out and run down and needs to rest but it can't sleep on a broken bed and my anxious brain churns like choppy waters, afraid of the oncoming storm.

My boyfriend suggested last night that I get a new bed. He said I should chop it up for firewood. It was an innocent and sensible suggestion but suddenly I was weeping as if he'd suggested that I chop up the very essence of my mother. I felt that I couldn't let go of any more of her things. Earlier in the day I'd found myself packing up more of her clothes in bags for charity shops, burying my nose in her garments once more and feeling again the agony of loss as I let go of the things that I thought I might wear, that I now know I won't. I was shipping things out to make space in the drawers for some of his things when he stays, letting him a little further into my life. It is a struggle to let him in. I am afraid to rely again on someone else.

For weeks and months my laptop has been struggling too. Day after day I have clicked 'ignore', 'remind me tomorrow'. It has been telling me that its start-up disk is full, that I need to free up some space. It is overloaded with memories - words and photos crammed one on top of the other. Eventually it froze. It shows me only a blank grey screen. It can't function anymore holding so much of the past in its lightweight frame.

And so I'm back to where I started with the metaphor of a clogged-up hard drive with too many open tabs. The laptop has gone to be mended. They're backing it up and clearing some space so that it will work again. In the meantime I've bought a bigger computer with more memory and today I looked at new beds. They say that loss doesn't shrink with time but that life grows around it. I need a bigger space for the new life that I'm building around my past. As I approach the second anniversary of Paul's death, I turn my attention to my own maintenance. I clear out some more things from the past. I back up my memories knowing that nothing can erase them and I download my thoughts back here on this page. I make a little room again for the sadness, knowing that happiness can only follow when I press pause and clear some space. Reboot.

Sunday, 31 December 2017

Putting the pieces back together

I've made collages at New Year for as long as I can remember. I can't recall how or when the tradition started but I've always loved sitting with my pile of magazines cutting out words and pictures, slowly building up a picture of how I would like the year to look. I prefer it to setting New Year's resolutions that I know I'll break. You can't break a vague montage of pretty pictures and inspiring phrases.

Last year, for the first time in many years, it wasn't the resolutions that got broken though, but my New Year tradition. As I sat down to make a collage, my courage failed me. I was too shattered by grief to contemplate a future and the memory of making collages with my love the year before was too painful to bear. It's not often that you fall in love with a man who thinks that making collages is a fine way to spend New Year's Eve. Not often either that you meet a man who carries logs and an axe up a hill to build you your own personal bonfire in the darkness of winter. I lost that man in 2016 and with him I lost my hope and my way. At the end of the worst year of my life, there were no words or images that could make my future feel hopeful. At that point, everything felt broken. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, too sad to look back and too scared to look into an empty future without him. I didn't want to stay in a place of unbearable pain but neither did I want to move further away from the precious time I spent with him. So, instead of making collages, I did what came naturally to me during that awful year - I sat and put my pain into words, clinging to my keyboard as if it were a life raft keeping me afloat. I held on and rode the waves of grief into a new year.

Now, as I approach another new year, I'm still riding those waves. They're smaller and further apart these days but I can still be floored by them unexpectedly and the truth is that in many ways 2017 has felt even harder than 2016. If 2016 was spent wallowing in a pit of despair, 2017 was spent grappling to climb out of it, trying to navigate my way in a new world with no faith in my map or my compass, no hope that some guardian angel is working for my greater good. It has been hard work battling anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress - the cousins of grief. It has been hard work trying to build a new future. Sometimes still, I feel like I'm back at the beginning. At the two year anniversary of my mother's death in December I was spilling over with tears at the slightest provocation, besieged by crippling anxiety, floundering in the darkness again. Facing Christmas was hard and facing New Year's Eve has been almost as bad. Sometimes things feel so difficult that I wonder if I've made any progress at all. And then I read my blog and look through my photos remembering all of the things that I've done during 2017 and realise how far I've come. At the end of 2016, I couldn't face the future. I couldn't imagine loving again or writing fiction again. I couldn't imagine wanting to live and thrive. Yet, here I am at the beginning of 2018 with new projects on the go and things that I want to carry over from one year to the next: a new boyfriend, a new house, a new novel. I have places that I want to go and things I want to do. Most of all, I have hope.

I've come so far that this year I decided to get out my magazines again and to reinstate the collaging tradition. The collaging tradition is mine. I don't want to lose it. It was painful at first but gradually I found my groove as I remembered the joy of cutting and sticking my new vision together with the pot of glue that Paul left behind. And as I sat here tonight, surrounded by fragments of images and broken phrases, it struck me that the making of a collage is an appropriate metaphor for the process of rebuilding that takes place following a major loss, or losses. Some things you take with you from the past but other pieces just don't fit anymore and in some ways, it feels like starting from scratch, building up from the corners and gradually moving towards a whole. My new life is a work in progress but this year I feel optimistic that 2018 will be better than the previous two years. Last year couldn't be a good year, containing as it did, the anniversary of Paul's death and the loss of his mum. And even though I started a new relationship last year, it hasn't been the saviour that I might have hoped for. New love triggered whole new layers of grief and guilt and fear that I wasn't prepared for. I didn't expect to fall in love so quickly. I didn't expect it to be so terrifying. I wasn't ready for it at all. This year there is less to dread and much more to look forward to. This year I have at least some idea where I'm going. With inevitable sadness, this year I have accepted that I can't move forward without, in some ways, leaving Paul behind. My love for Paul and the tragedy of his loss will always be a part of me like the glue holding the torn pieces together but gradually a new picture is emerging. I owe it to him to make it beautiful and I will.

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

The cost of loss

Taken whilst planning my writing walk with Paul two weeks before his death 

I've just done my tax return. You wouldn't expect a tax return to be a trigger for grief but it was. Being a hapless artist, I'm not finely attuned to financial cycles but I realised today that I lost my love right at the end of the last tax year, so as I trawled
through all of the papers that I'd stuffed in boxes (mostly unopened envelopes), trying to remember what I'd earned and when, I had a trip down the fiscal memory lane of my first year of agonising grief.

I started, as I always do, by going back to last April (in this case April 2016) searching my bank statements for anything that looked like it might be income (not much), for anything that might be tax deductible (slightly more). Almost immediately I saw a payment to a funeral director. I struggled to remember what it was for. Paul's family paid for the funeral and I paid for the wake. Why did I pay a funeral director? And then I remembered the last minute realisation that, yes, I did want to put flowers on his coffin along with the ones chosen by the family, remembered phoning up in a fluster, arranging for a woodland wreath with red roses, the closest thing I could think of as a representation of my love. My gesture cost me £100. The bill for the catering came next.

Then there came the books. As a writer, I have the pleasure of logging every purchase from Waterstones as a tax deductible expense but when I looked at receipts today, I realised that all of my purchases during the last financial year were self-help books and grief memoirs. No fiction, no poetry, just books about death and recovery. The tax year ended with the payment for a memorial bench. Only the books were tax deductible.

I've been reflecting a little recently on the cost of loss. Two weeks ago I was invited to the parliamentary launch of the new Life Matters strategy. The strategy proposes a broad raft of measures to better support grieving families but it grew out of the government's recent changes to bereavement payments to widowed parents. Where, in the past, married parents who had lost a spouse were entitled to financial support for the duration of their dependents' childhoods (until they remarried), the support is now limited to the first eighteen months following the death of a spouse. I went to offer my support to an important cause, even though I felt that it wasn't really relevant to me. I'm not a widow and my children were not really affected by the death of my partner. The financial and emotional cost of grief is not the same for me, I thought.

Still, as I listened to Benjamin Brooks-Dutton talk about the total lack of support that he experienced when his wife was tragically killed leaving him to bring up his two year old son alone, I found myself reflecting on my own experience. I found myself remembering how I had found Paul's body in the middle of the night and how, the next morning (and the morning after that and the morning after that), I had got up and taken children to school. How, in shock, I had continued to cook tea, read stories, do the laundry. How no-one from any kind of support service ever called to see if I was ok. How I just carried on. I honestly don't know how I did it. But I do know that it cost. It cost me dearly.

I'm self-employed so I had to sign off my own requests for compassionate leave and I lost a lot of income. Today I found the contract for the creative writing walk that I was meant to lead along the industrial rivers of Sheffield, the walk that I couldn't lead because I'd scoped out the territory with Paul a few weeks before, talking about our future as we noted the landmarks on the canal. I wasn't strong enough to cope with it. In fact, I didn't take on any new work that year. I just maintained a couple of regular workshops and later added grief writing workshops to my repertoire. It was enough for me to handle. I also kept paying for an office that I wasn't using because I didn't have the energy to empty it.

Then came the other payments. I paid for help around the house. I paid for massages when my shoulders seized up with stress. I paid therapists for treatment for post traumatic stress disorder when I was having flashbacks to that awful night, when my anxiety was out of control. I paid the herbalist for her strongest calming herbs, paid the mindfulness teacher for a space on a mat every Tuesday night, paid for gym membership so that I could swim.

This year my outgoings have far outweighed my income. I hate to think what kind of state I would have been in if I hadn't inherited some money following my mother's recent death. As a result of her death in a hospice I became eligible for free bereavement counselling and it was worth its weight in gold. I don't know how I would have coped if I'd been like many bereaved people, placed on a waiting list for a maximum of six sessions, instead of the full year that I had. I don't know how I would have coped at all and I feel so very conscious of my privilege. I felt guilty spending so much money during that year (and this) but every time I've paid out for some element of self-care I have thought of the parents who left money to me and considered that this is what they would want me to be doing: looking after myself, helping myself to heal so that I can be the mother that my children need me to be. Because they were affected after all. They watched me sobbing uncontrollably and saw me struggling to cope. My grief took it's toll on them too.

Loss is expensive, emotionally and financially and there isn't enough recognition in our society of the toll it takes on productivity and mental health. I've been privy to many conversations amongst widowed people and I know how many of them, post-loss, have had to change their careers in order to better support their families. I also know how long grief takes to work through. It is two years now since I lost my mum, and twenty-one months since I lost Paul and I am still nowhere near functioning at the capacity that I was before. Today I couldn't recall who insured my house and could find no paper or email trail confirming the broker's identity. I couldn't tell the accountant how much interest I'd had on my bank accounts because I appear to have closed my old accounts and thrown all of those documents away. My paperwork is a mess. I could tell them how much I earned that year though. It was easy to work that out because it was just twenty per cent of what I earned the previous year. And I can tell them how much money I spent on self-help - a lot. And that only the books were tax deductible.

The event in London was sponsored by I found myself chatting to their representatives over canapes and wine. 'What's your connection to the cause?' I asked, tired of telling my own story over and over again. 'Life insurance,' came the reply. And a light went on in my brain. I came home and reviewed my own life insurance but, even with all the proposed changes, I'm not sure anyone would make provision for someone who lost a partner who wasn't the father of her children, to whom she wasn't married and whom she didn't live with. But it cost. Boy, did it cost.

Sunday, 26 November 2017

I feel it creeping up on me

It's that time of year again isn't it?

At this time of year my mum would start phoning, asking what I'd be doing for Christmas. Did I want to go to the theatre? The panto? Did the children want to go on the Santa train? I'd typically be irritable. It's only November, I'd tell her. I don't want to think about Christmas yet.

Now, no-one is phoning and, of course, I miss it. When she died, it seems the mantle of responsibility fell on my shoulders. It turns out that if you don't book the theatre and the panto and the Santa train in November, it sells out and suddenly all of these traditions seem more important. Because these traditions remind me of my mum who isn't here anymore and they remind my children of their grandma. It turns out my mum wasn't a control freak, she just wanted to spend as much time as possible with her family while she still could.

So I message my brothers and my sister-in-laws and I liaise with the ex, trying to work out how we can fit it all in and, as I do, I feel a sadness creeping up on me. It's not a sadness that I seek out, or indulge, it's just there, like a shadow or a dark cloud overhead. Two years ago, my mum was struggling to hold onto life and on the tenth of December she died. Her funeral was on the twenty-third, the same day as the Santa train she'd booked. These memories linger.

But it's not just the looming anniversary. You don't have to have been to your mum's funeral at Christmas to feel sadness as the festive season approaches. Christmas is difficult for anyone who has experienced loss. As we go about our business - shopping, planning, booking tickets - it's like we are accompanied by the ghosts of Christmases past. For me it's not just the sadness of the last two years that I remember, but the memory of the time when Christmas meant a day spent with a mum and a dad, two sets of grandparents, a coherent family unit. It wasn't perfect but still, I miss it. Instead I get the joy of watching my two little people open their presents on Christmas morning but I don't get to share that joy with anyone else and at lunchtime I will wave them off to spend the rest of the day with their dad, his new wife and his family (with mums and dads all in tact) and I will feel sad. I can't help it. I'm sad because this isn't the way I thought life would be. And that's part of the problem isn't it?

So often, we have an image in our heads of how life should be, how Christmas should be. Families should be nuclear. People shouldn't die or divorce. Christmas should look like a John Lewis advert. But, of course, the reality is that for most people, families are fractured and heartache coexists with joy. So, I try to practice acceptance and gratitude for all that I have known, for all that remains and for all that is yet to come. I try to blend the old traditions with the new. Last year, it was just me and my kids for Christmas dinner and so we went to the supermarket with a trolley and each bought exactly what we wanted. There were a lot of sweets! We had a great day and there was a freedom to being released from the tradition of the huge Christmas dinner. This year I'll probably go for a walk where Paul's ashes are scattered and remember him while I wait for my boyfriend to come back from his night shift and from seeing his family. He'll probably fall asleep as soon as he gets to me. I wish he didn't work night shifts. But he does. Life isn't a fairy tale. There is no happy ever after. But there are moments of wonder and beauty that sit alongside the deepest wells of sadness. This is life. I'm glad I'm still here. Someone has to book the Santa train after all. And as we put the decorations on my mum's tree, we will remember her and all the love that still remains.

Tuesday, 17 October 2017

I'm doing much better now, thank you

On Facebook tonight, an old friend asked me how I was doing. We'd not spoken for a year or so. 'Not too bad,' I replied, not wanting to go into too much detail in a public conversation that began with me wishing her Happy Birthday. Not too bad. 

At the same time, today I rejoined the charity Widowed and Young having let my membership lapse when I felt that I no longer wanted to be identified so completely with my grief. Tonight I found myself going back onto their Facebook page wanting to offer some hope to people who are earlier on in their journey. I wanted to tell them that things do get better, at the same time as recognising that, when I was in the early stages of my grief, the idea of being 'better' was almost as horrifying as the idea of 'dating' or 'loving again'. Still I offered some hope anyway and then realised that if they looked at my blog, my last post with all of its talk of trauma, anxiety and depression would not be very helpful. So, here's a hasty update.

I am doing much better now, thank you.

The grief and sadness has not totally gone. I still miss Paul (and my mum). I still sleep with his fleeces. I still find myself periodically gazing at clouds, hoping for hearts. I still see people walking towards me who share his build or his facial expression and feel an unconscious surge of joy followed by a crushing sadness when I realise it can't be him. I still pause to notice herons on the pond or feathers on the path. But I walk on without picking feathers up. It's a calmer, more reflective. more intermittent sadness these days.

Of course, sometimes I still get completely derailed by grief unexpectedly, like the time last week when the chimney sweep came to clean the chimney of my log burner, declared it unfit for use and handed me a card recommending a friend of Paul's for the job of rectifying the situation. And suddenly I was crying just because I saw his name and because Paul used to make log burning stoves and he should still be here. As his friend said when he came round to look at the stove, 'he's a bugger going and dying like that.' I don't blame Paul but still, it is, a real bugger. And just the other day, I received a Facebook notification that it was Bert Mulligan's birthday and, honestly, my heart leapt with excitement as if I thought that Paul's Facebook alter ego might still be alive even though he is not. And I almost opened up Messenger to re-read our messages, but I didn't. I didn't. 

It's nineteen months now and the fog has really started to clear. I no longer live in a state of perpetual anxiety and fear. A week or two ago, I finished reading my first novel and I've managed to watch a few episodes of TV dramas as well as a few films. I am working more and buzzing with ideas for creative projects, in fact, I have so many ideas that I'm impatient that I can't bring them all into fruition immediately. I was moaning to a friend about my frustration with my progress towards my creative goals the other day and she helpfully said something along the lines of, 'I think you're doing ok. Not so long ago, you couldn't see the point of living.' She's right. I couldn't. I have come a long way. 

The truth is, when I read my early blogs, it's almost like reading fiction. Last week I met an author that I hadn't seen for a while and when I blithely told him about what had happened, I saw the look of horror on his face and was taken aback when I remembered that it actually happened to me. I remember it of course and I can recall the anguish and the unbelievable pain but it feels distant now, like a memory of a place that I lived in for a while, that I hope never to return to. I blame the therapist in London who has been treating me for post traumatic stress disorder. He's been practising some bizarre magic that takes away some of the pain associated with traumatic memories. Evidently it's worked. I look at the photo of myself taken by my boyfriend at the seaside last weekend and I see joy in the eyes that have cried so many tears. The bags under them, I fear, are here to stay but who cares? It is such a relief to see that I can smile genuine smiles of happiness again. 

Of course, not everything is fixed - he wasn't that magic. Life is not perfect and I'm still finding my way. I still suffer from anxiety and I am worn out right down to the bone marrow. I'll never go back to being who I was before. But I feel that annoying post-traumatic growth taking place that I never wanted to hear about; who wants to trade love for growth after all? Yet, I feel it anyway. I feel like I'm changing, evolving, moving forwards into some unknown future. I don't know where I'm going but, as I learned so very deeply, all futures are unknowable anyway. All I know at the moment is that my future is a future that I want to live for and that I'm doing much better now, thank you.