Grief has long tail feathers

Last weekend I ran the first writing retreat in the property that I've renovated in Bridlington. On the Saturday afternoon I sent the participants out onto the beach to write about the sights and sounds and instructed them to come back with an object from the beach that inspired them. I picked up a long, straggling feather. It wasn't particularly inspiring but it was the thing that drew my attention. Writing is like that. Our attention is often directed by the unconscious mood. We write what we need to express. I've written about feathers before but this one was not pure and white like the feathers that are supposed to be signs from the other side, this one was long and brown at the edges like it had been soaked in vinegar, matted like the wet fur of an old dog's tail. It lay bedraggled and squashed in the sand and looked as if the only thing it was hoping for was to be washed away. When I wrote about it, I wrote about grief. Because we write what we need to express and though the sun has been shining on everyone else, for much of the summer I have been in darkness again. Because grief has long tail feathers that stretch like a shadow over everything. Because grief goes on much longer than people think.

Of course, though grief can't be ignored or overcome, there are things that can help to alleviate it. Like love, for instance. And there are things that can make grief return with a vengeance. Like loss of love, for instance. Grief is snakes and ladders I once wrote. It's true. Grief is often one step forward, two steps back. Finding love again after loss is like shooting up a ladder, feeling that there might yet be a game that you can win. Losing it is like falling into the mouth of the longest snake and finding yourself almost back at the beginning.

It feels a bit pathetic to be floored by sadness over the end of a relationship at my age. It's frowned upon if we don't bounce back, move on. Even more deranged to write about it but if I don't tell the truth, who will? In the widowed community (which they kindly let me be a part of) finding new love is the holy grail and we wave people off to live the new illusion of happy ever after again but it's just not like that for a lot of people. People are fragile after loss and trust is hard. New relationships often founder. And whether the object of love is alive or dead, loss is still loss and loss hurts. And however much we may have done our best to process past losses, they sit one on top of the other and it's Kerplunk again as the layers fall away and we sink right back into grief. One ending reminds us of another. The future that we thought we'd have has disappeared again. We are back at square one. Alone.

Which is ok, of course. Alone is ok. When I was questioning whether my relationship was sustainable and my therapist asked me if I was scared of being alone, I didn't have to think about it. I'm not scared of being alone at all. In many ways I have a great life on my own. I have good friends, wonderful kids, a beautiful home, a community and a passion which sustains me. I am very lucky. But I am bored of being alone and tired of it. This is my fifth summer as a single parent after an unhappy decade of trying to be a normal family and, three broken relationships down the line (I know, it wasn't Paul's fault), I'm still doing it all on my own. And doing it all alone is hard however capable and independent you are and however much self-love you have. I've got all those t-shirts but, I'm telling you, it's still hard.

People often tell me how well I've done and when I look at how far I've come since the death of my mum and Paul, sometimes I amaze myself. I find myself now running two businesses, managing two properties and bringing up two children pretty much single-handedly. I know that every day I do a great job, inspiring other people to write and fulfil their dreams, making time when I can for my own writing, giving my children the best life I possibly can, spinning more plates than anyone could manage and only smashing a few. People say they don't know how I do it and I don't know myself. If I didn't live my life, I could almost believe the hype.

I wrote another eulogy for a good friend a few weeks ago. It was my fifth: Grandma, Dad, Mum, Paul. I'm the go to girl for a eulogy. My friend had Alzheimer's and was in her seventies. She died being cared for by her loving husband of fifty-plus years and her extended family were all there talking about her life well-lived. She was a wonderful woman and a great friend and role model for me. I was sad again. Sad for her and her family. Sad to be back in that same crematorium, speaking from that same pulpit and sad that my life doesn't look like hers, that it doesn't have a straightforward trajectory. Instead, sometimes it feels full of broken ladders whose rungs lead nowhere, paths that disappear into dark forests or stop at the edge of unforgiving seas, sandcastles knocked down and rebuilt over and over again, washed away by the rain or the tide, leaving me like a tiny flag still upright alone on the beach when everything else has gone. I picture my own funeral sometimes (when you've been to so many, it's hard not to) and know that the crematorium will be packed with people who will say a lot of nice things about me. And I imagine a headstone carved with the words: she was so STRONG and BRAVE and INSPIRING. And underneath those words I imagine my ghost adding in graffiti: but sometimes so TIRED and SAD and LONELY. I love to swim and when I swim I feel at peace but sometimes I feel like Stevie Smith's man out in the sea, not waving but drowning.

Stupidly, in my loneliness, I turned my dating profiles back on again. I flicked through the profiles of all those men with their half-full pint glasses and their weekend pursuits, their nights out and in and I felt my heart sinking again. Because these are not my people. And I'm too tired to start again. I turned them off. I don't want just any Tom, Dick or Harry. I want something special. I want someone who is brave enough and strong enough and inspiring enough to take on the challenge of loving someone like me. I want someone who wants what I want. Someone who can hold their own weight, who knows that I can hold mine too. Someone who will dance the dance of love with me, who wants to walk side by side and hold my hand. I can do it all on my own but sometimes, I want someone to say, those bags look heavy, let me take one. Maybe that time will come. In the meantime, I plan to be alone. I have things to do. Writing retreats to run, kids to love and books to bring into the light of day. I'm even thinking about doing a Channel swim with some other strong, brave, inspiring folk.

While I was in Bridlington, I couldn't sleep. I missed my boyfriend who will always be a part of that place for me. I have been hoping he'll return but he seems lost at sea. I got up at 6.30am and, ignoring my own health and safety briefing, I went swimming in the choppy cold morning sea alone with the sky and the birds. It was beautiful. While I was swimming, I watched a man jog up to my clothes. He picked up my dry robe. I could almost see the question mark above his head as he wondered whose it was, imagining it had been left the day before. I watched him start to run up the beach with it. 'Hey!' I shouted to him from the sea and he stopped. He saw me. I was waving, not drowning. He laughed and put it back down. He gave me the thumbs-up, jumping up and down and cheering and then jogged on. He probably thought I was strong and brave and inspiring. And I am. Sometimes we need to feel sorry for ourselves and express the truth of the sadness in our hearts. But, in spite of it all, I know I am blessed. I still have a beautiful life. I've been through the worst and I know how to take care of myself. You don't need to worry about me. Sometimes this is just what grief looks like. I'll be all right.