I am missing the way that things just happen by chance. There is nothing unplanned about the encounters I have now. That we have. If you have bumped into someone recently; I envy you.
Almost everything I do is constructed by me and with that comes the accountability I feel for it all. In days gone by one could cast their accountability into the hands of the church, and of course people still do. I could be doing anything here and nobody would know. Fridays are my nights off. Mostly I do a quiz, last night I knitted a sock. It was wild. If Seb was still alive it would have been Top of the Pops and treats. Even in lockdown, Friday night was a time to hang the week on peg and ignore it for a bit. Nothing much happened but at least nobody else directed our sails.
This time round the lockdown feels almost unbearable. The physical pain of grief has returned and the sobbing. I remember when he died how often I would struggle to hold myself up and if I lay down it was like falling through the layers of the earth, spotting the types of rock; an illustration from a geography text book. In a way it still feels like falling now. I think this is where the need for accountability comes in.
I am a person with an incessant urge to tell. A problem arises when I just can’t talk. I think part of that is to do with expectation. There are people I love dearly who I just can’t utter a word to at times- because they know already and in conversation all the unspoken things are all around us- like a chorus. The things we say repeatedly when we remind each other that this isn’t the first time we’ve felt this way and that it is okay too. I just can’t be there for that right now.
I can cope with entertainment and new things. I am still laughing. There was a day last week when I couldn’t listen to music- there was certainly something wrong.
I have got dressed for what feels like no reason. I did it on purpose and I told myself that it was worth it and that I looked nice. There is nobody else here to notice. I am the voice of my own feedback. I pat myself on the back. I am proud of me. I don’t really like being alone.
There was a time when I craved a bit of solitude. I still need it and the chance to rest from the parenting lark; but it is ever so quiet. The quiet of my loneliness and the quiet of everybody staying in. There is a scene in Dinnerladies where Jean remarks on how she misses her philandering husband. She laments the lack of companionship. She wants someone to tell that she has left something in the car. The inconsequential things. The boring stuff. I need that.
Then there is work and there is motherhood. Places where some feedback is guaranteed. I need to tell about that. Midweek I reached breaking point and wondered what any of it was for. Like throwing stones into a pond that refuses to ripple. If there is nobody to tell, what is my place in it all. The chain of whispers ends here.
You might pick up that I am a little maudlin. I have decided that it is allowed.
When I have finished writing this I will go off and do something constructive, I’ll put the telly on. I think I need something else to look at. I have been drawing out plans for the garden in my head. Perhaps I’ll sketch them out in fineliner- everything looks better in spider-leg pen. Later LP will be home and there will be sound and responsibility, the week will begin and I won’t have time for this.