There is no such thing as a bereavement holiday.
In a groggy morning state, that seems to be the way of things these days, I turned to Lois and thought “where’s your dad?” fortunately catching the words before I could form them.
I had a sugar in my tea, the grief anvil teetering dangerously on a day where my resolve needs to be present- my folks are moving today; south to north to be thirty minutes away. Six months ago they sold their house, two days later Seb had gone and with it the whole dynamic of the move shifted. I had planned to be there to help, to take on a little of the stress. Today I can barely hold things together- a strange anxiety on my shoulders. A fear of good things in case they disappear. The feeling that I can’t handle anything difficult ever again written all over my face while my instinct to get through it still powering away; holding me up.
It is almost half term. I have taught and it has been good. I can do my job and that means that there is security in tomorrow. It will be Valentine’s Day and Lois will have a chocolate rose while I self medicate with Thornton’s Continental.
Seb proposed on February 14th, we didn’t care much for the Hallmark occasion but somehow the timing was right. And it was. The notion that he would be nervous to ask me seems ludicrous when he was all that I ever wanted.
I was doing some planning for work and our wedding anniversary popped up in the timings; the first day of the summer term. This is when I am guessing I’ll be back in my classroom, nurturing my teenage chicks, being thankful and relieved every day. I am hoping for that.
I am afraid of the good.
I’ve been thinking about how hard it is to own the feelings others have for me. I want so much and need reassurance so often. I wonder why it is so tough to trust the things people say. I think in some ways I have spent my life feeling undeserving and therefore although I can form and maintain the different relationships in my life, I seem to be in a mental state of subservience.
Then all of a sudden that seems a bit rude, to not take on board the kindness that is given. As if it doesn’t mean as much because it is for me and is therefore smaller and less impactful. I don’t rank the kindness that I receive. I don’t think it means less from someone with a bigger nose or a flatter bottom. It doesn’t diminish by the level of qualification they have earned or how much they’ve invested in property. So the love that I give, in the state that I am in; is just as valuable as anyone’s. It does not change with how tired or look or by how many times I’ve sacked off the mindful eating. Still it bothers me even when I think I’m beautiful.
There’s comparison too. There shouldn’t be. I am not a paint swatch.
When we die, even though some people may have us believe it, we are not placed in order. We don’t all get to a certain age and then perish, all in line with a big schedule of life. Although our end may be mourned differently according to our relationships, nobody who misses us will remember our imperfections with anything but longing- because any part of someone you love is better than none of them. That one spiky toenail that always seemed to find my leg in the night and the way he would always forget my aversion to witnessing teeth brushing until he’d see me wince and quickly close the bathroom door in apology. Those things. I’d take them all over again.
If you watch anything on telly these days, filmed during the pandemic, there is a shadow around the eyes of so many people. I recognise it. It’s exhaustion and it’s pain. It’s the state of unrest even when sleep is sometimes the only option. It is trauma.
Almost twenty years ago I dated someone who had just lost his dad. His eyes had deep dark circles. I put it down to his aversion to vegetables- like a kid in a textbook with malnutrition. Now I think about it, it was probably grief. I can’t tell him that I’m sorry I didn’t see it- he didn’t have the words and neither did I. I see it now; two decades too late.
If this post is going to teach me anything it is that in the midst of it all I am still working, there is still one hell of a fight left in here. As solid as my form is these days, as much as my skin craves the sunlight, as frazzled as my mind can be. I’m still in and I will believe you when you’re kind to me; because you’re in too.