In the centre of my body there is a pit. It is where the grief sits. It draws everything in and it just gathers there. It doesn’t change or break down. It lives and it spoils my day. Sometimes I let it have me and life has to top me up somehow. Something will happen and I’ll develop another coping mechanism. I will look at houses online, eat something; decide not to eat something. Obsess over a record or fall into several episodes of something terrible; a show with adverts in between that are definitely not aimed at my demographic.
It is absolutely lonely in here. In my mind. I am fully by myself because I can’t get the words out. I fail to say what it feels like to be completely alone in the specific things that I am feeling. I can tell you a thousand other things but the real truth of it all is held within. I am still waiting for help. The specific kind of help that I need. Then the worst talking will begin. The talking that takes me back screaming; then like a perilous movie scene the edifice will fall in great boulders- thundering down into the ruins.
When Seb died I read that the second year of grief can be more challenging in some ways than the first. I wondered how I could possibly feel anything as terrible. What I think they may have been attempting to convey is that the reality continues to hit you hard; however almost everything around moves on. I have to raise my child, I have to go to work, I have to interact with others; the pass is past. In the act of attempting to survive the space to howl and mourn has gone. There is no excuse.
This is wrong of course. I try to explain to the unsympathetic mortgage lender or the guy from HMRC who states that I simply must address the issues; even if it floors me to contemplate opening Seb’s computer again. He didn’t know him, he cannot understand the magnitude of the task; an exhausted woman trying to piece together the genius of Seb’s last works in financial form. There are questions that the man needs answering and so I must keep falling into the pit until the admin gods are satisfied.
The season is changing and I remember myself this time last year. Wading in sorrow. Sure that the autumn would no longer offer the comfort I used to cherish. Still, on the way home from work I search the ground for conkers and in victory put a tiny one in my pocket- there is part of me still in the warm colour change. I plan in intercept Christmas by filling the house will lights as soon as a trip into the loft permits. The decorations will be organised before October ends and I will let it all nap quietly until December comes. Perhaps then it won’t punch me in gut. LP will get caught up in the magic and I will let it carry me.
My determination to survive all this is strong. I don’t think I’ll give up. It is just going to take me a good while. Perhaps at some point the pit will turn over and be contained somehow. The second year of grief is the realisation that nothing can take away what has happened, the second year of grief is looking around to see the hands that still hold me up. The second year is happening. I hope that i’ll lose count; would that be worse?