I think I might have spent about two hours today, sitting half awkwardly on a chair in my kitchen, singing to myself a bit and just staring into space. I felt that had I sat on the sofa it would be a bit like giving into the nothingness that I felt like I needed to do today. I am not inactive if it’s in the kitchen; there is a higher chance of me achieving something if I’m in there amongst all the busy stuff. I am trying to see how I am; because now the wailing ceased what is left behind is just so blurred.
I don’t cry as much now. When it comes it is more fleeting. There are two other things in life that catch me in a similar way. One is watching street dance- I’m not kidding; I think it’s about the unity of it- it’s hard and beautiful at the same time and it’s not about competition- even though it’s often found in that setting. The second thing is when a large group of singers harmonise. Just the thought of it is catching me now as I write- I daren’t listen to the song that really gets it right; it’s this one from the musical Matilda. Tim Minchin knows exactly what he is doing with those lyrics. I dare you to listen and not feel the punch. The harmony there sounds like the penny is dropping. The feeling is like an effervescent tablet. It just dissipates in the end and becomes part of the contents of the vessel. Little spikes of tears; then I’m alright for a bit.
In grief it seems like there is a division that takes place between thinking and feeling. Oftentimes I have to switch them both off and for some reason it feels as if they are on two different tracks; like I don’t possess enough energy for both. They do run alongside each other, and cross a bit; I am seeing them now like Brio. Sometimes I can’t talk, sometimes it is all I want to do.
I am trying to rediscover the problem solving part of my mind. The bit where the tape is constantly spooling. I need this part so I can do my job. I can’t remember much at all of what I do and how I do it- but I know its latent and I want to tease it out. I have faith that if I create an environment that is conducive in the office at home, then my skull will flip open and it will all come out. Then I can just get on with it.
He’s only been gone for three months. Sometimes I imagine that it’s wartime and I’ve had the dreaded telegram. The only saviour in this fantasy is that I have a lovely housecoat on and I know how to curl my hair properly- someone will take me to the pub later where there is a half pint pot with my name on it. This image is far more acceptable to me than the real one. I have taken the really harsh triggers away; but it’s still there- tip tapping as it waits to ambush- just as I start to get on with things.