The sandbags are in situ in preparation for the skies overnight promised delivery of rain which is meant to be biblical in its volume. It is day 5 without our heating working, long story but awaiting a repair man for my much loved and used Stanley cooker which is also our boiler. My children now know the real purpose of hoodies, hot water bottles and blankets.
These are the first words that I have written since late November, it’s mid December now. There have been no scribblings or jottings in my cream coloured hardback book. No transfer of my stream of consciousness onto paper. It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop writing and writers block is not really an accurate depiction either as it implies that I tried to and was unable to write; or was prevented from writing by some internal or external force; like my muse called grief going on a short sojourn elsewhere. No not the case, I just stopped. I let the jangling thoughts free reign in my head. Maybe being somewhat tired of freeing up space for others to take immediate occupancy I thought they could all just squeeze in there together, get on with it and eventually I’d be at full capacity.
That is not really what happened…there was no slowing down in the production of those jingling jangling thoughts. It turns out I have a tardis of a brain which is happy to accommodate as many grief laden thoughts as I can produce and well able to vie for elbow room with thoughts automatically produced by daily life.
So what if I was unwilling to process them through writing? There’s room for them all! Yes there is but I started to feel that I was unraveling, in an abyss like rabbit hole, with only a knot of loss to keep me company. This coincided with some unexpected free time over the course of a week. Free time that for the life of me I could not utilise let alone optimise to my satisfaction in order to reduce the annual long to do list of Christmas preparations. Surprise surprise I need structure. I may resent it but I need it.
Then my heart kicked in and let the overwhelm out and it was not pretty. It was scary, suffocating, lying in a ball on the floor kind of hysterical crying. A keening, crying that makes your stomach retch and cares not about requisite bodily functions. A crying that drags your breath raggedly away from your body, away from any natural rhythm. A crying that makes you ring your sister in her workplace because somehow you know that it is important that you now stop but you can’t until it is heard. A crying that doesn’t have the manners to give your sister room to speak. A crying that doesn’t care if it’s on speakerphone.
My sister murmured softly and let me wail until I and it was spent. There is no real coherent conversation that can follow that type of call, just me saying sorry sorry for ringing her at work, sorry for forcing her to bear witness to my journey down the rabbit hole.
I would love to pretend that that day was cathartic, a turning point but it was not. I know, I will have more days like this and I will have days not like this at all. Do not dare to judge me or my grief. I am ‘coping’ as I should or not at all depending on the day, the week, the hour. I do not have the energy for pretense or the manners to observe that the polite phase for public grieving has now passed.
In the couple of days that followed I wondered why the rabbit hole had beckoned? I knew it wasn’t just fueled by my dread of our first Christmas without my brother John. I knew that although my visit to Strasbourg the previous month had left me hollowed out with longing to see his face, it has also been healing and precious and gave to me as much if not more than it had took from me. But I believe I stopped writing after my visit to Strasbourg because I felt I needed to feel, feel deeply. I think subconsciously that I felt my scribblings were a way of expunging my feelings of grief, subverting them and that by my writings I was somehow diminishing them and casting those feelings aside. Cheating them even. That’s the problem with travelling even a little way down the rabbit hole; it’s hard to see, let alone clearly, in the dark.
So my favored cream hard back with its’ elastic band has been back in use. I’m still choosy about what pen I use. I have re read through it since I reclaimed it from where it laid on the dusty underneath bed floor. Not one single vowel or consonant has lessened the pain and the sense of loss caused by the death of my beloved brother but they have honoured that pain as validly as any day of overwhelm does.
I read somewhere that grief is the price we pay for love, so my book of writings honours my grief and my love.
I feel the swell,
still gathering momentum in my lower gut.
My body is awash with
what were once unfamiliar sensations.
They have somewhat gentled in their approach
but cause the same sharp,
startling inhalation of breath.
Like when the cold crisp ocean
first encounters my feet.
I let the first fleeting wave of grief
roll through my innards.
It has become unwanted deaths internal caress of my body.
It moves like tumbleweed,
randomly directionless inside my cells.
I hold the feeling in my belly for now.
Letting it roll around,
like sounds roll from my tongue.
Speechless I keep driving,
swallow it back down and breathe.
My head finds itself
involuntarily shaking in disbelief.
My salt water tears bring me back to the ocean.
I can see you there.
July 2018 J.Quinn