I read through some of my old posts this week, the ones which were all about Roger going into the hospice and how we felt and kind of dealt with it at the time. I can’t lie, it was not easy reading at all and it made me cry. Looking back, I feel really proud that I was able to get those thoughts down on paper and share them on my blog. Writing it all down had many uses – it was a way to order my thoughts, a way of making myself take the time to think about things on my own, and I suppose more than anything it was cathartic. I wrote it down and offloaded, I felt better as soon as I’d shared.
I was grateful that the space I’d created had become something which could help me at my lowest point. I wonder if without it, I would have made the time to sit and think about it all so much, and whether or not I would have managed to connect with others in a similar situation. When I wrote about Roger’s cancer diagnosis I had so many emails from people who had lost a partner or even a parent, and each one touched me and helped me in equal measure.
I thought this outlet would continue and help me through the grieving process, that I’d be able to write my way through the months after my husband’s death and somehow feel better, if that’s the right word to use.
I’ve written a bit about the laziness of grief and how I felt three months on. But recently, I just haven’t known what to say. My posts have focused on the day to day, the things I’ve been doing to feel normal, to try to focus on other things and not dwell so openly about how rubbish things are. Grief is a funny old thing, it takes you on a journey where one minute you’re laughing and smiling and everything seems to be normal and fine. You can find enjoyment in things, have fun, and even feel good. When I look happy, I probably am. When I’m laughing, I genuinely find things amusing. But deep down, I’m always feeling like part of me is missing and just so sad that that special part is never coming back. The thing about grief is that it’s just so darn unpredictable.
Over the past few weeks I’ve had happy times, but I’ve also had some of the lowest moments in months. They’ve mostly come at really inconvenient times – be that when I’m at work, when I’m reading the kids bedtime stories, when I’m on the train or even just walking down the street. The pain isn’t going away and it isn’t getting any less.
I’m writing all this but wondering really what the point of it is. I suppose it’s just to say maybe why there have been less personal posts on here lately. I want to write them, but the words just don’t always come. On my own, with two young children and a job, there’s little time for creativity and things I’ve wanted to write have just felt so negative. These posts might help me, but would anyone want to read them? Probably not! I don’t want to be the one moaning about how rubbish things are when most people are gearing up to having a happy family Christmas. I certainly don’t want to look like I’m wallowing or asking for sympathy, because I’m really not.
I’ve thought a lot recently about giving up this blog, but I have Rog in my ear telling me not to give up. So many times I showed him my posts and said, ‘but isn’t it a bit pointless? Who really cares?’ and he used to just shrug and say that people would care, why not share things, isn’t that what writing’s for?
So there you are – a little update from me, about how when I look happy, I mostly am, and when I look sad, I am that too. That’s just all part of the rollercoaster.