Grief in All Its Forms: It’s Love With Nowhere to Go

GRIEF: LEARNING TO LIVE WITH WHAT’S LEFT

Grief is a strange bastard. It doesn’t always arrive when you expect it, and it certainly doesn’t care whether you’ve got the time or the energy to deal with it. Sometimes it hits you like a bloody great wave, and other times it’s something small that catches you off guard. A song, an old photograph, a memory that pops into your head while you’re doing something completely ordinary. One minute you’re getting on with your day, and the next you’re reminded of somebody you can’t call, can’t see and can’t tell what’s been happening in your life.

And grief isn’t just about death, either. Of course, losing somebody you love is its own kind of pain, but you can grieve people who are still alive. You can grieve a friendship that ended, a relationship that fell apart, a family member you’ve had to walk away from or the future you genuinely thought you were going to have. Sometimes you’re grieving the person, sometimes you’re grieving what you had together, and sometimes it’s the loss of what you hoped things might become.

There’s no point comparing losses or deciding that one kind of grief is more deserving than another. If something or somebody mattered to you, losing that connection can hurt. And you don’t always get the closure you want, either. Sometimes you’re left with questions, conversations you wish you’d had and things you never got the chance to say.

I know that feeling.

One of my closest friends died before my husband. She was one of those people who just understood me. We thought along similar lines, dealt with things in similar ways and could laugh at the same ridiculous things. You don’t find that kind of connection with everybody, and when you lose it, you don’t simply replace it with somebody else.

There are still days when I reach for my phone because something has happened and my first thought is to tell her about it. The latest drama, something that’s made me laugh, something that’s pissed me off or just one of those days when life feels particularly unfair. Then I remember that I can’t tell her any of it.

She’s not going to answer.

And no matter how many times you know something in your head, it doesn’t mean your heart catches up at the same speed.

One of the things that gives me something positive to hold on to is being part of her children’s lives. Watching them carry on, grow and find their own way through life means a great deal to me. But I never forget that their grief is theirs, and it’s different from mine. I lost my friend. They lost their mum. We can share the same loss without experiencing it in the same way.

That’s one of the hardest things about grief. You’re dealing with your own feelings while knowing that other people are hurting too, and sometimes you don’t have the answers for them because you’re struggling to find your own.

Then there’s the rest of life, which doesn’t stop because somebody has died.

Bills still arrive. The house still needs sorting. Work carries on, people need things from you and everyday responsibilities don’t magically disappear because you’re having a difficult day. You can be grieving somebody you love while still having to get up, get dressed and act reasonably normal around people who haven’t got a clue what’s going on inside your head.

Sometimes you put a face on because you have to get through the day. Sometimes you genuinely have a good laugh and enjoy yourself, then feel the loss all over again later. Sometimes you become the person everybody else turns to, even though you’re wondering how you’re supposed to help anybody when you’re struggling to hold yourself together.

And when there are children involved, there’s another layer to it. You want them to be okay, you want to support them and you don’t want them to feel they have to hide their own feelings to protect yours. But you’re grieving too. You don’t suddenly stop being a person with your own pain just because somebody else needs you.

This week has been particularly hard because it’s the anniversary of my husband’s death. He was the father of my boys, and there are certain dates that bring everything back into focus whether you’re prepared for them or not.

At the same time, I’ve recently been through another painful breakup. I’d let my guard down and allowed somebody into my life, which isn’t always easy when you’ve got your own history and reasons for being cautious. And now I’m dealing with that loss alongside the grief that’s already there.

It’s a lot to carry at once.

I won’t pretend I’m handling it all brilliantly, because I’m not. Some days I’m overwhelmed by it, and other days I manage to get on with things a little better. I can be fine one minute and struggling the next. That’s the reality of where I am, and I’m trying to stop judging myself for not being able to control exactly how I feel.

For a long time, I dealt with pain in ways that weren’t helping me. I’d bury it, get angry, distract myself or drink to numb what I didn’t want to feel. It might have taken the edge off temporarily, but it didn’t make the grief disappear. Eventually, whatever I’d been trying to avoid was still there waiting for me.

I’m trying to do things differently now. I’m trying to let myself feel what I’m feeling rather than immediately reaching for something to shut it down. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it, and it certainly doesn’t mean I always know what to do with it. Sometimes I just have to accept that today is a hard day and stop expecting myself to turn it into something positive.

I’m learning that facing grief doesn’t mean you have to sit in misery every minute of the day. You can remember somebody and laugh about something they did. You can miss them while enjoying time with the people who are still here. You can have a good day without feeling guilty, and you can have a terrible day without deciding that you’ve somehow gone backwards.

There isn’t a correct way to do this, and there isn’t a timetable that tells you when you should be feeling better.

This year, I’m making a conscious effort not to avoid every reminder of my husband. I’m seeing his family, looking through photographs and listening to the songs that bring memories back. Some of those memories make me smile, and others hurt more than I expect. I’m allowing myself to have both reactions rather than pretending I need to be strong enough to get through everything without shedding a tear.

I want my boys to know that they don’t have to hide their grief from me. They don’t have to put on a brave face because they think that’s what I need, and they don’t have to feel embarrassed if something brings their dad to mind years down the line. I want them to know they can talk about him, miss him, laugh about him and be upset about him. None of those things cancels out the others.

I also want them to see that being an adult doesn’t mean you stop hurting. We don’t have to pretend we’re fine just because other people expect us to carry on. There are things in life we learn to live with, but that doesn’t mean they stop mattering.

Three years on, I’m beginning to face my grief differently. Not because the pain has disappeared, and not because I’ve reached some point where I can say I’m over it. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing the people I’ve lost. What I’m trying to change is the way I deal with that loss, rather than spending all my energy trying not to feel it.

I can’t go back and change what happened. I can’t have the conversations I wish I’d had or make another memory with somebody who’s gone. I can remember them, talk about them and allow the people who are still part of my life to know that I miss them. I can also recognise when I’m struggling and ask for help instead of trying to manage everything on my own.

That last bit is important, because grief can be lonely even when you’re surrounded by people. Sometimes people don’t know what to say, so they say nothing. Sometimes they assume you’re doing better because you’ve started smiling again. And sometimes you don’t want to keep talking about it because you’re tired of feeling as though you’re bringing everybody down.

But you shouldn’t have to pretend you’re okay to make other people comfortable.

This is one of the reasons Scars Build Queens means so much to me. I don’t want SBQ to be about women pretending they’ve got their lives together, or turning every painful experience into a neat little story about how much stronger they’ve become. Real life isn’t always that tidy. Sometimes you’re making progress, sometimes you’re struggling, and sometimes you’re simply trying to get through the day without everything feeling too much.

I want SBQ to be a space where women can be honest about that. Where we can talk about grief, trauma, relationships, illness and all the other things that affect us without feeling we have to put a positive spin on everything. We can support each other without pretending we have all the answers, because sometimes what somebody needs most is to know they’re not the only person feeling the way they do.

Even Queens need support. We don’t always have to be the ones holding everybody else together, and there’s no shame in admitting that we’re struggling. Asking for help doesn’t undo the progress you’ve made, and having a difficult day doesn’t mean you’ve failed at healing.

Life has a way of reminding us how quickly things can change. We don’t always get the time we expect with the people we love, and there are things we put off saying because we assume there will be another opportunity.

I can’t change the past, and I’m not going to pretend that understanding grief makes losing people any easier. I can try to be more present with the people I still have, be honest about how I’m feeling and stop wasting so much energy pretending I’m coping when I’m not.

Some days I’ll manage that better than others. I’m still going to miss my friend. I’m still going to miss my husband. I’m also dealing with a more recent loss, and I know that grief doesn’t politely wait its turn before arriving.

I’m not writing this because I’ve found the secret to coping. I’m writing it because this is where I am right now, and I know there are other people trying to get through their own difficult days while the world carries on around them.

So, if you’ve lost somebody, a relationship, a friendship or a future you thought you were going to have, you don’t need to explain why it hurts. You don’t have to be at a particular stage by now, and you don’t need to make your grief look acceptable to anybody else.

Some days you might talk about it. Other days you might not want to. You might laugh, cry, get angry or feel absolutely nothing for a while. None of that tells the whole story of how much somebody meant to you.

And if you’re struggling more than you let on, please don’t assume you have to keep doing it alone.

Scars Build Queens Ltd. is about real women and real lives, including the parts that aren’t pretty or easy to explain. Grief is part of that too. Not something we have to conquer to prove we’re strong, but something we may have to learn to carry while we keep living.

🌹 SCARS BUILD QUEENS.

If you’re struggling with grief

If grief is affecting your day-to-day life and you’re finding it difficult to cope, you deserve support. You could speak to someone you trust, contact your GP or explore the resources below.

• Mind offers information about mental health and finding support.
• Mental Health UK provides mental health information and resources.
• NHS mental health support explains how to access help.
• Samaritans is available free, day or night, on 116 123 if you need someone to talk to.

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