Not the first, or the last

I’m not the first person to suffer a loss. I’m not even the first person in my family to experience it. And so this feeling of self-indulgence recurs; there’s a sense that I’m somehow milking it. That by now I ought to have, in some way, gotten over it. And that’s me, telling myself these things.

That every time I write something new it seems to be the same introspective guff with themes of being de-anchored, of not knowing where things fit anymore, or saying how very changed I am. Well, there’s another feeling and another thought that’s starting to counter that, too.

That is: so what?

And, yes, even that very un-useful internal dialogue, expressed outward, seems to be a call for sympathy, for head pats and for soothing noises. Like a stricken animal. These are my puppydog eyes, literally writ.

There’s a third feeling, thought, notion: it is somehow important to me, for me, to look at me. To write these things down. Typing out some form of – what? Therapy? Self-care? I suppose all these words are jigsaw pieces to a puzzle of which I don’t yet know the picture. Perhaps, also, I never will.

So it is, in many ways, a fool’s errand to obsess about trying to capture the moments in which I feel I can at a distance sketch out something of those parts of myself which need attention. Mostly they need me to cuddle or coddle or curdle them; the output is nearly always something that I share. I don’t know why that urge exists, but I know that it is a demanding one that won’t leave me alone unless I capitulate.

As objective as I can be about it, I am beginning to believe that these pieces are the ripples, the aftershocks from a sudden bereavement. But it is also true, I think, to say that these emotions and shards of language were also always possible. Their own form wasn’t yet made. They were, too, pieces seeking a puzzle’s picture. And to stretch that metaphor: there is no neat box to put them in and to shut the lid. If there ever was, it was only a matter of time before something came along to rip that packaging apart. Torn, unrecognisable forever.

I’m not the first person or the last to be living with death; it is a feature, or a bug, of being born in the first place. What I do know, and I know it with more certainty than probably anything else I’ve ever been sure of, is that each individual – scared, confused, lonely, angry, bereft – is the first person to experience death in their own self. Very different.

So what?

So that.

And so this:

be kind.

Be kind to yourself. I will try and be kind to myself, even if it seems like I’m wallowing awhile, and even at those times when what comes out is a desperate blubbering blast of helplessness. I don’t think it’s self-indulgence, as such. On the contrary, it’s impossible to even think about trudging forward without self-acknowledgement; self-care requires complete self-honesty. I am sorry for myself sometimes. And seeing that I am is very important indeed. Couching it in language shows me parts of myself that would otherwise remain tangled up. Things that would trip me up. That. I don’t need. And on we go.