Something about Grief

It’s been six weeks. I’m counting. Of course I’m counting. When will I stop counting? Will it turn to months, and then years? Will I eventually move through another week without realising it’s gone?

It’s like I’m supposed to have recovered by now. People want me to go out and be normal. And I am. I went to London. I sat on the floor at the climbing centre and cried not because I’d dropped out of the competition, but because I wanted to go home or tell my mum and I couldn’t do either of those things.

So yes I go out. But I’m not normal. Nothing is anymore.

The world is still moving, untouched by a loss that seems impossible for me to comprehend. But of course they are. Because they didn’t know or love her. Because their lives haven’t been shattered. I think that’s the strangest, the hardest part about grieving someone. You do most of it alone. Maybe you have a family member or friend who feels that loss. But most people don’t. Their lives haven’t changed at all. The world insists on moving, insists that you get yourself together and keep working and functioning. The world only allows you a few days of all-consuming, terrible grief before it expects you to get back to normal.

The world doesn’t want to hear you talk about the person who has gone. It wants to forget that death is coming, that we all lose people we love. Other people want you to care about Christmas and festive drinks, to tell them about what you’re writing, to laugh and joke around and be a person again. And I want that too. Of course I do. I don’t want to drown in my grief for eternity. But it’s also been six weeks. Only six. And that is far too long and not long enough all at once.