Ugly Grief

I miss my mum. Of course I do. Writing those words feels stupid and wholly inadequate because it’s obvious that I miss her and shouldn’t I have something more profound to say? But here we are. I miss her and it hurts and grief is not pretty.

I just want to be able to call her. I want to ask her how to navigate the hellscape that is living in the UK as a trans person. I want her to be honest and kind, to not know anything about the politics but to reassure me that I am loved and that it is enough, that I am enough.

I want to tell her what I’m reading and for her to ask me to send her a copy of the book. And then to call her a couple of days later and for her to tell me she’s already finished it and for us to talk about our favourite parts and how it made us cry but how we loved it anyway.

I want to go home for Christmas to a familiar house. I want to eat predictable comforting food and spend all day in my pyjamas. I want to watch Love Actually and try not to cry at both the happy and sad parts.

I want my bed that is no longer mine. Cups of coffee in the morning and complaints about the government.

But it’s all gone. It’s gone because she was the thing that made that house home. And I’m 27 and supposed to be a grown-up. I’m supposed to know where I’m going. I’m supposed to write a dissertation that I don’t even care about anymore and then get a PhD and prove that a blind person can do all the things they want to do.

People have been so kind and I truly appreciate it. I have friends who make sure that I’m functioning at a basic level at least. I have a sister. I have an aunt and uncle who would drive to see me if I asked them to. I’m lucky. I know I am. But I still hate this year and everything it has taken from me. And I’m going to write about it. Even if it’s personal. Even if it makes people feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. Because I know that in my grief I have looked for others who feel this way, or felt it at some point. And maybe someone somewhere needs these words. Or maybe I needed to scream them out loud, to pull them out of myself and force them into the world.

Maybe that is the point of this. Letting myself sob as I typed, in a way I haven’t cried since the week after she died. Because she is gone. And grief is awful and ugly and necessary and forgivable.