Minefields of emotion

Ghosts at midnight

We go to bed. I lie there. I lie on my back and put my husband’s hand on my chest. I quietly and gently do the exercises to prevent Erectile Dysfunction. I can hear my husband’s gentle breathing as he sleeps. I think of the poem in its silver frame in the box in the bottom of my bedside cabinet – given to me the years ago. Unfortunately, it was given to me right in front of my husband, which wouldn’t have been a problem except that it is a beautiful poem about a mother’s love for her son – his mother betrayed him. He was angry with my mum for being so insensitive and they fell out for a year or two. I have kept the poem in it’s box in the bottom of my drawer. I cannot remember the poem, but I know it’s there and the gasping tears of grief come at me crashing waves as I remember that almost exactly the midtime between that fortieth birthday and this fiftieth year, she died. I miss her every day. Tonight the pain is unbearable. I come downstairs and sit on the sofa to let the tears come and indulge in them – to enjoy the pain because it reminds me that I had a mother prefect and imperfect. Flawed, human, and loving.

At least I don’t have to be up in the morning.

Grief is the price to be paid for love.

An hour later I give up. I can’t breathe because my nose is congested from crying and I cannot shut my head down. It’s not saying anything much more, just noise. And wanting to read that poem that is speaking so loudly to me tonight. I won’t get it out of the drawer though because to do so would make too much noise. Instead, I come downstairs, pop one sleep aid and heat up some milk with nutmeg. Then I sit in the garden and listen to the rain on the leaves and breathe in the clean air.

Sitting here peaceful, a friend on Discord noticed I was awake. She is having a very difficult time at the moment and I feel deeply for her plight.

I focus on the sound of the rain, the gentle clunking and tinkling of the wind chimes, and in the distance I can here the seemingly eternal workings of the port as they load and unload containers, occasionally they crash a container and it sounds like far off thunder.

The trick with grief is to substitute it with gratitude, if you can. I am very grateful for my mum, for my husband, even for my forgetful and self-obsessed dad (pot – kettle!).

In a moment, I’m going to go in and put on an episode of “Absolutely Fabulous”. Laughing will relax me further. Then I shall sleep until morning.

2am

The morning after

I finally woke up about 9am. I’m not helping so raw now. My husband was on the kitchen shaving his head.

I talked a bit about last night. Whilst I’m not as raw, I still feel emotional.

There are significant dates, trigger points for grief, which are like minefields of emotion throughout the year

I write the above and think of my husband’s many griefs; not deaths, but losses and betrayals.

Yesterday, when I was talking to my husband about how I was feeling, I said this:

Just when I find myself, I lose you

I thought it was lost amongst everything that I said about dad. My husband has a wonderful recall though, and brought it up this morning.

He said that he is much more guarded than previously, but that he did share. He is more self-reliant, insular. I wonder whether I miss his reliance on me. It was a familiar weight, a burden I carried, and I am sensitive to its loss. It is good that he is happy in his own company now, no longer trying to please me. I enjoy watching him start to grow again. I always did – I took great pleasure in his growth when we first met, as he built confidence to go to college and gain his counselling qualifications.

However, there is a distance between us now. Maybe there always was, and he tried so hard to bridge it, but I wasn’t ready: I didn’t have the emotional skills to cross it. Now I am awake to myself for the first time in my life, and I can sense the distance for myself. I miss him trying to cross it – the pursuit.

It is my turn to put the effort into our relationship.