Get over it, such simple words

Earlier versions of this post were berating in nature — not just towards me but also towards circumstance and things done. They were riled and impassioned, they were wry and disgusted, they were a lot of things that were not productive. I’m not even confident that this version here won’t berate in some way, but hopefully it won’t so much, we’ll just have to find out.

Recently things got difficult — stress, apparently, but not the same stress of yore — and I feel *shrug, I don’t know, and that’s the problem. I feel underwhelmed and overwhelmed, I feel full of beans but most of them are rotten, and I’m ravenous and sated, thirsty and quenched, and impossibly flatulent.

I’m sleepy tired, mostly. I just want to sleep and I sleep, sleep, sleep…

I don’t think it’s my grief — my grief has its voice, which was the bonus gift of having to defend it against callous people — at least not entirely. I know what’s happened and I know where they are, and although I’m not happy about it there’s not much that I can do.

I think it’s ultimately change and choice, and such things related. I think so much has happened so quickly that I can’t quite catch up with it all, needing things to slow down just a little bit because I am injured.

I’m not to blame for everything

The last year and a half has been tough — there’s been a lot happening, a lot of change, of adjusting and trying to catch up — and although I shrug it off by day and uphold my outlook rule on positive communication, what went down was big in my little life and I’ve not emerged the other side unscathed.

My gran and then my cousin died and this is what I was given. My grief I then placed aside to help others only to find my grief being back-stabbed and degraded, and humiliated by people who either feared facing the pain I faced or who were flyblown skin-sacks of stone; either way, the damage they caused still lingers.

‘Inconvenience’ and boredom, she yawned — ‘gunning for you’ — no support, no time, no care in a funeral home…

Yes, I still hold that funeral home responsible for the severity and persistence of my grief — what they did stinks when they say they ‘support, care and reassure when it matters most’ and they didn’t — and yes, I’m still over the moon that I’m free. But however distant seem those months spent in lieu of care, and however much I would love to pretend that none of it ever happened, it’s only been 8 weeks since it all finished and I’ve still got the memories.

They appear in my anger and my uncertainty — my confidence they’ve set in flux, from one minute brimming to the next barren — and right now I’m stopping myself from berating myself for being unable to cope.

I keep returning to choice.

There was no choice in any of it.

I may have made the decision to leave but the choice was between the status quo and freedom.

I miss what I used to do.

But I am to blame for some things

I’ve got into this habit of skipping the gritty bits of the circumstances, basically everything after my cousin’s death — in part to forget how I was treated and in part to save face, it’s embarrassing to admit too often exactly what has happened — and I’ve got into this habit of expecting me better able to cope.

I know writing The Truth About Death and this funeral guide aren’t exactly taking mind off the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, but my Mr Grim Reaper took care of my loved ones and death never really hurt me, people did.

A few weeks ago I wondered if I was returning to work too soon and maybe so, but then when is too soon and when is too long? I had to get back on the wagon some day.

And so I sit here and berate myself for being weak but not weak, for coping but not coping, for feeling so terribly pathetic in the face of change.

And so I sit here trying to reason with myself that it’s alright feeling how I feel because everything that happened was big and a lot, and it only ended near the beginning of May.

I sit here wishing I’d just pull myself together.

Tomos James