The second year (so far)...

I recently read an article entitled ‘Is the Second Year of Grief Harder?’ (https://whatsyourgrief.com/is-the-second-year-of-grief-harder/). I remember wondering about this around the time of the anniversary of B’s death, as I entered my second year without him. My response, so far, is that it’s just different; sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s just as hard, sometimes it’s harder. The raw emotion is definitely less, although it hasn’t disappeared completely, and yes, overall, I feel happier, but there are some things that are more difficult. As I read the article, I just kept thinking, ‘yes, yes, that’s exactly it’. It’s true that I am much more critical of myself (and probably others) now: ‘Oh, don’t start crying again’, ‘They’ll get fed up with you bringing B into the conversation – but if they don’t, I’m going to’, ‘You should be able to deal better with it by now’, ‘What will people think?’, ‘Do they expect me to be over it by now – if only they knew what it’s like, then they wouldn’t think that’, ‘Oh for goodness sake, snap out of it’, etc, etc. Oh dear!

I am realising that, at the moment, I often find it easier to be on my own. It feels less of a strain to just be, to cope with my grief on my own terms, and to ‘be with B’. I’m aware that might seem a (very?) strange turn of phrase but it’s about being free to think about all we shared and not worry about how it makes me feel, about continuing to adjust to my life without him and developing those continuing bonds. Sometimes, when I’m with other people it feels as though B has been wiped off the face of the earth, which, of course, in some respects he has, but he was here and he affected people’s lives. It is hard when I’m with people and it’s as though he hadn’t existed; when his name isn’t mentioned and he’s not talked about. It’s as though he never was, and that I find really difficult. I enjoy talking about him and it makes it all seem real, his life and his death, and that has to be good. I know that being on my own for much of the time isn’t good for me (although I always need space to re-charge), but sometimes it takes a lot of emotional energy to be with other people. I try to ‘do it anyway’, but actually this is one thing that actually does, at least sometimes, feel harder now. I feel myself getting impatient or irritated, or upset but less able to show it. So, I’m very grateful to those who stick with me, and do things with me regardless. 

Then there’s this thing called positivity! I think it’s fair to say, that I have been feeling more positive, despite the sadness tucked away inside. What I have started noticing, though, is people’s reactions to me or how they behave around me. The most helpful people are those that still ask me how I’m doing, who continue to recognise that I am still grieving, accept it, and are happy to talk with me about it or just ‘be there’. On other occasions (often?), I still find myself thinking ‘You just don’t understand what it’s like’, but believe me when I say ‘I get-it’, I do! I understand that people genuinely don’t know what it is like and, if they don’t, I definitely don’t want them to. I didn’t understand what it was like before B died. This is easier to cope with, though, than those other times when what I seem to be presented with is a (false? / imposed?) sense of cheerfulness, someone trying to bolster me up. This I find really difficult as it just feels like a denial of my pain, as well as a denial of B and of our time together. I can’t just snap my fingers and make my grief go away. I wish! There are then others who, perhaps not knowing how to be with me, seem to bounce up to me in an overly cheerful manner, a bit like Tigger. Generally, I have to admit that, when confronted with these latter responses I can feel my hackles rising and I usually want to run away and hide. It takes much more effort to put on an air of false positivity and, when I do, I usually end up feeling worse rather than better. Then I feel bad as I feel so selfish, and the self-critic sets in. I start to wonder, ‘Are they right?’ ‘Perhaps I should be more positive, and try not to be sad’, ‘Perhaps I should be over it by now’. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want people to be cheerful, it is good to have some fun and to feel happy (and I can do that now!), and I certainly don’t want to talk about my grief all the time, it’s just that it is so helpful when someone is receptive and understanding. Perhaps, I’m just turning into a grumpy, old woman… I hope not!

Saying all this, there is no denying that positivity can be good, and I do my best to be positive. I try to employ breathing exercises and positive phrases when I feel myself sinking and these do help, at least some of the time. I still write my journal most days, and I continue to list the things that I am grateful for, or that have gone well on that particular day, but I also try not to ignore my pain, the (less frequent) moments when I miss B so much that everything still feels dark and hopeless. Hard as it is, I know that it is not helpful to push these feelings aside, they have to be acknowledged and faced head-on. Although on some days I seem to know almost before I’ve woken up that it’s going to be a ‘down’ day, not infrequently, now, I also have days (usually when the sun is out!) when life actually feels easier. It feels like a switch has been flipped and I feel genuinely happy. The problem is that the switch often seems to flick back before the day is out. The happiness just emphasises the loneliness caused by B’s absence (and, thinking about it, that’s probably the simple answer to those situations in my last two posts, duh!). Sometimes, I feel guilty as well – ‘how can I have felt happy when B isn’t here?’. 

Although I sleep much better now, if I wake up in the early morning the thoughts still sometimes start to whirl around in my head and prevent me going back to sleep. Then those old questions reappear, ‘Should I have done this?’ ‘Why didn’t I do that?’ ‘Could I have done that differently, or better?’ ‘Why didn’t we do that?’. On the whole, I’m getting much better at dealing with these, though it’s harder at night, and I know that they are just a symptom of my grief and mostly groundless. ‘Why do I think all this stuff?’, my head asks? I guess my heart still wants to be reassured that, despite everything, I did my best. Sometimes, I still find myself asking friends who knew B similar questions. Mostly, I already know the answer, but it serves to validate my sensible thoughts rather than my doubts, and provides reassurance. I’ve always tried to avoid rumination, it’s not healthy, but sometimes it still seems unavoidable!

As the article suggests, I am thinking about my future much more now, but I don’t know what I want or where I want to be. It still has a tendency to look like an empty void. I have hope that it won’t remain like this, but it is more of a flicker than a flame. Whilst away, I went to church with my friend and the last hymn was ‘Great is Thy faithfulness’. I am now in the habit of checking what hymns are due to be sung, so I can avoid any obvious triggers. No problem with this one, I thought. How wrong could I be?! There’s a line in it about God providing ‘strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow’ and, while I believe that, I just couldn’t sing ‘bright hope for tomorrow’, it was just too hard. I had to remove myself. I still find it amazing, frustrating and annoying that such a little thing can provoke such an overwhelming emotional response in me. Church is still the place I find it hardest to be, and where I feel most vulnerable.

The other thing about the second year is that anniversaries and other special days reappear. They are no longer ‘firsts’ but it’s not possible to ignore them. A couple of weeks ago it was B’s birthday. Many months ago, I decided that this would be the day that I would use each year to mark B’s life. (At the moment I don’t need one single day to do this, I do it all the time, but presumably, hopefully – though writing this provokes feelings of sadness – I will at some point in the future.) He did the same by remembering his first wife on the date of their wedding anniversary each year, which I always thought was lovely. So, I went to the crematorium and looked at the Book of Remembrance - this was the first year the inscription for B was on display. I wandered around the beautiful gardens, and then sat for a while, remembering. It is such a beautiful and peaceful place. I then went for a little walk followed by a pub lunch and, actually, it all felt okay. I marked the day and I remembered, and for most of the time I was able to smile rather than cry. 

The thought that in the not too distant future it will actually be two years since B died, two years that I have lived without him, currently makes me feel physically sick, literally. I know it’s a way off yet, but time seems to be speeding by. His death no longer feels like yesterday. It feels like forever since we were together and this makes me want to cry, though living without him is getting easier. Logic tells me that, if nothing else, habituation - the process of getting used to something so that it no longer feels unpleasant - has to play its part in grief, but my grief is still there, perhaps just buried a bit deeper within me. As I write this, I wonder how healthy that is. I know I shouldn’t be burying it, and actually I don’t think I am, but it feels as though I am more on my own with it now. 

And, just to say, I’m aware of the weird juxtapositions contained in what I write: finding it easier being on my own, and yet feeling more alone; wanting people to understand, but really hoping they never find out what this grief is like; wanting people to know how I’m feeling, and yet hiding my feelings; wanting a bright future, whilst thinking about it without B makes it the opposite. Well, all I can say is that’s the nature of grief…