Compendium of Loss

I still remember how it felt to cry in the space between the hospital wing and the lifts, how dingy the walls were, how it felt when my whole world fell apart because of one piece of bone.

The day that leaving became more than just a word, I wanted to shout- both because I couldn't leave the space, and because I couldn't leave her. She was going to leave more than once, and she never did, then, but now she's gone.

I cut off contact because it was easier than watching my heart break time and time again, with each realisation. I thought that would make it stop. I didn't realise how wrong I was.

I didn't think you'd get on that bus. I thought you loved me. You said you loved me.

Her car drove away, and we've barely heard from her since.

I know you think I owe you an explanation, but I don't. I never did. I was in love with you long before you realised, and you broke my heart a thousand times before that day. Sometimes, enough is enough.

I used to stand in-between my entire world, can you see me, smiling?

My gut impulse will always be to run, and I'm wearing my heavy Docs and trying to keep my feet firmly planted on the floor, but in all honestly, it's only getting harder.

I know we have tangled roots, but that doesn't make it any easier when I haven't seen you in months, and when our only real conversation was almost an argument.

We have history. I wish we had more. I wish we had less. I wish you weren't you and I wish I wasn't me, I wish things had been different.

We were best friends, once.

I still feel so guilty over the way I treated you. I don't regret what happened, because I live a life without regrets, but guilt is a separate entity.

Love leaves fingerprints, and some of yours are fragile, but others are grubby and I can't seem to wipe them away.

Would you be proud of me?

The silhouette in the window was all that I needed to know the truth, that she was gone. We spent the summer clearing her flat.

Missing you is a funny thing, because I still can't say I really like or liked you- and yet, I miss you.

We used to go camping, and I haven't been for years, and I want to, but also I want something that camping itself will never give me.

There is still a pair of wings hung in my room, and I'm not sure what their message is, whether they're reminding me to try to fly, or how it feels to fall.

I like to think you'd recognise me.

They never contacted us, and I don't really care because so much has changed; what I care about is that it changed at all.

I don't play sport, but I have been in so many teams. 'Team' isn't always a noun. Sometimes it's an adjective. Sometimes it's a verb. Sometimes it's a feeling.

You were my first love.

Sometimes I can still catch hold of feelings from years ago; I want to wear them, bask in their familiarity, their bittersweet symphony.

I listened to Kodaline and walked along the beach at dusk; the second time, I walked along in the morning, and the sun was bright. Your absence can't be measured by time or words or miles, but I feel it, I feel it, I feel it.

There are no words for this.

I was a swimmer, once. Have I told you that already?

Please just save me from this darkness.

I am made up of loss, stitched together by memories.

On Turning Nineteen, In a World Scarier Than Two Days Ago

Before I put a content note, I want to preface this, because I have things I want everyone to read. Actually, by everyone, I mostly mean people who don't identify as LGBTQ+. For all who don't identify as LGBTQ+, please know that, whilst your support and allyship is valuable right now, it is also limited. You cannot know what this is like- that's not personal, that's how it is. Please remember that, and respect that. Do not tone police, or claim you have any idea of what this could be like. Be mindful of the LGBTQ+ people around you: unless it feels appropriate otherwise, I would leave them to start the conversations about this. Certainly, do not go to them seeking validation/support. The majority of the community is grieving right now. We need to support ourselves- for the most part, we have little energy to explain things to others, or to try and accommodate those who are not so affected. Every individual is going to feel this a different way, and that's something to bear in mind. For me, personally, I ask that, if you don't identify as LGBTQ+, then you don't try to start direct conversations with me about this. Letting me know you're there and that you're supporting me/us is okay; but please don't try to engage me any further. As this post will convey, I have never been so affected by a hate crime as I have this one.

I also want to acknowledge my own identity. I am a queer, white, politically female person. I am not the best person to be writing about this, and I am aware of that. However, I also felt that I could not write about this. This is a personal blog, and there is nothing more personal than this, at the moment; so I have written about it. However, I have tried to keep in mind- and I want you, especially, to keep in mind- that there are many things going on here that are not mine to have a huge say about. Powered by Girl are currently collating a resource of links to pieces written by Muslim people and queer people (predominantly queer/trans/intersex people of colour)- please go and check all of them out here.

Content note: Orlando shootings; transphobia, biphobia, homophobia, LGBTQ+ discrimination; racism; hate crime; Islamophobia; mistreatment of mental health by the media

Further to the content note- I accept that this is not an easy read, and, if you are struggling at all, I would implore you not to read it. This is how I am dealing with things at the moment, by trying to write out all of the things that are making me feel so sick. It is not a nice read. Please, look after yourself.

Closure in Weird Places

{implied spoilers for last week's Casualty}

Something really important happened on Sunday evening.

I watched Casualty.

I watch Casualty every week. But this week was different.

-You know I have to do this... Let me let you go.

-If this is goodbye... 

-Not if. It hurts me when I hurt you. It hurts way too much. Please understand. 

We used to argue over them. I wanted them to work out. You didn't. Of course you didn't; you didn't see what I saw. You didn't ever see them the way I saw them, as a representation of us. Or maybe you did.

Even after we didn't, I wanted them to work out. I wanted them to work out because I am a closeted hopeless romantic, and because I get way too emotionally invested in fictional characters. I wanted to work them out because I wanted that little bit of hope. That knowledge, that it could work. Not for us. But for them.

Guess what?

I should have guessed, really, shouldn't I. I should have guessed.

I didn't. I kept watching, I kept hoping.

I watched the last episode in her arms, actually. Almost all of the last episode. We didn't have time to watch all of it, but I needed to know, so we skipped to the end. We saw the ending and how it worked out, but we missed the bit that mattered. 

the universe takes care of all its birds // Wonder, R. J. Palacio

I got home, and my mum said that the bit I'd missed had been a good bit. I went upstairs, and I tried to do work, and work didn't happen. So I watched the bit I'd missed, alone in my room, on the laptop, curled up at the desk. And then? And then I cried, a lot.

Somewhere, in those words, beneath what was said, beneath what happened- somewhere, I realised that I was blaming myself for things that had never, could never have been my fault.

Somewhere, in those words, beneath what was said, beneath what happened, beneath everything that someone else- someone, like you- might take from it, I took something very different. I don't know how or why I took that. I just know I did. In a tiny storyline from a BBC drama, I took something incredibly huge.

I took a deep breath. I took the chance to forgive myself, properly, for hating myself for everything that was never my fault. I took everything that happened, and I let it go, in a way I've been trying to do for so long.

The next day, it rained, and town was miserable, but I smiled to myself. I got the word fight tattooed on my wrist, and that was a coincidence, but it couldn't have been a better one. 

I was calm. I can't explain how I felt- how I'm still feeling- in any other words than that. It's not what anyone else would necessarily define as calm, but it's calm to me. It took me over a year and a half to find that calm. But now, I've got it back again. And yes, it's still going to be hard to hold onto sometimes. But at least I have it back again. 

I'm doing okay. I'm doing pretty damn well.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWfKfM10g6g

On Loss: A Collection of Somewhat-Connected Stories

I still have photos of the three of us on my wall. There are three important commonalities in all of them. Firstly, that they have all three of us in them. Secondly, that we are all smiling. Thirdly, maybe most importantly: in almost all- if not all of them- I am in the middle, arms around the two of you. That's how it was. I was in the middle, and the two of you were the world that surrounded me. I did not think, then, how precarious it is, to be in such a place. All I thought of was the moment. I had been hurt before- goodness, when had I not been hurt? But then, it was different. I felt infinite, in the moment, in the middle.

What I ought to have realised is that it's the middle bit that's left behind. Like the way windscreen wipers clean off snow, never quite reaching that small section in the middle: those on the outside are free to move away, and the middle portion is left.

I am the middle portion, and I am still here.

There is an emptiness in me that I am not sure I will ever fill.

*

Today, I got on the bus the wrong way- I was coming home from the other side; not going into town, or coming home from it. Same bus, different place.

Bad move.

Sometimes we do things for a reason that we do not realise until we do it the other way. Call it instinct. A safety mechanism. Ask me why I always get on and off the bus at the same stop, and I will tell you that it is because, logically, it makes more sense. It is quicker, sort of.

Today, I got on the bus the wrong way, and realised why I always get on and off the bus in the same place; because to do anything different would be entirely reminiscent of when things went wrong. I have only had reason to use the other nearby bus stops twice. Neither of those are good memories.

*

Isn't it strange, how someone can tell you they love you, then walk away from you completely? Will I ever get my head around that?

*

I am a writer, a dreamer, a wordsmith, a lover. There are links between all of these things. I have always been a lover of words; I hope I always will be.

When you are a lover of words, you begin to believe that everyone else is, too.

That is not true.

I can make the statement 'I cannot remember the words we parted on', and it can be true. Not just for one person. But for many. Too many.

I still believe that endings should be finished. I still hate reading books that leave me with questions. I am not trying to be philosophical, merely truthful, when I say: life is an unfinished sentence; I am still bitter over this.

*

I did not think cocktails were a significant thing, until I found myself crying over them during a long dog walk. Apparently, you made good cocktails; whether this is true or not, I will never know. It's not that I regret never having been able to find this out. It's something else. It's just that, that I will never know. I cannot reconcile myself with that.

*

I think missing you was hardest when I was surrounded by new beginnings. Once upon a time, you would have been the first person to know about those. In my head, I am walking in the dark, between my worlds; an odorous, cramped swimming pool is ahead of me, and she is behind me; you, the bridge between the two, are being updated on what may well be the biggest news I have ever to tell you. The only bigger news is when I finally tell you that I have finally done it: I have finally seized the day. I agonise for a long time over how to tell you that. Your reaction is everything I had hoped for.

This time, I cannot tell you; but I'll still listen to that song, still take on board the indirect advice you gave me.

If I could tell you anything, I would tell you this: that she is colourful, reliable; that she has cracked a window bringing light into my day. I hope that you would understand the significance of all of this.

*

I am beginning to wonder whether that song- or, to be more precise, that song in relation to my iPhone, is a sign. It wouldn't download, and not for lack of trying. Maybe that is a sign.

I listened to it on Youtube, and found solace in the lyrics. The beginning reminds me of the sea, and driving up to the hills, even though we turned it off straight away. I find myself missing that awful time. There is a comfort, in acknowledging how awful something is. There is alienation when you realise that, to everyone else, the world has kept on turning.

*

Maybe I am over-sensitive to loss? Maybe I am taking this too much to heart.

The world keeps on turning.

Ghost

{content warnings for self-harm/destruction, anxiety, grief, low mood, general poor mental health}

Maybe if I get more sleep.

Maybe if I have a shower.

I have been a ghost all week. I don't feel tangible. I don't feel like it has been a week. I feel more emptiness than anything else; I keep trying to piece myself together. I keep failing.

I can't describe how it feels to be a ghost, but it is terrifying and I can't hold onto anything.

God, I want to feel again.

I need to make a to do list. Except, I have tried that. I feel aimless.

I need more sleep. I know I need more sleep. But I can't hurt myself. I'm not allowed to hurt myself anymore. So I'll stay awake, instead.

Each time this comes back it's in a different form, the monster that grows two more heads. This is how it is this time. I should just fight it. I should try not to think, and just try to sleep. But this is exactly what it has always been, and yet is entirely different.

I am so tired. But I need to hurt.

I feel like I'm gliding through life. I feel distant, separated from it all, and I don't know how to break through. I feel so far away from everything, from everyone.

Nothing I do is good enough. Nothing I am is enough. No matter what I'm doing, I am wrong. I am letting them down, all of them.

Who will remember me? How much longer do we have?

It seemed like everything was okay.

If there is something I have learnt about grief recently, it is that it follows no rules. I cry suddenly, without explanation, and it isn't until my head begins to slow down that I realise that I am crying over things I didn't think would upset me.

She told me to let her know if I started to get anxious about exams. I cannot explain what it is like to be in my head at the moment. I am anxious about exams. I am anxious about the state of the world. I want to get everyone I love and place them in bubble wrap- but then they'd suffocate. That is a little of what it's like; that there is no safety left, not now.

How can I be happy? For all I know, disaster is just around the corner, and I cannot lose everything.

There is no safety. There is nowhere I am safe. Anything could happen, and I live my life on a tightrope. I want to be excited. I want to be happy.

I am terrified.

Be terrified.

I might well be anxious about exams. I can't hear anything, above the sound of my mind screaming, all the time, all the time.

When I was younger I asked whether she'd remember me, and we agreed that she was too young. She's older now, and she would remember me. But how? I am always upstairs. Always on my phone. And I try. I try so hard.

I spend a lot of time doing nothing, and it takes an extreme amount of effort.

I am trying to keep the wolves from their doors. I am trying to be okay. I am trying to juggle everything.

I am trying. I am trying. I am trying.

Maybe if I eat healthier.

Maybe if I take my tablets.

Maybe, this time, it will be different.

Forgive me for I am not acting myself, but the bees in my breath have to come out; well you give me no reason to doubt your word, but I still somehow have my reasons. And I'm sorry I don't mean to scare you at all, I'm just trying to drain all this bad blood; all this bad blood; all this bad blood.

- Bad Blood // Bear's Den

Firsts

~content warning for death & grief~

The best advice about grief I have ever been given is

There will be a lot of firsts. And they will hurt. But you only have to do each first once, and the second time it isn't okay, it still hurts, but it isn't a first.

There is the first night, when you can't sleep, because your tummy's all tangled up and your head aches and this world isn't fair, isn't fair, isn't fair.

There is the first morning, when you wake up, and you have to remember. You have to lie there, and realise, and it hurts all over again.

There is the first day, the first whole day of loss, the first whole day that is entirely different to anything that has ever been, because anything that has ever been was either before, or during. This is after.

The first week, when you get back to the day, and you stand and look into the past, like a runner looking back at the course you have just run, breathless and unsure of how they got there. It's hard to remember your legs, when you're still a tangled up ball of jelly, and you can't feel your limbs- but it was your legs, they carried you.

The first month. The first day you wake up, and look at the date, and realise. It has been a month. We measure time, and a whole, significant measurement has gone by. It has been that long.

It is not all about the passing of time.

There is the first time you are all together, but you are not, because you can never be all together again, and even when you laugh you feel wrong, even when you're trying to do the best you can, you feel wrong, because you are all together but you can never be all together again.

There is the first celebration, when you know everyone else is laughing and singing, and you have to lay the table, and you suddenly realise that you have never been luckier that this day has been transient, because it makes the absence slightly less noticeable. You could not have set that table if it had been the same number every year, suddenly minus one.

There is the first time you have to tell someone, after the phone call, when you have to go back in and talk about what you've just been told, in a voice you will never recognise; the first time that someone who did not know what was happening must find some way to help you, when you both know there's nothing that can be done now but to hold your breath as the tide comes in.

There is the first time you tell someone the same thing you have always said, the lines you have written since childhood, for as long as you can remember; and realise, after you said it, that whilst it may be true, it is not the same in this linear world. Otherwise, the first time you adjust what you say, and that hurts, maybe even more; you wonder why there is a script to all of this, why you hae to lie to save the feelings of others- but you go along with it anyway, because the questions that come from breaking the script will maybe be worse.

Some of them, you do not even think about, until they happen.

The first time you break down, and you can't stop crying, and all you can do is talk and talk about all the things you've never spoken about before, all the things that you didn't realise were important until, suddenly, they're all you can think about.

The first time you see someone who reminds you of them, and you have a split-second where that's okay, it's almost funny- and then you realise, you remember, and you get so angry, because that was his smile, it's not theirs, but other people still get that, still get to see this man walk through the front door with a smile a little like his.

The first time something unique about them comes up in conversation, and you briefly think that you're looking forwards to quizzing them more on that sometime- and it hits you, again, that you can't. That you will never discuss philosophy with him. That you will never experience his homemade cocktails. That you always assumed he'd be there, and so you never needed him; you assumed there'd be a lifetime for growing up and learning- and there was, but it wasn't yours.

There are firsts yet to come.

The first birthday, the anniversary of the day they were born- figuring out how to celebrate it now they're not here, wanting to mark even more their birth, because you need to emphasise that they were here. That he was born, that he walked upon this earth.

The first anniversary since the day the world came crashing down. The day you are constantly reminded of everything that happened the year before- clock-watching, following the movements of a ghost; holding your breath, at the very moment 'you were here a year ago' ceases to be true. Remembering that, for everyone else, this is just another day. Just another day.

There is a first for everything.

The first time you realise that there are many firsts, more than you can count. That they will all hurt, a lot. But, that you only have to do each first once. The second time it isn't okay, it still hurts: but it's not a first.

Panic Attack

I don't have panic attacks- not like the ones you think of when you think of panic attacks, the whole not being able to breathe, blowing into a paper bag, tears streaming thing. I don't have panic attacks like that. So, I said, I don't have panic attacks.

It's taken me years to realise and understand that that is not the only form of panic attack.

According to Google, a panic attack is 'a sudden and overwhelming feeling of acute and disabling anxiety'.

I have lots of sudden and overwhelming feelings of acute and disabling anxiety. Maybe I do have panic attacks.

Sometimes, it is feeling like I am going to die. Sometimes, it is getting fixated on one 'worry'. Sometimes, it feels like I'm being sucked into a black hole, all darkness. Sometimes, I just want to run away. Sometimes, I have to grab onto something, or dig my hands into my palms, to remind myself that I am real and not slipping away. Sometimes, it is feeling like I can't breathe, even though I can. Sometimes, it is just feeling sudden and overwhelming feelings of acute and disabling anxiety, in a way I can't describe.

Sometimes, it is all of the above, and sometimes, it is completely different.

Sometimes, other people can tell I'm having a panic attack; sometimes, it's obvious that something is not okay. Often, it's impossible to tell. I have sat in lessons and had panic attacks, completely unnoticed. That's no one's fault. It's just a point to demonstrate, that panic attacks are not always what you think because of the way they're portrayed.

A panic attack is a sudden and overwhelming feeling of acute and disabling anxiety.