I had a comment on my last post saying that they didn’t really understand my blog and why I wrote it. It has made me think. I started this blog for a reason. It was and continues to be my therapy. If it could help people close to me understand me then good. If it reached out to others suffering similar. Great.
In the early weeks after Colin died I was looking for any fix possible to make life more livable again. My grief and pain were so sore I could barely breathe for that awful black knot in my chest. I was breastfeeding Isla so the GP couldn’t numb me with drugs. I was given mild sleeping pills so I could find a few hours respite in every 24 hours just to keep me going until the next living nightmare of a day. I asked for a referral to a grief councillor. Anything, anything, anything that might help me. I got one. I did the therapy. I think went about six or seven times. I sat talking to a lovely woman at the aptly named Recovery Centre in London about why I missed Col and I wept and wept and wept. I am not sure if it was the normal course of grief counselling but it was good to step out of my world for an hour every week to cry with a stranger. At the time I felt I couldn’t completely let go with people I was close to and talking to someone who didn’t know me before Col died really helped me open up the wound and gouge it around, which strangely was what I wanted to do at the time. It was hard, painful, cathartic and probably quite healing, although it didn’t feel so much so at the time. My therapist was supportive and very understanding but I began to mistrust her if I am honest. I didn’t know if she had the right credentials to make me better. Had she been altered by death too? I gathered the courage up to ask had she been bereaved. When she said she had lost a close friend I felt let down. In my head her pain could in no way measure to mine. I had lost my everything.
It so happened that my big move away from London and my whole life as it had been with Colin coincided with the end of my therapy sessions. I thought I would seek more help when I got to Edinburgh but I never did. I wrote this blog instead.
Initially, therapist-less I would sit sleepless at night googling all sorts of ridiculous subjects, but the internet, in all its wisdom, had no answers on, “how to heal the big hole that happens when you lose the love of your life”. I did find other blogs and I read them greedily thinking thank God I am not the only lost soul feeling feebly around the web for a way forward. This is where I started to think about writing out my own grief. When I started WDWB I never thought it all through. I never thought I would have to justify it to anyone. Objectives there were not. I just wanted to write away my pain or just get it out of me so I could carry on for a little while without it, if that was possible. It has helped so much. Three years down the line I get so many lovely messages from people who say it has helped them and continues to do so.
I write less as the pain has lessened. That doesn’t mean I don’t wake up crying for what me and the girls have lost. I still do. Colin was in my dream two nights ago but he suddenly disappeared in that subconscious world just like he has in reality. I knew he had died, again, and I woke with that old familiar black hole in my chest and I cried. I knew writing it out would make me feel better. It has. Thank you all.