Thursday, 22 October 2009
Normal Life
A friend said to me recently that the key to dealing with grief is not to let it stop your life but to get back on with your normal life. The hardest part about the person who died being someone you cared for is that "caring" for them IS your normal life, so you find yourself bereved and redundant all in one fail swoop. I think this is what made the first few weeks of grief so devastating for me, I grieved for mum and the life I knew. I felt stranded, as if I had missed the last train home and didn't know what I was going to do.Despite my doctors attempts to prescribe a 4th type of anti depressant to jolly me up I firmly decided that my initial diagnosis was correct, I am not clinically depressed - I am stressed out of my fucking gord for very good reasons. To that end and with the support of a rather fab counsellor at the university I have turned my efforts over the last couple of weeks to building a normal life for myself.I have managed to stop taking tablets to make me sleep at night, started taking lots of suppliments to increase my energy, alleviate stress and promote healthy brain function. I am slowly turning my attention towards the direction of what I eat, but readily diverting attention elsewhere since my eating issues and I have been such firm friends for so many years would be a shame to dich mistress junk and mr binge after so long. I have started simply walking more (and realising how incredibly unfit I am that simply walking is causing so much muscle pain) and as soon as my funding arrives going to join the gym at Uni. I have an appointment to speak to the accupuncturist there and will be taking two yoga classes, one tai chi and then normal work out stuff thereafter.So does this turning my energies inwards onto myself with the idea that disease is dis-ease and that I need to bring my mind and body back into balance mean I feel suddenly like a whole new healed healthy woman...? No, but I can honestly say that after the last couple of weeks I feel that I have at least turned one corner and no longer feel like a wounded animal, crowing for it's life and simply wanting to just lay down and be left alone. I at least now feel as well as know that there is a life for me after my mothers death. I also know that although I realise she has gone, I have not let her go. The emotional part of me that cannot or will not listen to reason is still holding onto her and when I can figure out how to deal with that little issue, I will let you know.I guess what I am really saying is that I am feeling more stable, I am feeling hope, love and happiness again and thank to you all of those who held me or listened to my pain, who didn't walk away or tell me to just move on with my life because that just what we do in these situations.Right now I just want peace, it seems that I am one of the few amongst my friends who honestly doesn't know what I believe in, what are the truths I hold to stear me through life and I am exploring that side of life. Not god or religion, more internal philosphy and self truths; and I am trying to figure these things out because I feel so out of sync with my own life and my body, that I want to feel whole again, and feel some kind of inner calm/peace that I can return to in times of strife - rather than breaking down hysterically and feeling so overwhelmed by all that life throws at me.N.B. But if life would like to take a break from hurling shit in my direction that would be cool by me too. ;-P
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Time
Despite logically understanding that will eventually ease the pain of losing, that it will provide a buffer so that I will be able to think of her not hurt so bad, right now that doesn't help.Time just seems to make things worse. The harder it is to accept that it has been three weeks since I last spoke to her, saw her, knew she was a living part of my world. The shock has worn of the gnawing reality that I will never see or speak to her again is tangible and solid. The ache it leaves me, the desperation I feel at knowing that for the rest of my life she will no longer be around to call or spend time with leaves me feeling so desperate and alone, I miss her so much that I just want to be with her. Tomorrow is the final exam for year 1 and I try so hard to study but I feel like I am living in fog and no matter how much I read none of it seems to sink in.
(From facebook 1st September 2009)
(From facebook 1st September 2009)
Grief is just too small of a word
Initially written on my facebook on Monday August 24th
My mother died at 8:55 am on Wednesday 12th August 2009. We knew it was nearing the end but all believed she had a couple of weeks left. I had altered the house and was hoping to take her home to spend the last days of her life with her family on the that morning she died. I cared for my mother throughout her two year battle with ovarian cancer, I saw her pain & fear and yet even I didn't realise quite how bad it was at the end. Just how weak and sick she felt, how extreme the pain had become. So the part of me that loved my mother above all things is glad that is no longer in pain.Grief is perhaps one of the most selfish of all emotions, we do not grieve because the person we loved is no longer in pain, we grieve because we need them so much and want them back. The loss that I feel is so immense that no words of wisdom could possibly have prepared me for the pain and deep emptiness that eats away inside of me. The word "grief" is simply too small and inadequate to convey the depth and breadth of emotions it encompasses, much perhaps in the same way that love cannot even begin to express what we feel for our children, lovers and parents.She died so quickly that there was literally only two minutes between the calls saying she had gone downhill and I needed to come in and the call telling us she had died. I had been taking her dog to the vets for his shots so the calls were taken by Thad who had to break the news to me upon my return, merely the look of pain and love on his face told me worst news I hope to ever receive in my life in the most gentlest of ways. The shock was so powerful all I could was stand in the street and scream, then the pain and guilt that I hadn't been with her at the very end as we had both planned engulfed me. More than anything I wanted my mother to die with me by her side so that her last conscious thought was that little girl was there and she was loved. Even I was not able to have her home with me at the end, the plan with the hospice was that I would move into a room with her when they felt she had reached her last few days. Her sudden death felt as tho someone had stolen from me a precious moment in time, and gift that I longed and needed to be with her, to know for sure that she died with my love flowing into her.My mothers life story was such a sad one, starting out as an illegitmate orphan war baby in the far north of England, marrying at only 18 to a man who soon became an alcoholic abandoning her to raise her four children entirely on her own with no money, no family and no support. Yet she was the most loving woman you could ever meet, she spent her life helping anyone in need - whether they were friend, stranger and in some cases even foe. She ecnompassed all the qualities a mother should possiess and even motherer all she met whether they wanted her to or not.Most of all tho she was my best friend and my rock. So many people have told me how strong I have been with Emily's illness, my cancer surgery and my mothers illness and that I still somehow managed to study for my degree full time and care for all of my five children - yet it was borrowed strength. It is so easy to keep going when you have someone standing behind you loves you without condition nor expectation, who never asked anything of you and yet always helped pick up the pieces without ever saying "I told you so". The last words I said to my mother whilst she was alive was that she was my best friend, that I loved her more than inadequacy of language could ever allow me to convey and that she had been the best of mothers, but now I wanted her to be selfish and do what was best for her. I promised her I would be ok and that as it turns out was the hardest promise I have ever made.I am sick of platitudes and being told her spirit is with me, she isn't really gone etc because even tho I know my friends speak from the heart and wish to ease my pain - I want the whole fucking package. I don't want her loving spirit reaching out through the universe to me, I WANT HER. I want to be annoyed at being woken at 8am by her phone call, I want to be reminded that her tablets need putting up or she has a doctors appointment. I want to take her shopping and lose her in the store as she disappears off down some random isle to find another bargin she doesn't need. Most of all tho I want to hold her, to feel her arms around me and inhale her scent. To know that all will be welll with the world because mommy's there and she can make it all alright. I miss her so fucking much that at points I feel as tho I cannot even breathe and even the next five minutes ahead of me seem too long a time to possibly endure the pain. I crave the times when my mind benevolantly graces me with some respite and I feel numb, nothing moves me nor effects me. Occasionally I smile as I watch my children, feel gratitude to Thad as he looks at me with such love and desperation to somehow be able to take the pain away. I understand that it time it will ease, that one day I will think of her and not feel like I want to scream for her to come back and cry that she is gone. That type of healing however is slow to come, it sneaks past you and doesn't make it's presence felt, until it has fully taken root. For now I just ride the rollercoaster that is my life. I try to mother my children and not lash out at my lover who carrys me when I am unable to walk, feeds me when I can no longer bear to eat and remains the only constant in my life.Above all I remember one of the last things my mother ever said."Ah well, live, laugh, love....... what else can you do?"
My mother died at 8:55 am on Wednesday 12th August 2009. We knew it was nearing the end but all believed she had a couple of weeks left. I had altered the house and was hoping to take her home to spend the last days of her life with her family on the that morning she died. I cared for my mother throughout her two year battle with ovarian cancer, I saw her pain & fear and yet even I didn't realise quite how bad it was at the end. Just how weak and sick she felt, how extreme the pain had become. So the part of me that loved my mother above all things is glad that is no longer in pain.Grief is perhaps one of the most selfish of all emotions, we do not grieve because the person we loved is no longer in pain, we grieve because we need them so much and want them back. The loss that I feel is so immense that no words of wisdom could possibly have prepared me for the pain and deep emptiness that eats away inside of me. The word "grief" is simply too small and inadequate to convey the depth and breadth of emotions it encompasses, much perhaps in the same way that love cannot even begin to express what we feel for our children, lovers and parents.She died so quickly that there was literally only two minutes between the calls saying she had gone downhill and I needed to come in and the call telling us she had died. I had been taking her dog to the vets for his shots so the calls were taken by Thad who had to break the news to me upon my return, merely the look of pain and love on his face told me worst news I hope to ever receive in my life in the most gentlest of ways. The shock was so powerful all I could was stand in the street and scream, then the pain and guilt that I hadn't been with her at the very end as we had both planned engulfed me. More than anything I wanted my mother to die with me by her side so that her last conscious thought was that little girl was there and she was loved. Even I was not able to have her home with me at the end, the plan with the hospice was that I would move into a room with her when they felt she had reached her last few days. Her sudden death felt as tho someone had stolen from me a precious moment in time, and gift that I longed and needed to be with her, to know for sure that she died with my love flowing into her.My mothers life story was such a sad one, starting out as an illegitmate orphan war baby in the far north of England, marrying at only 18 to a man who soon became an alcoholic abandoning her to raise her four children entirely on her own with no money, no family and no support. Yet she was the most loving woman you could ever meet, she spent her life helping anyone in need - whether they were friend, stranger and in some cases even foe. She ecnompassed all the qualities a mother should possiess and even motherer all she met whether they wanted her to or not.Most of all tho she was my best friend and my rock. So many people have told me how strong I have been with Emily's illness, my cancer surgery and my mothers illness and that I still somehow managed to study for my degree full time and care for all of my five children - yet it was borrowed strength. It is so easy to keep going when you have someone standing behind you loves you without condition nor expectation, who never asked anything of you and yet always helped pick up the pieces without ever saying "I told you so". The last words I said to my mother whilst she was alive was that she was my best friend, that I loved her more than inadequacy of language could ever allow me to convey and that she had been the best of mothers, but now I wanted her to be selfish and do what was best for her. I promised her I would be ok and that as it turns out was the hardest promise I have ever made.I am sick of platitudes and being told her spirit is with me, she isn't really gone etc because even tho I know my friends speak from the heart and wish to ease my pain - I want the whole fucking package. I don't want her loving spirit reaching out through the universe to me, I WANT HER. I want to be annoyed at being woken at 8am by her phone call, I want to be reminded that her tablets need putting up or she has a doctors appointment. I want to take her shopping and lose her in the store as she disappears off down some random isle to find another bargin she doesn't need. Most of all tho I want to hold her, to feel her arms around me and inhale her scent. To know that all will be welll with the world because mommy's there and she can make it all alright. I miss her so fucking much that at points I feel as tho I cannot even breathe and even the next five minutes ahead of me seem too long a time to possibly endure the pain. I crave the times when my mind benevolantly graces me with some respite and I feel numb, nothing moves me nor effects me. Occasionally I smile as I watch my children, feel gratitude to Thad as he looks at me with such love and desperation to somehow be able to take the pain away. I understand that it time it will ease, that one day I will think of her and not feel like I want to scream for her to come back and cry that she is gone. That type of healing however is slow to come, it sneaks past you and doesn't make it's presence felt, until it has fully taken root. For now I just ride the rollercoaster that is my life. I try to mother my children and not lash out at my lover who carrys me when I am unable to walk, feeds me when I can no longer bear to eat and remains the only constant in my life.Above all I remember one of the last things my mother ever said."Ah well, live, laugh, love....... what else can you do?"
Importing of the old before beginning with the new
Here are the few posts I put up on my initial attempt of blogging before losing the ability to actually sign into the old blog and put new stuff up.
WEDNESDAY 15th AUGUST 2007
Life marker or scar?
I have been pondering what makes a woman sexy and or attractive. In my younger days sexiness was directly attached to weight. Thin was sexy, fat was ugly and repulsive. Who would want to fuck a girl who was overweight? - even a little bit. Even if you did manage to get yourself a boyfriend and you were overweight, how would you keep him if a thinner girl came along? This was all because I so completely bought into our media driven idea of the ideal body image.With age I learnt this amazing little secret that what really seemed to attract the opposite sex was much more indefinable than my dress size. It was confidence and the desire to fuck. Men seemed to be driven towards woman who didn't give a toss what anyone thought, who loved who they were and who had a very firm grasp on exactly what they liked to do and have done to them. The less inhibitions the better. Freedom of spirit seemed to hold much more allure than a tiny ass and low BMI.Yet despite this firm knowledge, despite trying to accept who I am and definately having figured out who I am sexually, I still have that quiet voice at the back of my head that says "Fat is failure".This brings me round to my stretch marks. A large part of me finds pride in these. They are the direct physical affirmation of my ability as a woman to bring life into this world, they are the ribbons left on my body as fond reminders of the days I felt my babies nestled so wonderfully in my womb. However a part of me on my low days will always see unsightly scars.So how does one quiet that voice? How do you truly let go to what vogue tells you is sexy and listen to your own inner confidence and the cooing compliments of your lover?Answers on a postcard please!!!
TUESDAY 14th AUGUST 2007
Rebirth or revinvention.
So since shaving my first mohawk in a couple of months ago I have begun a rather impromptu journey into rediscovering and redefining myself. The hawk came in, the looks started. Then I had some more piercings done - tongue, both nipples and clitoral hood. Now tonight I am having my third tatto done.Now on the surface this looks alot like me re-discovering my youth, going back to my punk-goth chick roots. However with age and confidence I have gone a step further than I ever did in my teens and twenties. Back then I was the quiet rebel, nothing I did with appearance couldn't be masked so that I could blend again with the mainstream. During my late twenties and early thirties my desire to be a good mother led me to try and fit in as much as possible. Not be the mom in the playground the caused all the eyebrows to rise and children to titter. However with increasing frustration I have realised that I am only ever truly comfortable with those members of society who reside left of center. Who truly take life as it comes, have no stored up hate for class, religion, sex, colour or fetish (of course with the exclusion of those into paedophillia or co-erced non-consensual sex). So I shaved in my hawk, it was a great big "warning, I may very well not be like you so read the label before you open your mouth". I am not a racist, have no issue with travellers, my brother is gay, and I am a devout atheist. So really, first do no harm and we will all be ok.The piercings were as much a present to my lover as to myself, but also a right of womanhood. I now own my body in a very striking way. Some will understand and others will never. That is the way of the world. Finally in June I changed my name from Joanne to Scarlet. I discarded the name assigned to me at birth, a name with so much negativity and self loathing attached to it that it had become a weight around my soul. I chose a name I had used for many years in multiple online settings and one that I felt affinity to. I did admittedly speak with my mother first as I would not wish to cause her pain in the last few years of her life and if my name change would have upset her then I would have waited another a few years. Does that make me less of a rebel or just a caring daughter?My message to my children is own yourself, love what you are and be proud of your choices - all of them. Every statement you make about yourself should be full of self belief, and never ever be afraid to set your own drum beat.
WEDNESDAY 15th AUGUST 2007
Life marker or scar?
I have been pondering what makes a woman sexy and or attractive. In my younger days sexiness was directly attached to weight. Thin was sexy, fat was ugly and repulsive. Who would want to fuck a girl who was overweight? - even a little bit. Even if you did manage to get yourself a boyfriend and you were overweight, how would you keep him if a thinner girl came along? This was all because I so completely bought into our media driven idea of the ideal body image.With age I learnt this amazing little secret that what really seemed to attract the opposite sex was much more indefinable than my dress size. It was confidence and the desire to fuck. Men seemed to be driven towards woman who didn't give a toss what anyone thought, who loved who they were and who had a very firm grasp on exactly what they liked to do and have done to them. The less inhibitions the better. Freedom of spirit seemed to hold much more allure than a tiny ass and low BMI.Yet despite this firm knowledge, despite trying to accept who I am and definately having figured out who I am sexually, I still have that quiet voice at the back of my head that says "Fat is failure".This brings me round to my stretch marks. A large part of me finds pride in these. They are the direct physical affirmation of my ability as a woman to bring life into this world, they are the ribbons left on my body as fond reminders of the days I felt my babies nestled so wonderfully in my womb. However a part of me on my low days will always see unsightly scars.So how does one quiet that voice? How do you truly let go to what vogue tells you is sexy and listen to your own inner confidence and the cooing compliments of your lover?Answers on a postcard please!!!
TUESDAY 14th AUGUST 2007
Rebirth or revinvention.
So since shaving my first mohawk in a couple of months ago I have begun a rather impromptu journey into rediscovering and redefining myself. The hawk came in, the looks started. Then I had some more piercings done - tongue, both nipples and clitoral hood. Now tonight I am having my third tatto done.Now on the surface this looks alot like me re-discovering my youth, going back to my punk-goth chick roots. However with age and confidence I have gone a step further than I ever did in my teens and twenties. Back then I was the quiet rebel, nothing I did with appearance couldn't be masked so that I could blend again with the mainstream. During my late twenties and early thirties my desire to be a good mother led me to try and fit in as much as possible. Not be the mom in the playground the caused all the eyebrows to rise and children to titter. However with increasing frustration I have realised that I am only ever truly comfortable with those members of society who reside left of center. Who truly take life as it comes, have no stored up hate for class, religion, sex, colour or fetish (of course with the exclusion of those into paedophillia or co-erced non-consensual sex). So I shaved in my hawk, it was a great big "warning, I may very well not be like you so read the label before you open your mouth". I am not a racist, have no issue with travellers, my brother is gay, and I am a devout atheist. So really, first do no harm and we will all be ok.The piercings were as much a present to my lover as to myself, but also a right of womanhood. I now own my body in a very striking way. Some will understand and others will never. That is the way of the world. Finally in June I changed my name from Joanne to Scarlet. I discarded the name assigned to me at birth, a name with so much negativity and self loathing attached to it that it had become a weight around my soul. I chose a name I had used for many years in multiple online settings and one that I felt affinity to. I did admittedly speak with my mother first as I would not wish to cause her pain in the last few years of her life and if my name change would have upset her then I would have waited another a few years. Does that make me less of a rebel or just a caring daughter?My message to my children is own yourself, love what you are and be proud of your choices - all of them. Every statement you make about yourself should be full of self belief, and never ever be afraid to set your own drum beat.
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