Grief and life lessons

I'm acutely aware that not all experiences are uplifting. Sometimes, something can happen to us that knocks the wind out of our sails, and there's seemingly nothing we can do about it. At 24, I didn't know how to handle what happened to me any differently. Then again, receiving a phone call from my sister, Sienna, in 2002, when I was backpacking in Australia saying, ‘It's back,’ was a pretty sh*tty phone call to receive and no doubt a pretty sh*tty one to make.  

But the consultant was right; it was back, which meant just over a year later, my dear Dad, Hector, lost his darling wife, Felicity, of forty years, to cancer, and my older sisters, Sky, Sienna, and I lost our beautiful Mum. If I could have, I would have died that day, too. Whilst I've never admitted this to anyone before, for years afterward, I'd often fantasize about how I’d kill myself. Would I jump in front of a fast-moving train on my way to work, plan a fatal cocaine overdose, or accidentally, on purpose, stumble into London traffic whilst high or drunk? During those jet-black years, my life without my Mum felt so deathly to me. Honestly, what was the point in living? 

I used every trick in the book to cover up my pain: only ever looking outwards for something or someone special to ‘fix’ me, turning to alcohol and cocaine as my daily painkiller of choice, joking around and acting the life and soul of the party to mask my misery, allowing myself to fall for any cheesy chat up lines which meant hundreds of empty one night stands in the vain hope they'd lead to true love and I'd feel whole again. Yet, I was beyond broken, and none of my 'tricks’ worked; the more I tried to run away from my grief, the greater it became. 

Despite the love of my friends, family, and my so-called ‘career’ in recruitment, without my Mum, the meaning of my life was lost on me. The person I loved most in the whole wide world had died, and from my viewpoint, anything that happened to me from then on was not my fault. I became a ‘victim’. I was a mess.

Losing my Mum has been the most inescapable pain that still, at times, knows no end. When I wear my 'victim’ hat, I still feel so cheated that my adult self has been robbed of the opportunity to get to know my Mum much more and her me. I expect, over the past twenty years, our relationship might have evolved to a depth of understanding whereby we can clearly see through each other's mind's eye. I can only imagine how much of a blessing it must be to have a Mother who understands, loves, and champions you as an adult. But life isn't fair. Like a pack of cards, we're each dealt a number of pivotal experiences to be had in our lives, and whether we deem them good or bad, it's up to us how we handle them. 

There's still a lot for me to learn about why I've dealt with my Mum's death the way that I have. I suspect I need to lean more into the lessons as opposed to clinging so tightly to the hurt. But the grief has become so familiar to me, like an act of loyalty to her, that I'm reluctant to let go. Then again, how can I let her go? You never met her, did you? 

Of course, I've managed to let some things go since Mum died; I've had to. I've let go of my childhood dreams about love, my idea of a ‘happily ever after,’ and what raising a family looks and feels like for me.  Approaching things very differently during my divorce than when my Mum died; my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter and six-month-old son were my rocks and reason to rise. Instead of sinking, I learned how to swim. Fast. 

Roll in deep soul-searching, determination, readiness to change, painful lessons to be learned, heartfelt sobs, frustration, anger, and extraordinarily extravagant expletives I never knew my brain could form. Hand on heart, I gave my 'rising’ my all for my children and myself. 

Whilst my friends, family, and energy healers were phenomenally supportive, and my gratitude for them has no end, it wasn't their experiences, their lessons to be learned, or their pain to carry; it was mine. Choosing self-care over self-medication, instead of reaching for a bottle of wine or two to drown my sorrows, for years, I embraced sober sensations. Whilst snuggling up in bed with my sleeping babies, I read endless books on self-love, gratitude, the forgiveness of self and others, trusting your intuition, present moment living, letting go, keeping the faith, fearless living, personal boundaries, sobriety, knowing your self-worth, heart-broken to heart-open, the law of attraction, raising your vibrations, calm parenting, finding freedom, happiness, inner peace, the power of meditation and anything remotely ‘spiritual.’ When I wasn't reading about the evolution of self, I listened to podcasts on the subject matter. Like a toddler with a new toy, I was utterly obsessed, and like superglue, the main messages began to stick.

As time passed, I could sense my inner world changing. I wasn't interested in joining WhatsApp groups called ‘Men are D*ckheads!', marching on ‘Anti-Men’ campaigns, or attending 'Divorce Parties.' Aside from looking after my babies, I craved peace and solitude to dive inward and reflect. I wanted to understand my suffering with the hope that if I could give my suffering meaning, in time, it would cease to feel like suffering and feel more like a gift. How had I contributed to the breakdown of our marriage? What needed to change about me so that I didn't face the same heartache again? 

My mind kept going over a heart-to-heart that my ex-husband and I had weathered early on in our relationship while sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. I told him that even though I loved him deeply, I didn't think I was cut out for a relationship after all and that it was probably best if we ended it there and then. When he replied, ‘Soho, I love you, and I'm here to stay; please don't push me away,’ it was as though a curtain had been lifted, and I could see how little I loved myself. The last thing I wanted to do was push him away, but he was right; I had been doing exactly that, purely because I didn't think I was worthy of his love: I was terribly insecure, I got jealous at the drop of a hat, I worried non stop he'd realise I was a worthless pile of cr*p because I really thought I was, and I felt easily replaceable. Whenever an attractive girl walked past us, despite him always keeping his eyes firmly on me, I'd feel a surge of burning hot energy rise within me. Reaching boiling point, I'd too often make a flippant, totally unfounded, and very spiky remark to him. Whilst I knew it was all ‘my stuff,’ I was at a total loss as to how to stop it. How could I ever accept or expect anyone else to love me if I didn't truly love myself?

Whether he was always going to fall into the arms of another behind my back or it was partly my fault for pushing him away, I'll never know. However, all the trust in our relationship had gone, and as the scales tipped, the prospect of staying in a toxic marriage became far worse than the prospect of divorce. It was over. It was time for me to take a long, hard look at myself. Instead of pointing my finger at my ex for the entire breakdown of our marriage and being swept up in society's 'blame’ culture, I chose to work on the three fingers pointing back at me. And, like an avid archaeologist digging deep, so began my journey of awakening and self-discovery. 

Perhaps writing my story will prove to be the biggest act of self-discovery I'll ever do, whereby the voice I've silenced for so long is the very voice that sets me free. Maybe, by gaining a deeper understanding of myself, I'll be able to let my beautiful Mum go and unearth that the greatest love story for us all is, in truth, the one with ourselves. And maybe, when aglow with unwavering self-love, instead of manifesting my ‘happily ever after’ in the shape of a man, I'll be like the wise old woman who said, ‘F*uck that sh*t!’ and then lived happily ever after.