Grief is a bitch

In my last post, I touched on the stress that going out has become for me since our world flipped and we entered the ‘after’ phase of losing MJB. Fear and anxiety are obviously big factors in this. At home I have maximum possible control, resources and theoretical planning on my side should anything terrible happen to us again - which I constantly fear it might.

Before I go on, I ought to say that this post contains language and honesty that some may find offensive. I’ve written it for me, but you may read on at your own risk.

In the early days and weeks after coming home from our horrific time spent with MJB in intensive care, part of my post traumatic behaviour was to constantly visualise how I would respond if JD were to suddenly stop breathing: I made sure my phone battery never dropped below half. I identified which surfaces in each room would best optimise CPR should it come to that. I checked the journey time from our local hospital to our flat on Google maps to figure out the maximum amount of time I might have to hold it together alone for until someone could help me (16 minutes, by the way). Whenever he slept in my arms (we hardly put him down at all for the first 3 weeks) I would have to touch his mouth to check for involuntary responsiveness and feel his temperature. I painted my nails grey to use as a reference for when I would hallucinate that his face had turned that same haunting waxy tone I had to watch his brother take on. I allowed my neck and shoulders to cease up in agony as I cradled JD close enough to my face for me to hear his every breath at night. We slept with a lamp on for the first couple of months, long after S had to go back to work...

At that time, life’s only ambition was survival - mostly JD’s, and only mine as a facilitator of that.

Progress has felt slow, but we’re nearly 3 months on now and survival mode has given way to more functional aspirations. There have been many occasions throughout that time that I’ve wanted to blog about my total and sincerest admiration of my beautiful husband and how capably he has handled his own grief while fully supporting myself and JD. The only reason I haven’t is that I realise the sentiment means no less to him when delivered exclusively between the two of us: S never being the sort of man who relies on the world to dictate how he ought to see himself. But I will say that without him, his love, the security of our marriage, the joy of witnessing his beautiful relationship as father to our sons (yes, both of them still) - my willingness to face the world, and all the pain it’s recently dealt us, would have rested solely on JD. As gorgeous a person as he is shaping up to be, bless him, that’s just not a feasible responsibility to place on a child who can barely hold up the weight of his own head for longer than 10 minutes!

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that my experience of grief so far has been traumatic and awful. It probably would have felt impossible were it not for S and JD. I imagine that doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but it’s hard for me to admit none the less. It’s hard because, despite them being the main source of my hope and strength, there have been numerous other people actively involved in helping us through. Our families, with all their practical support and seemingly limitless care, have humbled and astounded us with their love and compassion. They have done more for us than we could have ever asked of them, despite their own significant grief of having lost their first nephew, grandson, great-grandson etc. Perhaps it’s linked to the constant feelings of guilt I’ve written about before, but something in me finds it impossible to detach from a sense of responsibility and debt to them when speaking honestly about how hard my grief journey has been and still is, even though they have done so much to help make it bearable.

The truth is that if my emotional energy were a pie chart - at least 70% of that would go to S and JD, effortlessly and willingly. About 20% is being drained on just keeping myself stable enough to function effectively as a mother, wife and person. That leaves only 10% to divvy up to all the many other deserving and wonderful people we are blessed to have in our lives. That never feels like enough and I’m constantly aware of the things I could, and perhaps should, do to show the appropriate amount of care and kindness in return. But if it’s outside of my comfort zone (home with my husband and son) everything else just feels like too much emotional expenditure. Whether it’s something as simple as replying to a thoughtful text or meeting up somewhere other than here at home - my limitations feel embarrassing and my social failures many.

It’s not just a lack of sufficient care I’m aware of either. I also have a disproportionate and problematic excess of irritability and apathy at the moment. Fortunately S and JD seem to escape under my radar when it comes to venting it all when the emotional energy needed to contain it runs out. But more and more, I’m finding that as the anxiety, trauma and numbness of my loss slowly begin to settle, like in murky sedimented water forming a thick heavy layer deeper down, I have more clarity when it comes to identifying the stuff I’m just not willing or equipped to deal with. Some of my targets have accurately been a bit annoying or insensitive - but most of the time I find myself battling to contain unjustifiably sharp outbursts at the very people who are owed nothing other than gratitude and love from me.

And that’s just the people I actually like and care about! I’m going to say something really brutal now, but bare with me: One of the biggest hurdles I’ve encountered when trying to muster the energy to start regularly attending church again, is the number of people I know will be there who lack the self-awareness to respect the fact that my emotional energy is limited and they simply don’t make the cut. The church we belong to is a beautiful, if messy, demonstration of inclusion and tolerance. With that comes a variety of many amazing friends, but also a few people who have interpreted their acceptance into the community as permission to behave in ways that wouldn’t go down too well anywhere else. Whether for reasons beyond their control or not, if you want to meet someone with an inappropriate sense of self-entitlement to other people’s attention and emotional energy, churches are a good bet.

Last Sunday, my emotional energy ran out and I behaved in a way I’m not proud of. A man at church who, probably for no good reason I’ve often found it taxing to deal with, hurried over to us straight after the service. The final worship song was one that features in my playlist for MJB and thus had triggered a stream of involuntary tears to pour down my face - as if my soul was melting out of me. I turned to face S and JD in, what I hoped would be, a safe demonstration that my attention was occupied but alas. This guy from church, who is at best a fringe acquaintance, shoves a clammy hand between our faces insistent that we greet him and acknowledge his (not so) selfless concern for us. Thing is, he’d done it the Sunday before that we’d made it to church too and I’d tried then to discourage him from inviting himself into my personal space and grief experience as kindly as I could. This time though I was fresh out of emotional energy and running high on excess ire so I audibly remarked, in his general direction, without making eye contact (still self-conscious of my blotchy-cry-face), ‘How about a little personal space? We hardly even know you.’ S glanced at me with a sympathetic and knowing smile but before the interaction could go any further, a couple of kind and socially competent friends and family members who had overheard skillfully provided a diversion for his shunned imposition and we escaped off home before anyone else could fall victim to my bitchiness.

I have many issues with the word ‘bitch’ in its application as an insult or, worse, as a general description of a female. Personally I don’t think the irony of women referring to themselves as bitches ever outweighs it’s inherently sexist and abusive connotations. I am happy, however, to refer to my grief as a bitch. Sometimes it really feels like there’s a feral, wildly overprotective creature growling away in me, ready to bark at anyone who gets too close for comfort. Problem is, when living in a perpetually uncomfortable state of grief, too close is sometimes not very close at all. Sometimes, too close is someone sweetly asking what you’re doing next weekend, and would you like to come over for lunch? The grief-bitch in me wants to bark, ‘I’ve no bloody idea what I’ll even have the capacity to do this afternoon. Stop pressuring me to be sociable and organised. And if you think for one moment I’d rather be in your home with you, when I could be in my comfy pyjamas with my baby in mine, you must be mad. You’ll probably try to feed me something fattening that doesn’t work with my new diet plan anyway. So no. Piss off.’

Instead, I’m usually able to chip into some of that remaining 10% of emotional energy I have to spare and come up with a flimsy excuse like, ‘Sounds great. Thanks so much. But I think S mentioned he’s already made plans for us then. Maybe some other time? Hope you’re well.’ normally that's a lie (not the ‘hoping you’re well’ bit, I’m not that heartless) but I do always feel horrible for being such a flakey unavailable friend. But the risk of pushing myself beyond my ability to keep my inner grief-bitch in check could be much worse.

I’ve tried to explain this to a few of my closest family members who have had various reactions. My sister very sympathetically said, ‘Well I still like you, even when you are a bitch’ - perhaps not realising the hard work I’d been putting into trying not to be one at all. And my mum suggested that, seeing as she’s made of tough stuff and has no choice but to love me anyway as her daughter, I could just vent freely at her. A sensible plan in theory, though on a couple of occasions when I’ve been a bit abrupt in my responses to things she’s said that I didn’t find especially helpful, she couldn’t help but look a little effected and I can’t deal with being the source of any more hurt or upset to anyone.

That’s what it comes down to. Rationally or not, I still feel so responsible for what happened to MJB, I can’t bare to add to that guilt by allowing my hurt to spread and add to others’, particularly those I love. The pressure to be nothing but positive and encouraging to people, even when I feel so desperately depressed, becomes something it’s just easier to avoid wherever possible. I generally choose isolation rather than having to sacrifice anymore of my emotional energy that would otherwise be used just to basically function. Every social encounter feels exhausting. Not necessarily because of anything anyone else is doing or saying, but just because if I wasn’t constantly keeping my mouth in check I’d probably either start shouting vitriol or sobbing over how desperately I miss my baby.

The other tactic is to just spill all that stuff out in as controlled and dignified a manner as possible, but only to those I trust and feel comfortable enough around. That can come across as very matter-of-fact and clinical which isn’t at all a fair reflection of how I actually feel but is less awkward than the former scenario. Worse still, it sometimes presents as a brutal sort of humour - being flippant and blazé about stuff it actually kills me to say, let alone joke about. Whichever way it comes out, the act of articulating how I’m feeling as best I can is no less exhausting to deal with. As they say, the truth hurts - however good a front I can put on.

And then there are the times when my fears are confirmed after I do bravely venture outside my comfort zone - usually only when I‘m with S and JD or on a Saturday afternoon when they stay home together while I’m sent to spend some time doing anything other than being a (literal) stay-at-home mum. Like genuinely, just the other day, a supermarket worker who recognised us as the same beaming young couple with the tiny cute babies from before, shouted at me and S from halfway down the shopping aisle, ‘Hey! I thought you guys had twins?!’ As S opened his mouth to reply something patient in reaction, I grabbed his arm and said ‘No, don’t.’ Perhaps it was my expression or the fact that there were already tears starting to roll down my hot cheeks but she took the hint without the need for another word, looked briefly horrified, then fled in the other direction. It was so hard to finish the rest of our shopping trip while simultaneously blinking back tears, trying to remember what stuff I can and can’t now eat according to my new slimming plan and resisting the urge to find that imbecile of a woman and scream something unkind in her face like, ‘What kind of moronic dickhead do you have to be to shout something so obviously insensitive and hurtful? If you must know our other baby died suddenly, not long ago, for no apparent reason. Life since then has been hellish enough without the fuck-witted contributions of nosy strangers forcing us to confront the horror of our loss afresh, when all we’re trying to do is buy stuff I can eat that won’t eventually make me as fat as you!’ for example.

Could I have gotten away with that had I not managed to reign in my inner grief-bitch? Probably. Would I have felt any better if I did? Not for long, if at all. But, as I’ve said before, the ultimate reason I’d rather limit my social exposure as much as possible, rather than run the risk of unleashing The Bitch on some deserving-or-not unsuspecting person, is because I already dislike myself enough without that added guilt to contend with. Even if depression hadn’t stripped me of all sense of self-worth outside of my roles as mother and wife, I wouldn’t want to be that person. Anger is meant to be a normal part of grief, but I have no more space in my already crowded emotional pie-chart to accommodate the collateral damage it could cause.

I guess what I want to try to communicate to the people I love and care about is, please be patient with me. Be assured it’s most probably nothing you have said or done, nor indeed haven’t, that has made me so reluctant to maintain and extend my social boundaries at the moment. I’m hurting, I’m angry, I’m depressed and I’m scared of making it all worse. But I’m also more hopeful and experiencing more joy than I could have imagined was possible a couple of months ago. It's the weirdest paradox. The ratio is very slowly tipping in favour of embracing life, with all its risks, uncertainties and adventures rather than shunning it. As JD grows and develops greater awareness and curiosity of the world outside our comfort zone, I’ll have no choice but to progress towards a more sociable and outward approach to life. I’ve come a long way from survival mode to limited functioning, please don’t rush me to face the next stage of seeing past my current depression - I promise I won’t let it get to a point of no return.

To the people who knowingly or not, have added to our painful burden and have no entitlement to my patience or emotional energy, my inner grief-bitch would just like to say, fuck you.