After five years, it feels strange to come to this place, here, and talk about grief. About how it changes, and yet doesn’t. About how grief never leaves you, the great whistling hole through your centre never closes right over.
Grief is grief is grief.
Missing someone never quite stops. Things happen and I wish, I wonder, I want.
It’s been almost five years and I don’t have words anymore.
A series of events conspired to send me into a place mentally I haven’t been for a while. I feel raw, the bandaids torn off with no warning. I think about writing and stop. Turn away. Do something else.
Do you really want to write about that? Open yourself up for more judgement?
I don’t know.
I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like I need to defend my life, my choices, my right to be here.
On Stateline last night, a family of acrobats twisted and twirled through the air, circus tricks and stunt work. They glossed over the fact that the house has no running water, limited solar power, there’s no money. Focus instead on the happiness, the family togetherness, the joy that living an honest life brings.
I watched and I laughed and laughed, feeling a kinship with a family I’ve never met.
How dare we be happy. How dare we choose a life outside of the suburban normal, nine to five, a salary and prospects of more debt to keep up with people we don’t like.
How very dare we.
I can see them, the unhappy people, hiding in the corners here, judging, waiting and watching like a dog waiting to be thrown a bone.
I’m disabled, I have to right to happiness. I ought to be miserable, a loser in the genetic lottery.
But really, I wonder, why does the life of one small Tasmanian family offend them so much?
It’s all tied to grief, to missing, to yearning. Someone came in and stomped around, tore down my walls; my defences. I need a thicker skin.
Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so sick when I think about writing about my life still.