Well the day has finally arrived. In less than 6 hours I'll be heading to Heathrow, readying myself to board the relatively short flight to NYC. I couldn't tell you how many times in the preceding weeks I've been asked by friends and strangers alike 'Are you excited?!'
My answer was a quick 'Yes' months ago, but as the time neared, I began to realise that excitement had sneakily morphed into an intense sense of anxiety. This isn't the first holiday without P. If you remember, I travelled to Madrid back in May 2011 to stay with a friend. I spent time in Florida just months after P died for 'un-Christmas' with my parents. But my body is making this feel like the first.
The other holidays were a blur. I coasted through them in a kind of haze. Dealing with the difficulties, and the sudden surges of griping grief pains by retreating into a state of denial or 'shut down mode', as I like to call it. I felt like a shell of myself. An empty vessel. I was on holiday, but not from my grief. It followed me like a dark shadow, resting heavily on my shoulders.
It's presence is now more distant. I feel my grief walk alongside me, lurking behind me, always. But somehow, I feel like I've gained a small amount of control over it. I'm no longer scared of the Grief Monster. I may be caught off guard by it, from time to time, feel it threatening to consume me. But I do not live in fear of it. If it wants to overwhelm me, it will. So be it. Those times when I've ended up on the kitchen floor, in a puddle of tears, screaming to the sky, thinking my tears would never cease....well you know what happened? The tears stopped. I got up off the floor, dusted myself off, and started again. I'm getting used to this process. And I think my friends are too.
But herein lies my anxiety. My friends in the UK have witnessed some of this grief journey. Much has been private, but I know they've seen me change before their eyes. From the girl who struggled to meet another's gaze, who looked gaunt, pale, and lifeless to a woman who is attempting to move forward, stumbling, struggling, but still trying. My friends in the US did not know P. They have not been here to witness the aftermath. What will they see when they look at me? Will they see my scars? I worry they will ask about P and his death, and equally, I worry they will not. I worry I will appear too OK and I worry I will breakdown. I am accustomed to putting on my 'happy face' for a few days at a time, but 7 weeks? I'm not sure my public facade will remain intact.
And then I think - how little credit I seem to be giving to the people I have grown up with?! I know so many of my friends wished they could have been here for me. So why worry? Why stress? Because that's the Grief Monster talking! As for me, with 5 1/2 hours to go, I am eagerly, expectantly, enthusiastically EXCITED. Let the adventure begin!
My answer was a quick 'Yes' months ago, but as the time neared, I began to realise that excitement had sneakily morphed into an intense sense of anxiety. This isn't the first holiday without P. If you remember, I travelled to Madrid back in May 2011 to stay with a friend. I spent time in Florida just months after P died for 'un-Christmas' with my parents. But my body is making this feel like the first.
The other holidays were a blur. I coasted through them in a kind of haze. Dealing with the difficulties, and the sudden surges of griping grief pains by retreating into a state of denial or 'shut down mode', as I like to call it. I felt like a shell of myself. An empty vessel. I was on holiday, but not from my grief. It followed me like a dark shadow, resting heavily on my shoulders.
It's presence is now more distant. I feel my grief walk alongside me, lurking behind me, always. But somehow, I feel like I've gained a small amount of control over it. I'm no longer scared of the Grief Monster. I may be caught off guard by it, from time to time, feel it threatening to consume me. But I do not live in fear of it. If it wants to overwhelm me, it will. So be it. Those times when I've ended up on the kitchen floor, in a puddle of tears, screaming to the sky, thinking my tears would never cease....well you know what happened? The tears stopped. I got up off the floor, dusted myself off, and started again. I'm getting used to this process. And I think my friends are too.
But herein lies my anxiety. My friends in the UK have witnessed some of this grief journey. Much has been private, but I know they've seen me change before their eyes. From the girl who struggled to meet another's gaze, who looked gaunt, pale, and lifeless to a woman who is attempting to move forward, stumbling, struggling, but still trying. My friends in the US did not know P. They have not been here to witness the aftermath. What will they see when they look at me? Will they see my scars? I worry they will ask about P and his death, and equally, I worry they will not. I worry I will appear too OK and I worry I will breakdown. I am accustomed to putting on my 'happy face' for a few days at a time, but 7 weeks? I'm not sure my public facade will remain intact.
And then I think - how little credit I seem to be giving to the people I have grown up with?! I know so many of my friends wished they could have been here for me. So why worry? Why stress? Because that's the Grief Monster talking! As for me, with 5 1/2 hours to go, I am eagerly, expectantly, enthusiastically EXCITED. Let the adventure begin!
Safe journey and I will read your bloggs with interest over next seven weeks. You have already inspired me as planning g a trip to see friends down under later in the year. Karen. X
ReplyDelete'ATTA GIRL - YOU GOOOOOO!!! so proud and happy for you!
ReplyDeleteLove,
Karen