Category Archives: relationships

Notes on the devastation of loss

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Loss of a loved one, somebody who you absolutely adore, is one of the most unbearable experiences a person can encounter. Be it through the end of a life, or the untimely or unexpected end of a relationship, the feelings of bereavement rip through your entire being, leaving you hopeless, alone, empty, numb, distraught, disbelieving.

Sad times are upon us and I am at a loss as to what help I can offer. My sister has been abandoned by the love of her life and she is currently battling those horrendous emotions that all of us have been battered by ourselves.

The worst in my own experience was going to bed and never wanting to wake up. Because when you do wake up, in that confused state of half-sleep, your mind tricks you into thinking that things are fine. And then reality hits you. They’re not beside you, or the wake up text doesn’t come and you have to face another day as a soulless shell, just going through the motions until you can hit the bottle again, reach a glorious oblivion and return to bed. And so the cycle continues.

I recall one occasion, during the worst of times, I drank without consideration of it being a work night, but without intention for self harm – I just wanted to forget. There was wine, rum, a sleeping tablet. It was the only time when the little dog’s half hour tantrum at the window cleaner didn’t wake me. I was out cold. Eventually coming round mid-afternoon, the reality of my situation hit me again, as it would do every day for many months.

But nothing anybody else could do or say helped, it couldn’t help. All I wanted was my life back, my dreams returned to me, but the life I had known had been taken from me and my dreams were shattered. So with my sister, all I can do is that awful thing that people who claim to have emotional intelligence always go on about, but rarely have the ability to: empathise. This, for good or bad, involves me reassuring her that things are going to feel utterly desperate and dreadful for an awful long time, that there’s nothing anybody can do or say that will make things better, and that the only thing that works is time. Even time won’t heal all the scars, I still have many wounds that are, at best, itchy scabs that need picking, and at worst, open sores that run through my very core and affect me and my ability to form any attachment to another. I’m still certain that I will only fully recover if a) Nigella comes calling, or b) I get my revenge on those that hurt me. I’d prefer a Nigella-based recovery and maybe I’m mellowing a little bit and will be happy for Karma to do its business on my behalf.

Failing at life
Or maybe I should just look after myself and then everything else will fall into place.

I have realised, particularly this year, that I am hopeless at life. Certain circumstances have taken their toll and just put me on that terrible road of giving up. It’s nothing major in isolation, but a cumulative effect of the general state of pffft that I find myself in. Like today, I came to change my bed and realised that I didn’t have enough clean pillowcases to accompany the duvet cover and (fucking bastard) fitted sheet. Why? Because I hadn’t washed the previous bedding when I should have done, last week when I took it off. Or the set from the previous week for that matter.

Ironing – given up on that completely.
Dusting – urgh
Vacumming, housework in general. I get myself into such a funk because I feel that I leave these things a bit too late and when this happens, I hate myself. But it doesn’t take too much to fix. Just a couple of hours and it’s all done… with an undercurrent of self-loathing of course. And the inevitability of having to do it again, in a couple of days, which I won’t, because I’m a loser.

It’s very difficult to find purpose when there is none. Maybe the purpose that I need is to make some positive changes and start being a normal person. It’s not even that bloody difficult!

I shall start tomorrow by NOT buying more pillowcases, but by ensuring that I have enough clean and dry bedding to last me two changes. Tick!

Instead of lamenting the kitchen and its floor, I’ll just clean the bloody thing.

Rather than driving into my parking space and sighing at the weeds, how about I pull the fucking things up? Same goes for the persistent buggers that sprout up in the front “bit” (it’s not big enough to call a yard) of my house.

And instead of looking up and fretting at the absence of pointing on my chimney breast, maybe I’ll just get a couple of quotes for the work and get it sorted.

Like a normal person would.

Friendship long distance

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She’s arriving tomorrow morning. I should be asleep as I’m picking her up from the airport at 8am, but I’m a bit too excited.

I’ve “known” April for over seven years now. We first encountered each other because of the “next blog” feature on either mine or her blog. Hers was an online account of things she observed in her daily life as a young mum in British Columbia – called simply “Pissoff”, she liked pear cider, but didn’t get enough of it, and she had little time for short men. Mine was also an online account of my daily life, but mixed with the sometimes surreal hypothesising of parallel encounters where I actually opened my mouth and told people what I thought of them, or even acted on my desires to maim those who crossed me. I think the election of the new pope and his resemblance to Ann Widdecombe had something to do with April Pissoff commenting for the first time. Or maybe it was Ryan the catholic (“Bravo!”) whom I’d torn to shreds after he decided, unwisely, to make a comment about about gays being cursed and destined to eternal damnation.

I guess you had to be there.

Over the course of a few months in 2005 there grew a friendly band of like-minded people who shared a creativity with words, pictures and graphics. In a strange sort of way, we got to know each other through our virtual lives; there’s a brutal honesty that comes through when people write about stuff on the internet, even if it is something as mundane as Coffeemate.

So it came to pass that I became more comfortable relating my thoughts to people I’d never met than those who were part of my real life – nothing new there – but I struck up a close bond with that woman from Vancouver Island and it only took one invitation for me to book my flight over there to visit in the summer of 2006.

She popped over in 2008 with Mish-Mash (who John Pigster joked “used to be a man”).

And then there was also the Vegas trip of 2009, where I travelled alone and met up with April and her friend for a few days, enjoying the museums and galleries in that cultural capital of Nevada.

It’s odd that somebody who you only meet on a small number of occasions can be counted as a genuine good friend, but the internet is a great ice breaker when you’re a bit nerdy and shy.

I wish I could promise the bright lights and excitement of Vegas during the next couple of days, but I can’t – this is Bolton. I have, however, fixed my security light in her honour and there’ll be food, wine, laughter and the odd Coast Salish death stare to put me in my place.

The proceedings may see me increasing my credit limit to allow for an Italian road trip next spring. And what the hell if it does? Life is made up of experiences; spend more time with those who love you and who you love and, on balance, it’ll be great.

Unhappy anniversary

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This weekend marks a couple of terrible anniversaries.

Two years ago, a close friend lay struggling for life in intensive care while his partner was left dealing with hideous anguish and the inevitability of the love of his life being cruelly taken from him.

One year ago, I was deliriously happy, but confined to indoors decorating the home that I shared with the love of my life while the rest of country enjoyed one last fling of summer and she attended a conference.

My beautiful friend lost his fight for life, leaving his grief-stricken partner to pick up the pieces amongst much confusion. That night of 1st of October, 2010 was the saddest climax to a fortnight of disbelief at the rapid demise of a man who I’d loved as a brother, but which saw the rising in stature of another man who I’d walk barefoot over hot coals to make a cup of tea for if he asked. I’ve never witnessed such love as I was privileged to be part of that night as I sat in the hospital while Martin was comforted by the nurse and handed the belongings of his beloved. I was terrified as I went to say goodbye to John’s body, yet strengthened by Martin’s dignity as we were taken into the ward. My dear Piggy had left us long before that moment, before I’d seen him earlier that week, but he’d left an indelible mark on Martin, on all of us, that, well, it’s indelible.

John lives on in our hearts and fond memories, and in the strength of his super hero Tazzy. :@)

Just twelve months had passed and my life was brilliant. I was stupidly in love with the woman I’d been waiting for all my life. We’d built a home together and had plans for a future. Desperately trying to decorate before getting carpets laid, I spent the weekend up a ladder getting splattered in paint (B&Q rice cake matt emulsion) while she attended a conference. It was hot, the sun shone all that Saturday, but I persevered and finished the dining room. Eager to tell her of my progress, I waited for her call or text to say that proceedings had finished for the day; all I got was a text to say that things had gone on longer than expected and that she didn’t have time to call before going to the evening meal and disco. I thought nothing of it, but thought it odd and was disappointed that I didn’t get at least a goodnight text that night.

And so signalled the start of my justified suspicions. The rest is history… that eats at my very being every day that I breathe.

So this weekend, I think of Martin and Piggy, and of Ali. Piggy was a shit, but I will never for one second doubt his love for Martin. Ali was a shit who betrayed me in the worst possible way and left me bereft and so confused as to my belief in human relationships.

Thinking of the former though, I draw comfort from Martin and hope I can follow his example when it comes to strength and dignity. But for now, I’m still wishing that she’d have called me that night.