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.