Tonight while snuggling in bed with Lord Curd I let you wash over me, huge fat tears were rolling off my face and soaking into my pillow with tiny barely audible plops. I managed to avoid the inevitable associated sniffing that usually gives a silent cry away, as just for that moment I needed to let you out whilst safe in LordCurd’s arms but not have him comfort me and make me feel better and make everything be okay again. Just for that moment I wanted to grieve. Grieve for my dad, the giant in my life for so long, the person who knew the answer to everything, and could turn his hand to anything. Grieve for the man who made me and shaped me, and was so proud of the woman I have become.
It’s hard because often feel my grief is like a pressure cooker, at the minute I can’t afford to let it all out in a big explosion because I have to be strong, I have to look after Oddler with the Chicken pox, I have to be attached to velcro baby Omble virtually all the time, I have to get through this, & so I release my grief steam gently in silent secret cries when no-one is watching and no-one is listening.
People have stopped asking how I’m feeling about my dad’s death now, it’s been nine weeks on Tuesday, has Life moved on? Or has Life got in the way? People don’t want to ask to make me upset I get that, and sometimes it’s so busy I don’t even have time to think let alone to grieve, and that’s okay, but sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t grieved enough or cried enough or remembered to think about my dad enough.
But again it’s okay. I am dealing with my grief in the only way I know how, by trickling it out and not feeling guilty for how I feel. Accepting the tears when they come and trying not to stifle them. And by writing, the wonders of writing, the tears came again writing this letter too you, and that’s good.
I feel better now. I will get through this I know. My dad taught me how to be strong. We’ll all be okay.
Yours for the forseeable