OBLIVION

I may seem to be doing all right, but it's really only on the outside. When people ask me how I am I usually reply "fine," which of course pleases everyone. Nobody likes to see people unhappy, because it disturbs their world.

I have changed.

Recently one of my friends told me she was glad I was getting back to my old self. I will never get back to my old self - whatever that was, I guess it was a more cheerful person - but I find I'm sick and tired of telling people I'm far from "fine." I need to pretend everything is going better, both for their and my own sake.

One friend wrote to me about something and by the way said he hoped I was doing well. I nearly started crying. Of course I am not doing well, how could he even think that? Maybe I'm getting good at pretending - or maybe he genuinely believed I was no longer grieving. That I'd "moved on."

You're expected to be moving on after a certain period of grief. At least I think that's what's expected. Therefore I move on. On the outside. On the inside my life is still turmoil, sadness and not least excruciating loneliness. I deal with this in several ways - all survival techniques:

Oblivion: Sleep. Even with crazy disturbing dreams sleep is often better than staying awake. Meeting the day and facing ordinary everyday duties are such enormous hurdles for me that the oblivion of sleep is constantly longed for. Procrastination is my middle name these days - I can't seem to focus on anything that involves the slightest challenge. And my deep sadness is kept at bay by sleep.

Some days I hardly get out of bed - I call them my "non-days."

Distraction: I read, I watch TV, I knit. I have read an enormous amount of books these past nineteen months after my husband died - I practically plough through them. I get absorbed by them and they give me a welcome break from my churning thoughts and racing mind. The repetitive act of knitting relaxes my exhausted brain.

Beuatiful, haunting and frightening novel covering several themes, among them the massacres in Bosnia in the nineties. Highly recommended.

"Marius"-jumper no 8

"Marius"-jumper no 9, in the making

Isolation: I have always been good at keeping in touch with friends. Now I'm not. Well, that's not quite right - I kept inviting people round for meals and managed to do this for quite a while after my husband died, although now I haven't for some time. But friendships need to be nurtured, and I find I have much less energy for this than I had before, because this kind of activity demands a certain amount of happiness and positivity. For the time being that involves too much pretence on my part.  

Travel: I keep receiving comments about my travelling - mostly good though - and I feel I shouldn't have to defend myself against the more ironic ones. My travelling springs out of restlessness and a wish to escape from a life that is more or less just an existence. It's an attempt to go somewhere other than into that oblivion.

I get up some days - my eyes puffy and swollen with sleep and weeping - wondering if there's any point in putting on nice clothes and a pair of my beautiful shoes. To be honest I have often wondered these nineteen months if there's a point to anything at all.

I never actually believe that I'm depressed though - not now. I was certainly depressed this winter and spring, but it lifted after I sold the apartment in June. I am just NOT happy. Will I ever be happy again, that's the question. I think that if happiness is bestowed on me again it will be a gradual process.

Looking out at the autumn colours does not help. The vivid oranges, yellows and reds only remind me of that October and November three years ago, when my husband was diagnosed with brain tumour and underwent surgery. On November 1st 2013 we were told that the tumour was the most malignant - grade four - and that his illness was terminal, his prognosis death within fifteen months. He managed eighteen. I still can't get my head around the way he coped and how brave he was.

In many ways my blog post today goes against what I usually preach: We must care for each other as if we were living our last days. We never know what tomorrow brings, and our love for our nearest and dearest ones is essential and should outweigh everything else. At least my husband's illness taught me that, and as I've said many times before, I have very little patience now for petty quarrels and fruitless bickering.

One person said to me - be careful you don't worship your grief. Worship! I don't even understand the phrase. How can one worship something so exhausting? All I wish now is for it to lift, to release me, to turn into something bearable. I never asked for this life, this grief. I never wanted it, no - I wanted my life to stay the way it was.

I'm so tired of feeling low. I'm exhausted with the crying. All this sadness drains me. I use every last bit of my energy on trying to come across as "feeling better."

But I find peace in tending my husband's grave. I talk to him, and it's a comfort.