Friday 20 April 2018

Wednesday 18th April marked three years since my grandad passed away.

I'm not one to go in for all the sappy crap. I avoid birthday cards with rhyming verse aimed at the recipient. I don't want romance films. I roll my eyes at the slightest hint of soft, gushy, praising words. And yet.... And yet I wish he were here.

In the three years since he's been gone I haven't mourned properly. I haven't cried for him. I haven't expressed any yearning for him to still be here. I've lived my life as if it were any other day. Albeit one without it. That's not to say I haven't missed him - how can you not miss an entire corner of your family unit? Your father figure? The man who raised and shaped you? - because I have. Of course I have. I just grieve in a... non-traditional way, shall we say.

His death triggered a relapse in mental health (and it was his initial terminal diagnosis that started all of those problems in the first place. Thanks for that, grandad.) thatI've been battling ever since. My tears haven't been shed for my loss; they've been shed in anger at my fluctuating moods. In despair at my anxiety. Or they just... haven't been shed at all. I found it hard to understand why everyone else was cut up about it whilst I was there getting on with my life.

Except I wasn't. And I get it now.

It's taken me three years to finally feel comfortable talking about him. And I mean really talking about him. With people who aren't family. In a way that's not just a passing comment. In finally acknowledging and accepting his lung cancer. It's taken me three years to finally feel the impact of his death. And my god do I miss him.

More than anything, I wish he'd been around to see me make it to university. I can just hear him saying 'well aren't you a smarty pants? Come here, clever clogs!' and reaching out to wrap me in his arms and plant a stubbly, sloppy kiss on my cheek. I can hear the 'now then, our kid' as I walk through the door. Can feel his pride as I share my first class exam results. Can imagine him talking to Luna as he brushes the knots out of her fur. Can just picture him sat on the sofa, embroidery in hand, smiling. And I miss him.

I miss him and it hurts and I didn't realise how much it did until now and I feel like such a bad granddaughter. He wouldn't think any less of me, I know - it wasn't in his nature - but that doesn't stop me from finally feeling. Finally grieving.

I just wish there was a way to make it stop.

1 comment:

  1. *massive hugs* *and more hugs* *and yet more hugs*

    Charlotte, listen to me: grief doesn't give a flying f**k about how it 'should' be. Grief just *is.*

    Sometimes it hits you in the gut. Sometimes you're fine and think you shouldn't be, and feel guilty about that. BUT WHATEVER YOU ARE FEELING IS OK.

    Yes, it's even OK to hurt - I know it's not nice, but it's OK. You're *allowed* to feel *however* you feel. It's ok to hurt, it's ok to not hurt. It's ok if it catches you at the weirdest of moments.

    And, randomly, the 3-year mark f**king STINGS. It's like your brain finally realises they aren't coming back - like it had fooled itself into thinking they were on an extended holiday, and suddenly it can't keep that illusion any more, and it hits you all over again.

    If you need anything, my DMs are open. DON'T PANIC IF I'M LATE REPLYING. I regularly log out for self-care reasons, and I schedule tweets, so even if my account is active, that doesn't mean I'm logged in, k? *more hugs* Take care of yourself! <3


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