I've written a couple of letters to you since you left and I've decided to share them with the world. I doubt that anyone will really find this blog and read them but maybe letting it go, is letting it go into the world? I think I'm ready to share how I feel... it's time. I miss you every day.
p.s I've decided to call you Florence. She's awesome, I know you'd love that!
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Dear Readers
Some of you are strangers. Some of you know who I am and whom I write to. These letters aren't for you, they are for me, to unload and communicate. You don't get a say in what I write or how I feel. You are a bystander in my sea of grief. (I've been doing that a lot today, coming up with stonking lines like that!) I've removed the names and left an initial, it's all true (from my perspective) and if you have any issues with what I've written, tough - it's not about you, get over yourself.
The letters may trigger you. Is that really such a bad thing? Face it, deal with those emotional responses and find out the why and do the work and unfuck yourself. It's not easy. It burns like the sun... but you know that already, dontcha? Go ahead and have a good cry! Don't hold on to that shit, it will kill you, ask Florence. I've been exploring ways to deal with trauma and the dents it leaves behind, I will be sharing resources in this blog that I think may be able to help you. I'm no life coach or anyone with qualifications in psychology but I've found some that have helped me.
In a time of people saying they give a fuck about mental health, the reality is that it's drama to most people. They don't know what to say, how to act, what to do... so they avoid your posts about feeling sad etc. They care insofar as it's convenient. When you have no one to really talk to, writing your feelings down is as raw and honest as you can be with yourself. Writing a letter to the person it's about, is tough, especially if they're dead. When it's about grief, well now, you won't see most people for dust - they really don't know how to handle that shit. What is grief? A myriad of emotions, invoked when somebody we love, dies. It takes time to process this loss. There's no rush, at your own pace. If people don't get that, find new people. It's as simple as that.
It's time to introduce you to my good friend Florence. What can I say about this wonderfully, complicated woman? Highly intelligent; creative; into everything interesting; loved writing stories; loved looking after those who needed looking after, then she'd write about her adventures about those 'vintage' people; lover of critters of the feathered variety - ducks, geese, chickens, they gave her a lot of joy and us mirth with how they were considered family; owner of a delinquent spaniel and two house panthers; a womble of gargantuan proportions - the freebies and thrift (aka shit) she'd gather up, with the intentions of 'doing something' creative with it.. and then it just gathered dust (a sad, small mountain of this shit was pilled in her garden after she died). She was bonkers. She'd have crazy ideas about nailing carpet to the ceiling or her most famous one, dressing up in a full mascot outfit in a July heatwave at a music festival and then dance her pants off. Pints of pimms. Music. Smiling. Friendly. Reassuringly huggable. Mooching around charity shops. Wildness of the countryside. Bousin and crusty bread. Cider. Terrible wine. Getting lost and losing stuff, namely her keys! Does this paint a picture yet? Also Florence: functioning alcoholic. Misdiagnosed with BPD and taking meds that didn't help. Lonely. Suicidal. Manic. Traumatised. Misunderstood. Judged... by her friends. Saved and then ultimately failed by her friends. Me. I failed her. She'd disagree but here I am, writing letters to a dead friend. What is grief? Guilt.. it's mostly guilt and anger.
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Time by Pink Floyd
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
Home
Home again
I like to be here
When I can
When I come home
Cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones
Beside the fire
Far away
Across the field
Tolling on the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spell
