Was I meant to timebox my grief? Some kind of relational-distance to depth-of-mourning to time-allowed ratio that we are meant to use as a guide for how far we can allow ourselves to unravel, and remain unravelled?
When my grandmother passed I took the maximum time company policy permitted (two weeks), plus three extra of annual leave. 17 days to heal from losing the woman whose love and sacrifice is woven into the very thread of my life, every part of who I am.
I made the 19 hour journey home, the first week back spent partaking in funereal processions and greeting the guests who had come to pay their final respects. I had the week after to spend time with my family, recover from jetlag and strain of the preceding funeral week. Then back on a plane, 20+ hours to London.
I had not shed more than a few tears for my grandmother by this point.
The next three days I spent some time with a friend staying with us from new york. We had a glorious, quiet day swimming in the heath, I took my first tennis lesson.
There was a farewell dinner on the last day, a handful of us sat outside at a small table, light summer breeze cooling our skin. It was a pleasant evening and under any other circumstance I would have been grateful for the moment, but on this day I wish I had given myself the grace not to go.
An evening of small talk with people I did not know was the last thing I needed, existing as I was in a hazy limbo, barely processing the first great loss of my life.
I left completely drained. I had work the next day.
I’d come to the end of my 17 days of rest then, and no more tears had come.
Thursday, one month on
I was meant to be in Paris this weekend, with a friend and more friends of friends. I was looking forward to it, until the week of came around and the idea of four days with people I did not love began to sound increasingly more nightmarish.
So okay, I defaulted on a non-refundable Eurostar ticket.
I went to see a friend I did love instead - and still I time-boxed this lunch to no more than two hours - I had no more of myself to give.
Booked a massage, did some aimless strolling around Islington. Cooked a light dinner, sank into our massive sofa and my harry potter.
It was the most delicious day.
Friday
In my journal I had written, before the start of my long weekend, that I wanted nothing more than to do absolutely nothing.
Free time feels like such a luxury when you work a 9-to-5. You get two days a week to yourself, two days to get your shit in order, clean your house, see your friends, pursue your interests, process your thoughts, then it’s back to the grind on Monday.
This isn’t an i-hate-capitalism-and-my-soul-sucking-job rant (I like my job a lot), I’m just saying that the human mind and heart doesn’t work to a plan on a page. It doesn’t adhere to a two-week chevron in the ‘process grief and get on with life’ swim-lane.
I’m saying that some weekends I’m not sure what the f to do with myself after a week immersed in work, because i don’t know how to ease my nervous system out of ‘drive’ and into ‘relax’ quickly enough.
Some weekends I’m so overzealous for the free time that I pack every hour up with dates and bookings, and come home on Sunday more depleted than recharged for another week of saying hello in corporate.
Most weekends, I run out of time before I can sit down with myself. Maybe I am an over emotional, weak little sapling, but I need a lot of sitting down with myself.
I finally had the time on that Friday, a day deliberately left empty: I did not want to do shit. I wasn’t going to be working on no mfing self-development or side-hustle, I had absolutely nothing left to give.
What I did instead, was I finally grieved. It came on gently at first, while sat in meditation. Slowly and then all at once, the loss broke over me like waves.
My heart finally had the space it needed to express what it had lost, something that I know now it could hardly contain any longer. Grief that consumed my whole body, how can I put it into words?
(i think maybe, i will not try today)
I will leave it at that - that I finally gave my heart some rest. Rest that meant nothing more than being still, that meant not asking it to give beyond what it wanted, to friend or goal, loved or unloved.
Rest that was a grace to be selfish, and even greedy with what it needed, rest that is ruthless with who or what it chooses to let in.
Saturday & Sunday
The rest of the weekend was a blissful one with, again, zero to-do’s and zero plans with anyone I did not wish with my whole entire chest to see. Anyone who drained instead of added to my life, I took all my energy back from. Rest that is ruthless.
Give yourself the grace to- this week. taaa
I'm so sorry for your loss. This is such a beautiful piece and this resonated a lot with the grief I went through earlier this year.
On another note, I'm excited to see the second/new publication!
Thank you so much for writing this. Grief is one of the hardest things to write about and this really resonated with me.