Tough days: they come, and they go

I wrote this almost sixteen years ago, and published it on A Separate Life. It was about those tough days six years earlier, when I was in the midst of figuring out what life was going to be like now. I thought it was worth repeating here, all these years later, just to show that a) I understand what you might be going through, and b) that I don’t feel this way anymore. In fact, it has been a long time since I felt like this. Read the posts around it on A Separate Life, when I was already loving my life. We all get past those tough days. And we find joy again in that strong summer morning sunlight that is returning to the southern hemisphere right now.

“The strong summer morning sunlight was insistent, piercing her closed eyelids, willing her to wake. She struggled to hold on to sleep, because even asleep, her mind knew that she was protected, safe. But the sun won, consciousness was stronger. Her eyes opened. For a moment, serene, comfortable, rested. Then ... loss! She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. The pain followed very quickly.

She spent her days alone. Wandering the silent house, listlessly. Talking to the cat, checking her voice still worked. But he never spoke back. And when, in fits of sadness, she would hold him tight, rocking back and forward in her grief, sobbing, wailing, desperate to feel another living thing close to her, he would struggle against the unfamiliar grip, and break free. Leaving her scratched, scarred, and feeling even more alone.

Mostly, she lived with the ever present sadness, hovering so close to the surface. She kept it in check by a thin veneer of calm, covering the cracks as they appeared as quickly as possible, usually before the tears leaked out, but not always, usually before others noticed, but not always. She found herself weeping easily, at the simplest of things. TV ads seemed to be a weak spot. Unaccustomed to tears, it was as if the tap had been turned on, and she feared that now it could never be shut off completely.

She dreaded the phone ringing, having to make conversation with someone, anyone. Home was a haven. But of course, there were unavoidable chores to do.

“How is your day going?” asked the cheerful, spotty youthful checkout operator at the supermarket. She hated this question. “Fine,” she mumbled, struggling to look normal, incapable of raising a smile. Supermarket shopping was daunting. She was reluctant to go when there might be crowds. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing someone she knew. Having to make conversation, appear cheerful to those who didn’t know, or sense the pity in their eyes, their judgement of her situation. So she went in mid-morning, quickly, furtively. With the retired folks and the new mothers. A double-edged sword. She looked only at the floor or the shelves, avoiding all others.

After the supermarket ordeal she escaped to the nearby cafe for a latte and the opportunity to sit for a while, incognito, for just a while being normal, doing normal things. She would take that when she could get it. The other customers largely ignored her. The teenage girls from the school down the road were appropriately happy and boisterous, beginning the new school term. She was invisible to them, and that was fine by her. The business people unnerved her a little. Usually she was one of them, in another café, discussing the latest office gossip over a coffee. But now she wasn’t part of that club. And felt lost. Because then there were the mothers and babies. Usually one or two were pregnant, a few loud toddlers, and a crying newborn. They would settle next to the play area, spreading out, taking over, leaving their buggies in the way and their toddlers to play. One of them ran along the banquette seating towards her, and stopped. He stood, turning his head on the side, looking at her as if she were a strange alien being.

And she felt she was – a woman without a place in the world, in society. She wasn’t at work, and she didn’t belong to their club.

She drove home. “SORRY” said the neon sign on the big yellow bus as it wound its way down the gorge. In an odd way, she felt comforted. Not too many people had said they were sorry. Or meant it.”

Looking back on the early years

Something I saw or read or heard last week got me thinking about the early years of loss and grief and pain, and how different life feels now.

I haven’t forgotten. I can still see that younger <Mali> clinging desperately to the internet relationships she’d made who got her through many of the hardest days and the absolute distress she/I felt when our internet went down for a few days (horror – can you imagine that happening now?), the loneliness of being ‘other,’ the shame and the guilt, the lack of hope she/I felt for my future. I remember the gut punch of opening a cupboard and seeing the folic acid  bottle that I had kept “just in case.” And I remember the almost staggering shock at the realisation that I would be “one of those people” who didn't fit into mainstream society.

I think it’s important that I mention this some 20+ years later, because I want anyone who might find this site to know that it was never “easy” for me, for my readers and commenters, for any of us. I can and do remember that without pain – which is, if you might recall, how I define “getting over it.” Not that the pain doesn’t arise from time to time, not that there are never ouch moments, not that the world doesn’t make it easy for those of us who are living a No Kidding life. No, simply that I can talk about and remember those years largely without pain. The Mali who went through those emotions is different to the Mali* who writes here now.

It gets better. So much better. Life is pretty wonderful now, even the difficult parts. That’s because I embrace it, because there is no other choice. There’s so much to be grateful for, to appreciate, and yes, even to relish in our No Kidding lives. I don’t know if I’d have believed it back at the start. In fact, I think I might have fought against the idea, as I have seen others fight against it over the years. But simply deciding to look forward, to have hope for something new, and to embrace life honours the pain of the Mali of 20 years ago. She/I deserves to enjoy life now. And so do you!

 

 * Apologies for talking about myself in the third person, but it seemed appropriate, because the Mali of the early 2000s is not me anymore.

Empty nest friends

We often bemoan the fact of having different lives from our friends with kids. But you get to an age - usually in your 50s or 60s, but sometimes earlier - when you friends’ and families’ children have left home and are living their own lives. And then we have a lot more in common with our friends. I’ve been very lucky that one of my best friends had children relatively young, and so she’s been free for fun for a long time! But not everyone has this, and I know it can be really hard.

Still, eventually it will come to us all. I had a reminder of this the other night, at a barbecue with old friends. Their kids flew the nest quite some time ago, but due to their overseas travel (living there) we haven’t socialised very much in recent years. They noted that they’re going to take a break in February, once all the kids are back at school, but the summer is still in full fling. Which is exactly what we are considering. They don’t have grandkids (yet), their children are independent, capable adults, and – like us – they are free and easy right now. Their kids hardly came up in conversation (thankfully, my husband remembered to ask after them!), not because we’re not interested, but because they’re not part of their day-to-day lives now. They’re not childless, and their children are still in the country both as supports and potentially needed support. But day-to-day their lives are as a couple, not as parents. Just like ours. 

I guess I’m saying this just to give some hope to those of you who aren’t here yet. You get your friends back – some sooner than later. And that makes you feel as if your network is that much wider.