I’ve spoken about my grief recently in a post titled It’s Been a Long Year. Click on the button below to go straight to it. I like it as a post but it made me tear up when I reread it in prep for this one because it’s about grief and how it lingers in the background of everything for me. And I say ‘my’ grief because I understand that we all process this a little differently and how I feel may not be the same as how you feel. Unfortunately it’s mine and I have to carry it.
I was speaking to my therapist recently and I just can’t get this notion of my grief as a backpack out of my head. I carry it, it’s always there just over my shoulder and some days it’s quite light and others it’s bloody heavy. I can try and adjust the straps at times, but I still know it’s there and I can’t put it down. My problem is that I would just love to be able to put it down for a bit and give myself a rest, but I know I can’t. I am not afforded that luxury. I suppose the luxury I am afforded is that I get to talk about it when I want to. I am lucky to have a professional to talk to and family and friends and I have this space to write things down and think about them as I do.
The fucking thing is invisible as well. You can’t see it apart from a slight dip in my shoulders sometimes when it’s feeling particularly cumbersome. You wouldn’t really know it was there as I’m laughing or making a silly joke or just going about my day. I don’t know if you ever had a backpack with a strip of fabric at the top which you could then use to hang your pack up on a hook. But when you’re wearing it, sometimes that strip would annoyingly flick the back of your head. Yeah, that. It’s there, you’re having a good time and it just nudges you to remind you of the shittest thing that has happened to you. It’s my load.
This week I had a tree planted in my back garden. It’s a cherry blossom tree and it’s similar to what was planted for Dad up at the cricket ground. My hope is that it’ll grow, flourish and stay there long after I’ve moved onto a new place, providing a dash of prettiness in spring and some shade in the summer. Dad didn’t want a headstone or something with his name on it. That’s ok, we’ll all know why the tree is there. It can be our secret.
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