I’ve just discovered that tomorrow (8th December) is the final day of National Grief Awareness Week, the existence of which I wasn’t aware of until today. The irony being that I am, and have long been, constantly aware of grief.
The campaign is being run by The Good Grief Trust, which aims to normalise grief, get people to talk about it, and offer support from day one to anyone suffering a bereavement anywhere in the UK.
This is a noble endeavour, and I totally support it (or would have done, had I known it started a week ago), but grief is much broader in scope than bereavement.
Grief encompasses losses great and small – of people, things, pets, jobs, hopes, dreams and expectations.
Well, I know that now, but I didn’t when I first needed to – when I was a teenager.
Before that, I’d suffered the loss of a budgie and then a cat. I was sad, but got over both losses pretty quickly.
Then there was Susan, a girl in my class at grammar school, who died in a freak riding accident when we were 13. She wasn’t a friend of mine but it brought the reality of death very close, especially the suddenness of it, and I experienced a weird feeling of collective grief that bordered on hysteria.
I don’t remember the word grief being used at the time, but I understood the underlying emotion. Grief meant you felt very sad when someone you loved (a person, a pet) died. Right, got it.
Fast forward three years. I was sweet 16 when my funny, intelligent father had a devastating stroke that left him partly paralysed and totally dependent on my mother. He was only 46, in the prime of life.
I quickly came to realise that he could no longer play the role of father in any way that was meaningful to me, a girl on the cusp of womanhood.
I was in shock for months after it happened. It was as if a big black hole had opened up inside me. I had no words to describe how I was feeling, so I didn’t talk to anyone about my emotions. My dad was alive, but I’d lost him.
I didn’t know I was grieving, because no one had died. No one explained to me that this black hole was a well of unresolved, unexpressed grief.
Many years of therapy, self-development and self-help books later, I began to process this grief and unpack its contents. Inside wasn’t just sadness, but also fear, betrayal and abandonment, as well as anger bordering on rage.
These days, grief and I quite often walk the same path together. And if I can’t see him, he’s usually waiting just around the next corner.
Yes, bereavement is the biggie – and I’ve had one of those this year, as have many of my friends and acquaintances. But let’s not forget those other losses, the ones that society doesn’t often give us permission to grieve – especially the unique losses that we have racked up in the Year of Covid.
Loss of freedom
Loss of movement
Loss of connection
Loss of belonging
Loss of togetherness
Loss of a good haircut
Loss of a workplace
Loss of collective joy
Loss of office banter
Loss of sporting occasions
Loss of birthday parties
Loss of weddings
Loss of touch
Loss of health
Loss of having a good time with random people…
The list is endless. As 2020 draws to a close, it’s probably a good idea to honour some of those losses. Write them down and let them go gently floating downstream, burn a candle and feel all your feelings, meditate, take a quiet moment, reflect and learn.
Yes, it’s good to be aware of grief – especially if you don’t think you have permission to grieve. Perhaps we should be aware of grief all the time, and treat it as a constant companion who deserves our respect. After all, you might be meeting again sooner than you think.
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