Grief Diaries 001

I am so grateful for all the lovely messages I received following the soft launch of my writing yesterday. Sharing my writing is something I've wanted to do for a long time but didn't have the energy or confidence to do until now. I can't remember a time where I didn't write. There are notebooks of all shapes, sizes, and designs in my current residence, storage unit, and parent's garage. These notebooks, along with several digital platforms, house my many musings on life, both real and imaginary. Maybe I'll write a book some day, I hope I do, but in the meantime I thought 'fuck it, let's get some of it out there'. Because if I wait until I have a book to be published, I may never get around to sharing my writing.

You may be wondering why this post is titled 'Grief Diaries 001'. Although there is an argument for all my posts in the foreseeable to be classed under this title, I wanted to make the distinction. These posts will all stem from bits of writing I have in a document titled 'Grief' in my Google Docs. This is a document I created and have been adding to since the second week of my husband's passing. When I have emotions and thoughts that feel stuck inside my body, I open up this document on my phone, scroll to the bottom, and start a new paragraph. Without fail, this little exercise makes me feel lighter, even during the hardest of times.

Entry 17

When someone close to you dies, especially by their own hand, you reek of death. It's not immediately obvious but as you engage with others, the smell sets in and they slowly take steps back to get some air. Oh how I wish I could step back to get some air. It's smelled through forced and half smiles. A vacant look and eyes focused in the distance. Partial answers that lead to the full answers you don't want to say because the smell will transfer to them. But they'll be able to wash off the smell once they go home and greet their partner with a kiss or enjoy their favourite meal.

I remember writing this after I'd returned from joining my running club one evening. I'd gone to get myself out of the house and be around other people. Living alone has a way of making socialising feel like a vitamin you have to force yourself to take otherwise you'll feel like shit. On this particular day I was physically at the session, ran a good pace too. But once I had stopped moving and people started to make small groups to chat, I felt like I was a ghost floating around, making the people who could see my apparition feel uneasy. I couldn't stop thinking about the stench of grief. Those who know about your grief, those who don't, they can smell it equally. And every new person I meet ends up finding out about my sob story within minutes because they invariably ask "What brought you to Wales?". I've considered making up an answer that makes the other person more comfortable, but that's just not in my nature.

Entry 18

Grief has made me stink. I feel unclean more frequently, presumably caused by the increase in cortisol and adrenaline in my body. But at the same time, I'm showering less. Has it been 4 days already? I swear I just showered yesterday. My hair is flat, greasy, and knotted too.

If we're being technical, grief does make you stink. Heightened levels of stress hormones cause your body to smell and feel dirty faster than someone who is not grieving. This, mixed with a warped sense of time and feeling exhausted by the thought of showering, means I did stink. Surely someone under a lot of stress should get a break from having to look after themselves rather than have to do more?! Quite annoying that.

If there's anything you take away from this post, or this entire website in general, please take away this: write. Write when you hurt. Write when you're happy. Write lists when the sentences won't form. Write letters/messages to people that you'll never send. Keep your writing, even if you think it's worthless. Re-reading my writing from my darkest times, has helped remind me on numerous occasions that life will always get better and that I'm stronger than I realise.