Growing Around Grief

I woke up this morning with the intention of writing. 

I had a cup of coffee, watched some crappy reality TV, and decided to start cleaning.

But, as is what happens to everyone, cleaning and tidying means coming upon things and getting distracted by reading and remembering.

The below is not in any way, shape, or form what I had intended to write.

***

I have this closet in my apartment.

If it was tidy, you could step in and take things from shelves and store everything very easily.

Unfortunately, it is not tidy.

It is rammed full of old clothes I can't bear to get rid of, boxes I keep in case I need to move again (I grew up with hoarders so I was always going to end up like this), my ex's box of porn (I've offered it back to him numerous times because... eh, I'm fine thanks. Not entirely sure why I am still allowing this to take up space in my home...), and a massive suitcase full of "treasures" from my life.

I took a notion to begin the deep-clean by venturing into this closet.

First mistake.

This is essentially a room of distraction and I fell at the first hurdle.

My dad's camera.

***

My dad passed away on the 12th of January 2018, 5 years ago, but I think based on the nature of our relationship and how often I used to get to see him (twice a year because of circumstances), it feels so mush more recent (Why am I justifying my feelings yet again!? That's essentially my therapist's voice in my head there).

It still feels like a missed phone-call. That's the best way I can describe it. So it's like a constant new realisation when I pick up something that makes me think of him or something happens that I really need to tell him... I find myself right back in that January, boarding the plane to see him laying in coffin and bringing home an urn to bury.

Fun.

I've grieved before. Too many times. Family whose time it was to go but I didn't want them to. Friends who unalived themselves because life and the world can be too cruel. Friends who in a simple twist of fate died doing what they loved.

You can never prepare yourself for permanent goodbyes. Try grieving for someone living with Dementia or Alzheimers. They're still alive but gone. 

It doesn't work. It just takes longer. With the same inevitable end.

I digress.

Most of the time, I'm ok. I can remember and smile and think only of the good times.

Then there are those days where it feels like my heart is trying to strangle itself.

Seeing your father's will for the first time, arriving announced into your email, while sitting on a bus to work; there is no way to prepare for that. Even if it happens 4 years after he's gone.

Anyway, I shouldn't have said "grieved"; past tense. It's never past. Once faced with grief, you're always grieving. It just becomes easier to cope with.

I worry I talk about my dad too much. Do I talk him more now that he's gone? Am I making people feel uncomfortable by bringing him up? Am I being dramatic? Am I obsessed with death? Do I let this define me?

Lack of self-worth, a large helping of depression and a dollop of anxiety has made this all the more difficult to make peace with and understand.

I did find a great infographic that has helped though.

I am not weird because I grieve and fall headfirst into the awful process from time to time.

Contrary to what so many people say or believe, the grief doesn't get smaller. It stays the same. 

This horrible solid ball of loss that hardens and softens all at once.

That rattles around with you, hitting you when you're not ready to catch it.

That makes you want to talk about it and not talk about it.

That makes you feel like you're broken because you're still in it.

You will learn to adapt to a life without them and that doesn't mean it won't hurt anymore. The only reason it doesn't consume you is because you grow.

And I didn't realise this for a very long time.

I felt guilty for grieving and I felt guilty for living (that could just be because of my own mental health battles but to me, guilt and grief nearly always go hand in hand).

The moments where you break happen less often and then you've got to come to terms that you are doing what they would want. Growing, coping, living.

I still think back on my first loss and I break. I was 17 and he helped shape who I am today. I can still hear his voice and mostly, this makes me smile. But come his birthday or when I wake up randomly at 2am after a bad dream, I find myself back home, sitting on that old broken trailer, being told he was gone... And as I write that, I realise that next March will make it 20 years since we said goodbye.

Twenty years and I still cry over him.

***

My dad's camera caught me off guard today. I'd looked through the photos a couple months after he passed. Not really taking much in because that was a time where I could barely remember my own name and my Grandpa passed away just after him so everything that I knew was safe and certain was gone. Tailspin doesn't even begin to cover it.

I sat down to take the photos off the camera, save them, and share them with his loved ones who were in them. His partner, my brothers, his best friend.

I was completely unprepared for how I would feel going through them... Especially after a Christmas alone (by choice! Ish).

It was like an assault on my memory.

And how does one even cope with seeing a photo of their father leaning on what would become his grave!?!

Answer: You don't. You let the tears flow. You lean into it any way you can. And eventually you'll become too dehydrated to cry any more.

I've stopped crying enough to take a step back, and think, and write. I'll run a hot bath (but have to remember to keep my right arm out of it because new tattoos and baths don't go well together) and have a glass of wine.

***

I'm writing this mostly to exorcise my own demons, I guess. I never know what my intentions really are when I post on here. I think maybe I'm a little more honest and little less bleak than when I attempt to journal. My diaries became a whole lot less funny after the age of 18.

I don't know how to even end this splurge of thoughts and feeeeeeeeeeeelings so I'm not even going to try. 

Let this hang there, just like grief.

Reading this post most likely did not make you feel amazing but maybe if you're in the midst of a moment where grief has caught up on you, you won't feel so alone or like what you're going through is wrong.

You aren't.

It isn't.

You're just here.

***

I'll clean my apartment tomorrow.

Rogue Theatre presents 'Seminar' - Review

Every now and then, theatre goers have the opportunity to attend a production that can only be described as a masterclass in how to stage a show.

Rogue Theatre achieved this with their interpretation of Theresa Rebeck’s ‘Seminar’.

‘Seminar’ tells the story of 4 aspiring (and very different) novelists attending private classes with a renowned ‘celebrity’ author. That’s it in a nutshell.

However, this fast-paced, witty, very real story delights, engages, and raises all kinds of emotions from the audience.

Running this week in the Players’ Theatre in Trinity, Rogue Theatre, under the direction of Corinna Reichle, became those writers we all know (and some of us are).

You enter the theatre and you’re already in the living room of a plush Manhattan apartment. Props to the set designer! Their choices of furnishings ensure the audience felt like they were in on something, a part of something, and maybe watching things they shouldn’t be watch.

Andre Callanan is superb in his role of the pretentious writer, Douglas, who knows everything and delves far too deep into his content. “Is the interiority or the exteriority?” garnering a good laugh from an audience all too familiar with this sort of person. His movements and pacing meant your eye was on him and you were ready to be irritated by the next thing this “whoarish” writer said.

Sorcha Herlihy becomes Izzy; the boobs first, questions later erotic novelist. Her comedic timing is on point; when she’s not speaking, she’s reacting and Issy’s sexual prowess is there for all to see… Literally, sometimes. A powerhouse of actor, Herlihy is a spot on casting choice for this role and brings so much humour, wit and sex appeal to every scene she is in.

Jane Tuohy as Kate is a central cog in the success of this production. Her New York accent is flawless and every single thing she does on that stage has purpose, meaning, and captures the audience’s attention. The put-upon Kate has been working on her piece for 6 years and Tuohy embodies the stress and indignation of a writer who expected a better critique. She’s fun, she’s witty, and, by God, does she nail this role.

Greg Freegrove plays Martin, the rejected writer who’s actually got talent. He is in love with Izzy and Freegrove’s chemistry with Herlihy is both enjoyable and bloody hilarious with even a not so subtle attempt at a romp behind the couch on stage. Freegrove’s Martin remains upstage for most of the writing seminars, judging, taking in everything that’s happening, all while being too fearful to share his work as the rejections are too much. He is the catalyst to the inhibitor that is John Lawler’s Leonard.

John Lawler fully embodies the role of contemptuous and beaten down teacher Leonard. He owns the stage when he is on it. Each character drawn to him different ways and all, despite denying it, wanting his praise and approval. His condescension puts men off and turns women on. It would be remiss of me not to mention Lawler’s incredible performance of Leonard’s monologue detailing his career. The audience were quieted and some brought to tears and this is a testament to the ability and craft of Lawler honed by Reichle’s direction.

While this may read like a love letter to a production, I stand by every word. Sure, there were some initial opening night nerves at the start but within 5 minutes, each actor had fully relaxed and immersed themselves into their roles and the story.

‘Seminar’ is now completely sold out so to those of you without tickets… I’m sorry but you’ve missed something special.

Congratulations to all the cast and crew because, and especially for a first production, it was seamless, beautiful, funny and had all the heart you expect when you go to the theatre.

Look up

It's been a while since I even felt like I could update this blog. I've focused so much on writing poetry to pull the thoughts out of my head that I have felt drained and like I don't really have anything to say apart from my moments (that's what I call my poems).

I haven't written here since December 2020 and I kind of forgot to how to be honest in "blog" form and, well, I was just wrapped up in surviving and trying to keep my head above water; much like most of the population of the world throughout this whole pandemic.

This post will be mainly just a blah because I'm trying to break the seal and get back on here. I don't even really know what to say, to be honest.

Over the last 14 months, I've met some amazing new people online and in person who have changed my life in ways I didn't think possible...

It started with a man on New Year's day. 

A stranger walking the same path as me in Glasnevin Cemetery. 

He had a cup of soup and stopped to chat for a while. I can't remember everything we talked about but I remember him telling me how he moved to England when he was 14 to find work. He couldn't read or write. He fell in love. He got married. She passed away very young. He moved back to Ireland when he was 65 and now at the age of 70 he has started buying second hand copies of primary school reading and writing exercise books so he can learn properly. 

I can't help but smile every time I think about him. 

We spoke for about 45 minutes, until his soup was gone and he wanted to go to the "new" cemetery to say a quick hello to Luke Kelly.

One thing that has stayed with me from this completely random interaction is when he said "Getting older means you begin to really see". 

And yes, he did mean it as poetically as that.

I think about this a lot. Especially on those really tough days where I feel like I can't get out of bed because I think there is no point.

I'm afraid of getting old because I don't think I've achieved everything I need to. Don't get me wrong I've done a lot but there are some core values that I have ingrained in me that I'm trying to work on letting go of because... Really? They weren't mine to begin with.

I'm nearly 37 and that scares the absolute crap out of me. If I was to disappear tomorrow, what would my legacy be? What would my daughter say about me? These are the dramatic thoughts of an anxious mind who always wants to do more. Find that thing that makes her happy but it's impossible to do so because when I get or do the things that make me happy, I've added to the wish list.

I'm trying to learn to see and for me, it starts with looking up.

Try it. 

Have a look at those upstairs windows of the taller buildings when you're walking the streets.

Have a look up while you're taking a sip coffee.

Have a look up when you're sitting at the bus stop and, maybe, smile at  stranger.

Have a look up when you're on that top deck of a bus and admire the moon and sun being visible at the same time.

Just look up...

And that's where I am going to stop this stream of consciousness before I get too philosophical and in my own head.

Thanks for reading!

Self Worth/Love

And now we come to yet another thing that has been mulling around my head for... well... for years!

Self worth, self love, be kind to yourself, body positivity, body acceptance, loving your body for what it does for you, etc. All of that jazz.

I have spent my entire life hating me. Who I am. What I look like. Things I've done. 

I have said things more cruel to myself than I have ever had someone else say to me (and I've had some pretty cruel things shouted at me by strangers). More cruel than I would even say to my worst enemy.

In fact today I lay on the couch thinking about how I am a complete and utter failure and then, just to make myself feel worse, I got up, grabbed a tube of red lipstick and marked all of the bits of my body I don't like. Red lines and dots everywhere. I looked like those diagrams of cows you see in the butcher that tell you where each cut of meat comes from. In fact, I thought that to myself and then I actually said "but no-one wants such a fatty piece of meat".

Really. Really. Really!?

Is this how I am going to spend my whole life?

I lost my job last month. I was working there for almost 8 years. It was welcome in so far as it was really time for me to move on but also it turned out to be unwelcome because not only did I have my confidence trounced on for 90% of the time there but I was effectively told (without actually being told) that my role was unnecessary.

No matter how you dress it up, it hurts. It hurts where I was already hurting. 

Sure I understand that the role was made redundant and not the person... me... but it still smacks.

I've decided to take a little time off to write which is why this blog is slightly more active than it has ever been and I'll properly start the job hunt in January. However, I spend most of my days being afraid that I'm not a good writer so I'm wasting my time and then creeps in the thoughts of "What am I actually good at!?" and then suddenly I'm down the rabbit hole of berating myself for not being good enough.

I try and try and try and yet I'm still sitting here feeling like nothing I have ever done has hit that sweet spot of perfection (Look, I know perfection doesn't exist and yet still we all search for it...).

I'm tired. Really tired. And struggling with dark days/weeks/months. I still get out of bed and hope and try but it is getting harder to see that bright light at the end of the tunnel.

I've taken on the expectations others have for me and elevated them to a level that no one could ever reach. See? The rational side of my brain sees that, acknowledges that and ignores it.

I spend most of my time feeling like I've let people down. Other people. Not myself; although that happens more often that I would like it to. Always fixated on what other people think I should be doing and how I should be doing it. Losing myself in the process...

Then there's the body stuff. I have been above what is considered a "straight" size (that's a phrase I just learned) for most of my life. I have had every insult there is about being bigger from people I know, strangers, and, mostly, from myself.

I have diaries that show how I've bullied myself from the age of 9. Weight was always top of my ranting; ranking even above romance which is shocking!

I settled in relationships where my weight was commented on by my partners. My first ever long term boyfriend even told me that he was breaking up with me because he was less attracted to me because of my weight. Things like that stick with you.

I don't look at other people and see their weight. I see their beauty, their smiles, their eyes, the way they hold themselves. I could write the most beautiful poetry on these things alone.

But when it comes to me. I can't see it.

I joined WeightWatchers in 2012, not long after my daughter was born. I will never forget stepping on
the scales that first day when the "leader" said "Oh! We'll have to take it slowly with you!". Shame. I still cringe when I think of that memory. 

I don't blame her. She was doing what she was paid to do. Over a year and a half I lost weight until I got to the 3rd goal they set me (yeah, they lowered my goal weight twice over that time). That goal felt good. Just as good as it did to feel hungry because I set my mind to the idea of hunger being a good thing. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, they said.

Christmas 2013, an old friend came up to me to tell me he had met up with people we went to college with and told them "Have you seen Shivvy? She got hot!". There it was. Affirmation.

I was running 60-70km a week. I was walking 10km a day. I was eating maximum 900 calories a day. BUT! I was hot! I was noticed! 

Then came what I now know to be an eating disorder. I gained weight because I started to allow myself to live life a little. I freaked on the scales. Morning and evening I was checking. The morning weigh would determine how the day go and the evening weigh would either congratulate me or send me spiralling into starvation or overdosing on laxatives.

One time in work, someone said to me "OH! Your face!". I stood there confused. "It's so bloated!!" I tried to laugh it off by saying "Haha! I had pizza last night. Maybe that's it." Little did I realise that this seemingly innocent conversation would begin what some colleagues called "Face watch". They would take turns guessing whether I had eaten pizza or not the night before depending on how bloated my face appeared...

That really didn't help things.

The skinniest I've been in the last 3 years was when I was diagnosed with depression. Of course I was skinny, I paced my apartment because I couldn't bear to go outside and the only food I ate were peas... supplemented with laxatives.

Lockdown hasn't helped my body image but I have a little more time to try and take the time to learn to love who I am. It's a work in progress.

I haven't taken anything silly in the last 5 months. My therapist recommended this great book called "The F*ck It Diet" which has helped me deal with realising cravings are ok and cheese is not the devil! But as I said, it is a work in progress. 60% of the time, I'm ok. Then that 40%... Pfft, that 40% is difficult to say the least. 

As I write this, I actually haven't even eaten today. I went for a bath after drawing the lipstick lines all over myself, had a glass of wine, did my make-up and spent 2 hours poking and prodding my rolls in front of the mirror. 

They're me. They're me trying to cope with all of the craziness in the world right now. They're me trying to forget about calories and restriction. They're me celebrating every time I go to the chemist and I don't buy laxatives.

Fuck.

I don't even really know what I'm writing anymore.

But I do know that I'm not writing this so that I can get compliments from anyone who may read it. I'm writing this more for the people who think I am insanely confident and have my shit together.

I'm not and I don't.

Life should be for living. And life should be enjoyed. And no matter how tired I get, I will never ever stop trying to get to a point where ok is good enough, where other people's opinions of me don't matter, where I can look in the mirror and thirst myself every single time.

I am me even if I don't know who that is and whether or not I like it, I gotta learn to love imperfect, flawed me.

First Dates

Yesterday I binge watched various romantic films. Some good. Some horrendous. But whatever, I love terrible movies. Especially terrible romantic holiday films.

I love love. Always have, always will (despite my heart begging me to quit it).

I've had various relationships over the years; long term, short term, "fun" friends. Heck I've even been the unknowing "other" woman. Still, no matter how many times I get hurt, I bounce back up again and hope.

I used to believe that my life would be complete once I met "the one". I dunno if I necessarily believe in "the one" anymore but I do believe in love. And most of all, I believe in first dates.

I am grinning as I write this. 

First dates... My first ever first date was when I was 28. I'd been on dates before but they were always after a stolen kiss in the nightclub (I am writing that to sound way more romantic that the reality).

That first date was wonderful. He was gent who had a great sense of humour. We had some drinks, we played some pool and he kissed me at the end of the evening. A great kiss. We ended up seeing each other for a few months after that and even though it ended, I still think back on that time and smile.

The power of the first date.

The nerves as you get ready.

The fantasies that you try to push back so as not to get your hopes up.

The trying to figure out how not to be the first one there or to be the first one there so you can be set for when they arrive.

The do you hug or kiss on the cheek or maintain a distance.

The opening strains of conversation.

It's all good up to here.

Then obviously the date can go one of two ways. Great or bad (I include meh dates and the "we're better as friends" dates here; you don't date to make friends). 

I'm going to focus on the good because I'm sticking to the positive today.

As I sit here just typing what comes into my head, all of these amazing memories are making me stupidly warm and cuddly.

There was the first date where we went up the Dublin mountains on cold night with flasks of tea to watch the lights of the city.

There was the first date where we went to a Mexican restaurant and I accidentally ordered a whole chicken for dinner and he had to cut my food for me because after I attempted to dice that chicken I sent black beans flying all over the place.

There was the first date where we didn't want the conversation to end so we went back at his place and he sang Damien Rice to me (sounds cringe but I can assure you that if the person is talented, you go with it and you melt).

No matter how these relationships ended, it nice to focus on their beginnings and remember why you were drawn to that person in the first place.

That first kiss. The one where you're trying to suss out whether or not they want to kiss you. Should you let them make the move? Should you make the move?

And then before you know it, they have placed their hands on the sides of your face, hooked them under your ears, looked into your eyes, and leaned in...

I really, really miss good first dates...

Anyway, I could go on but it would turn into the most ridiculous romantic drivel so I'll stop there and hope that you can look back on some of your first dates and smile.

Use a different excuse to not date me

I have a million things I need to be doing right now but I just had to sit and write about something that's been on my mind a lot lately.

How would you feel about dating a person who had a child with someone else?

I had my daughter when I was 25. I was in a long term relationship that ended when she was 2 and since then I had one other serious relationship.

I've dated. A lot. TV shows depicting singletons make it look a heck of a lot more fun than it actually is.

I've been upfront about having a kid and been ghosted. I have hidden that I had a kid and been ghosted. I've not talked about my kid and been told I don't mention her enough. I've also talked about my kid and had the subject quickly changed.

There is no win. You never know how a potential partner may feel when confronted with the extremely obvious evidence that you have in fact copulated with another individual.

When myself and my daughter's dad broke up I remember convincing myself that I was damaged goods and that no-one would ever want to be with me because I'm a mom. And as you know, when you have a child THAT DEFINES YOU. 

Everything about you is that child. 

YOU ARE A PARENT. 

YOU HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING ON IN YOUR LIFE APART FROM PARENTING.

Yeah. This was only further affirmed by a (ex) friend of mine sending me a flurry of 4am texts after a night out telling me how he was "flattered" that I had shown interest in him romantically ("Did I?" was my first thought) but that he wasn't ready to be a father (ignoring the fact that my kid has a perfectly good father present in her life) and that I'm a "great girl who will make someone very happy someday" (ehhhh... splendid?) so, essentially, "thanks but no thanks".

I'm paraphrasing. I could go and look for the messages but I'd rather not pick at that particular scab.

That guy hit every single sensitivity I had around being a single mom who would like to meet someone.

It hurt.

Still kinda does if I'm being honest.

Looking back, I do think the real shock of this whole scenario was that he had made up his mind that I was into him... Bit of a stretch considering I was trying to get stuck into an ex.

Meh.

That chap is married now and has a baby. Good for him. 

It took a while for me to tease out all of those insecurities, deal with them head on and finally realise that if someone doesn't want to be with me, then they don't want to be with me. My kid has nothing to do with it. No matter what, if the person is right... well, then the timing and conditions will be right.

I remember being at a friend's wedding a couple of years ago. I had gone to chill out for a few minutes in a locked toilet cubicle when a group of ladies came in. They were chatting about dating and one of them mentioned that she had gone on a few dates with a guy but called it off because he had a kid and she just wasn't ready for that sort of commitment and she didn't know how she felt about him having a child with someone else. I stepped out of the cubicle. There was no disguising the shock on their faces. Quick apologies were flying at me because they "meant no disrespect".

I didn't feel disrespected. I wasn't upset. I actually thought "fair play" to the woman who was saying she broke it off because she wasn't sure how she felt. To me, I would rather that than go through months of dating, "catching feelings" and then finding out. The heartbreak is so much worse.

A quick rip of that band-aid rather than the crushing soul-destroying "I'll be alone forever" heartache.

Oh I have eaten so very much ice-cream in a fruitless bid to numb the pain of a good aul dumping.

Anyway, I'm kind of just landing this on the page as I think and I have to go and collect my child from school.

It's just something that creeps into my head.

Yeah. I have a kid. I'm 35. We ALL have something going on by the time we hit our mid 30s and if you don't, have you really even lived!?!

Date me or don't. I'm cool with it. Just don't make it all about my kid because I have so much more wrong with me that you could use as an excuse!

Anyhow, I'm getting cats.

"We need your bio"

As soon as I hear or read these words, my mind melts and I feel like I am the biggest imposter/failure/brag artist ever.

I get the same feelings when I think about updating my CV. So I don't. I send my crappy draft to friends and get them to write down just how fricking amazing I am (Sorry, friends!).

I know I'm not alone in this.

Most of us find it difficult to receive compliments and to talk about our achievements, especially after the excitement of the achievement has passed.

When people see my dire CV or my attempts at writing a bio they always have to remind me of the many good things I've done and then I end up all like "Ah yeah, but that was ages ago!". 

We spend so much time telling ourselves to "let go of the past" and "live in the now" while "working toward a better future"; so much so that the holes in the sieves that are our minds expand and everything goes. The bad stuff goes (sometimes but that stuff seems to stick like limescale to the element of a kettle... can you tell I'm facing my kitchen?) but also so does the good stuff!

We have great memories when it comes to tragedy and trauma. It's not only kept in our minds but the body knows the score and all that jazz. I just wish I could retain the amazing things just as clearly.

Again, I know I'm not alone in this so this is not some earth-shattering "Oh my god, me too!" moment. I promised myself I would get used to blogging again and this is what came into my head... Because I have to write a bio...

So I sit here writing this in yet another bid to avoid writing the bio. Earlier distractions included knitting a pair of legwarmers, cleaning my oven, and dancing about to my burlesque playlist. I mean I do avoidance really well but that's not something which I think would win me points on my bio/CV.

It doesn't help that my confidence has taken quite bashing over the last 6 months. Furlough bled into redundancy. My brain knows that redundancy is the position and not the person but, bloody hell, as break ups go, this was a toughie. I mean, now I sit here wondering what I'm actually good for, what should I do next, how do I pay rent... BLAH DI BLAH BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. (Just bit of frustration there)

I have decided to take some time off to work on some creative projects (which I have loads of) and therefore am calling myself a writer.

I told my kid not to tell people I am unemployed; tell them I am a writer. 

She has taken this request too far and now whenever anyone even mentions me to her she says "Mom's fine. She's a writer.", "Mom will send in a note. She's a writer.",  "Mom cut my hair. She's a writer.", and "The toilet is broken in our apartment. Mom is a writer."

Yeah... Need to have a chat with her about how the mom being writer thing should only come up if someone asks her what I do for a living.

So here I sit. With free time. A laptop. And many pens.

A writer who cannot write a bio. A writer who feels like she needs to keep her light under her bushel so as not to seem full of herself. A writer who is wasting your time just as much as her own by writing this.

But hey! It's writing!

Fine. I am awesome. I shall write the sodding bio... After I clean my windows.

(I'm sure I'll get better at this...)