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!