Good Grief

I remember, in the first couple of days after my father died, being very aware that everything felt different - as though I was experiencing consciousness in a new way. I remember thinking, "I should be writing all this down", but of course I was far too busy to record any of my thoughts at the time. And the surreal, unreal, hyper real feeling (the result of adrenaline keeping me going) subsided, and I missed my chance to accurately capture it. 

"Next time," I thought, with certainty, imagining grieving for some future loss, years away, "I'll write it all down." And then, nine months later, my mother died.

It felt different, for lots of reasons, but again reality was altered, and again there was no time to keep a record of it.

I regretted missing my chance to write about my grief; then I realised that I hadn't. I couldn't write about it in real time, but that didn't mean that writing wouldn't be useful. And it's not as though the grieving process was over - it takes years. I'd previously written a blog about sexual violence, and I'd been surprised by how much I benefitted from processing my experiences as I wrote about them. Even more surprisingly, other people got in touch to say that my blog had been helpful for them. So, it was decided: I would write a blog, some posts hidden, others visible, and maybe share it with a few close friends. 

But a blog needs a name. 

I knew that I hadn't handled my grief well, after my father died, which resulted in me falling apart entirely when I tried to "get back to normal" a few months later. I desperately wanted to avoid making the same mistakes again, and after my mother died I thought a lot about grieving well, without negative repercussions. Good grief, if you like.

And those words, "good grief", always make me think of my mother. She was a very religious woman, who swore very rarely, and possibly blasphemed never. So, neutral expressions of frustration, like "good grief", were well used! I occasionally hear myself (a very different, sweary, blasphemous woman) say, "Good grief!" in a voice not quite my own, and it always makes me think of her.

And, of course, of Charlie Brown. 

My parents met at grammar school, after my mother moved out of London, with her family, in her early teens. Because of an eccentric gender-based form system, the two of them only really got to know each other in the sixth form, where a mixed group of friends formed. The group scattered when they went to universities around the country, but the friends all kept in touch via letter. It was then, 200 miles apart, that my parents fell in love. And along with love letters, they sent each other Peanuts paperbacks, inscribed with in-jokes and promises. I grew up with these books, understanding - even as a child - that Charlie Brown had played a small role in the story of my family.

I know it's cheesy, but when I decided to write this blog, there really wasn't any other name it could have. So, Good Grief: a blog about trying to grieve well; a blog about who we were and are; a blog about this new chapter in the story of my family.