Falling Back Together

Where I’ve been and where I am

I’ve been on an unintentional hiatus from Substack this year. It has saddened me that I’ve been unable to write, or even read and connect with the community here. 

In February I broke and fell apart. There were so many things I could no longer do. My ADHD symptoms got much worse and my usual coping mechanisms failed.

I could barely read, my go to escape when I’m struggling. So writing felt like an insurmountable challenge. 

Last year when I watched her get more and more sick and when I lost her, I thought I had learned strength. I believed that my loss had turned into something strong, like a bone after it has broken. 

The winter that followed was the most difficult I’d ever endured. Come January, renewed with optimism, I thought I’d survived.

But a minor drama in February, during a week when I was alone, triggered dysregulation. Like a gentle tap on a cracked window pane causing it to smash. 

My body went into a permanent state of fight or flight, every muscle tense. My brain felt like a knotted mass of wire wool, impossible to untangle. My chronic pain returned with a vengeance on top of my ongoing chronic illness. 

Over the next few months I treated myself with care. Withdrew from the outside world and didn’t let myself be pressured by anything. I let my body rest when it asked. Slowly I began to heal. 

When the first anniversaries of her death and the funeral hit, I wasn’t ready for them. They say the first year is the hardest but I felt like I’d not had the time to deal with my grief properly. Other life challenges had taken over. I wasn’t prepared for the expected mourning period to be over. 

As I became regulated again, our rescue dog Koda became sick. Months of stress, uncertainty, and trips to the vets with confusing test results followed.

In July we finally discovered that Koda has arthritis caused by hip dysplasia. As he’s only 3 to 4 years old, this was devastating news.

It was another kind of grief piling on top of the old. My dream of having my own canine companion forever changed. 

Long hikes with Koda’s happy tail swishing ahead of us could be a distant memory. The unadulterated joy of watching him run zoomies around the garden turned to anxiety as we try to control his exuberance. We have to restrict his movements and he’s banned from upstairs. He no longer lounges on the bed next to me while I work. 

A summer lost to caring for a sick dog, miserable weather and the darkness of another’s depression.

I told my therapist recently that I felt I wasn’t dealing with my grief properly. That I wasn’t finding time for it around the struggles of day to day life. She said perhaps my life has just grown around it. This realisation was a shock. 

In a way, I am grieving my grief. 

It’s bad enough that everyone else has moved on, forgotten that I have this gaping hole in my heart and life that will never be filled. It’s worse knowing that I’ve adapted to living with it. 

I wasn’t ready for my unbearable grief to become bearable. But the waves of grief like the sea itself is not something that can be controlled. Nothing can stop the tide receding.

When she’s not at the edge of every thought, when memories are no longer triggered on a daily or weekly basis, it feels like she’s no longer with me. The person who was always there for me no matter what, is gone. 

I no longer pick up my phone with the intention of texting her before remembering I can’t. When I want to talk to her, it is a familiar ache. A sad resignation. 

The stab of pain when I glimpse a photo of her is softer now, almost welcome. 

I am not ok with being ok. Change is painful even when it’s a step in the right direction. But what can I do except keep walking forwards?

So somehow reluctantly I am coming out the other side. There is hope again for me and for Koda. And this time I know I am stronger. The cracks are reinforced with steel. 

Does it mean I can’t break again? No. Does it mean the tide of grief won’t wash back in? No. I’m certain it will. 

But I am smiling and laughing again. Connecting with my community through volunteering. Making new friends after a couple of years of isolation.

My old self, the cheerful, creative and silly part of me that has been buried for so long, is beginning to re-emerge. And, despite everything, I am grateful. 

I hope to write again soon.