Half Term

Half term holidays are great aren’t they? That bonus week, where you can rest, relax and recouperate. Teachers have coffee with friends, stay up past 10.30, read books for pleasure and tidy up that kitchen cupboard that’s been nagging at them for the last five weeks. Some indulge in a spot of DIY or get away on that Nordic river cruise that they’ve been dreaming about ever since they fell asleep in front of Vera, while trying to mark 30 English books (there are only so many times you can correct the word ‘sumfink’ before you lose the will to live). They’re good for parents too. A week isn’t usually long enough to want to kill your firstborn, or bankrupt you with trips out to keep the little darlings entertained.

Everything is fabulous.

Let’s just leave it there, shall we? I want it to be fabulous. I don’t want to moan. I’m sick of moaning. You are sick of my negativity.

Nope. Sorry. I tried but it turns out I’m compelled to tell you about my difficult half term. I don’t know why.

It started with horrible weather. February half term is allotment-digging-over week but it rained every day. Ciara, Dennis and the unnamed Ellen had their fun and my allotment is untouched.

We are also having an en-suite fitted and having dust and men, who leave doors open and then ask if my dog is allowed to wander around at the front of the house, at home has been challenging.

Then, a celebrity died. Social media became a nightmare for me.

People who had previously criticised everything about that celeb posted #BeKind messages. They continued to click on all the stories about her and blamed the press for intrusion. Traffic to headlines that said, “See inside the flat where she took her own life!” was higher than the paper could ever have imagined. Their advertising revenue went up by more than any IPSO fine. Then came the memes and suggestions that people who are struggling should talk about it and everything will be fine. They blamed people who didn’t talk to her. They blamed the courts (she was about to be tried for domestic abuse). They suggested her suicide could have been stopped.  They claimed they knew why.

None of this helped my brain.

It has taken me a while to work out what was so difficult about it.

When someone takes their own life, the only thing we can know is that they felt they couldn’t carry on living how things were. We can’t know if we could have done anything to make it better. It would be nice to think we could but telling people they could have will only make them feel more guilty. I think that’s cruel.

The other thing that bothered me was that people claimed to want to talk. It made me uncomfortable. When I was really struggling, I couldn’t talk. The thought that anyone would make me tell people about what actually happened to cause PTSD  still brings me out in a cold sweat. People didn’t really want to know, either. They want you to be better. They want you to stop moaning (sorry). They want to not feel guilty or responsible. They want to know because it’s human nature to be a bit nosey but they don’t want to deal with the emotion that goes with it. I know this because I am they too.

This week marked the third anniversary of my Dad’s death and although I really don’t feel overly grief-stricken I did notice that on the day I wasn’t quite myself.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I told the Long Suffering Husband, “I just don’t feel right.”
“The end of February is always hard.” He agreed. “The weather.......”
“End of February? What’s the date?”
I suddenly understood.
Lots of people die at this time of year. In Chinese medicine they talk about the sap rising again in Spring and if the chi isn’t strong enough then a person will die. As you get older there are more death-a-versaries to remember.

You expect that as time goes on grief gets easier. You think that you must miss the person less, that you get on with your life. In truth, you just want to talk about it less. You don’t want to feel like this anymore. Certain dates force you to remember and when you remember, you miss that person. This is normal. It’s normal to feel a bit out of sorts but not really know why.

I realised that I was also miserable because of the weather on that day.  On the first anniversary I saw a heart shaped cloud in the sky and took it as a sign.

I know I’m weak for wanting signs but I’m also human. On the second anniversary I saw a heart (and a polo, when I asked “Is Mum with you?.”). There was going to be no chance of seeing any cloud messages; the Sky was full of grey cloud and rain. I was grumpy all day until, finally, just before sunset, the LSH suggested I walk on my own. I took the dog and stormed out.  After half an hour, I was beginning to feel a bit better and as I walked down the path the clouds lifted and blue sky showed through. I smiled and a heart shaped cloud appeared.
“I really am bonkers,” I told it. “I haven’t even got a camera to prove it.”
An old man walking a bulldog side stepped past me.
I kept walking and five perfect pink cloud hearts appeared.
I have no photographic evidence and am really worried that I am completely mad.

Then you get to the end of a half term holiday and the guilt kicks in. You notice all the papers you shoved in your bag on the last day to deal with when you were less tired. You start to think about the things you have to do in the next six weeks. Goodbye Sunday.