What was this thing, called grief?

14th June,  2018  What was this thing, called grief?

I'm writing this 3 months and a day after I got the awful news that my friend Jonny passed away. I'm writing to try and find an outlet for my grief and to understand what it is I'm feeling, and to remember and revisit all those precious memories from years ago. There's a third reason, though, too. After I got the news, a good friend sent me an article about how grief comes in waves; it was one of the most helpful things she had ever read, after her father died. It was very helpful. But what was perhaps even more helpful, in a weird way, was the introduction to it. Someone had written this simple sentence, to explain why he'd started his own blog: 'my friend has just died and I don't know what to do.'  That short line perfectly described how I felt. He'd ended up writing a blog to make sense of it all, which I wished I'd been able to find the link to. So I wanted to write something that someone else, who has lost a friend, might be able to read and might find helpful. Because I've tried to read about grief and to understand what it is that's going on inside me, but it's been hard to find anything that anyone has written about losing a friend. The books out there are mostly for people who have lost a spouse or a brother or sister, son or daughter, father or mother. I don't pretend to feel the same immeasurable pain that Jonny's dear family feel. What they are going through I can't even imagine. So I understand that what I'm going through is completely different. But I still don't really understand quite how to grieve, as I realise that I've started on my first real journey of grief. I've had two other significant griefs in the last two years...my father-in-law and my good friend and Parish Priest, the much-loved Father Michael. But they were not like this. This is much more painful.

And for some strange reason, my mind has felt this need to categorise my grief - how odd, and something Jonny would give a wry laugh at. It took me a while to even be able to use the word 'grief'-  I didn't feel entitled to it. After all, Jonny and I had been such close friends... but our close friendship had been largely in the past, as well. We'd known each other for 12 years, but over the last few slowly drifted more and more out of touch, living on different sides of the Pennines. I always thought there was time to see Jonny soon, very soon, since we were both so busy. And the signature trademark of good friendship is that you can always pick up where you left off - and this is certainly true with all my most precious friends. And so the last time I saw Jonny was at my wedding, about 3 and a half years ago, where he sang so beautifully and made the day what it was meant to be. So I felt 'unentitled' to grieve - I had not been a good enough friend, we hadn't spoken for far too long, we weren't in regular Facebook/text contact anymore. And by a horrible and frustrating set of circumstances we had both also lost each others' phone numbers and been trying, unbeknownst to the other, to get in touch with each other.

But as the weeks have gone on, and the sadness has deepened, and the memories have sharpened too, I realise that I am grieving, yes, after all. There's just no other word for it. I've tried 'loss' and 'sadness' but it just isn't that. It's grief, deep and hard to access. That's what all the anger has been about. And I know the sadness of losing Jonny will never go away. 

So I'm partly writing this to help anyone who has also lost a friend and who might find some truths in these words that will help them on their journey of grief too, because it can be very lonely. It's hard to talk about and sometimes hard to find support for.

So. I'll go back to what I said about the man who wrote 'my friend has just died and I don't know what to do.' It brought tears to my eyes, as well as relief, because it was so exactly how I felt. I didn't know what to do - with myself, or my emotions. I had a 5-month baby and a 2-year-old and they needed me, but I felt I couldn't be there at all. I didn't know what to do with myself physically. I couldn't focus on anything, there were days when I had to move in a strange kind of slow motion - from the shock - and I had to lower my expectations of what I could get done, dramatically. And I mean dramatically. I kept just wanting to talk to people. All I could talk about and think about was Jonny. It wasn't real at all that he was gone, but that's what I'd been told and my rational mind knew it was true. So what to do? I felt so disconnected. I was here in Manchester and all I wanted to do was go to Leeds so I could walk in the places where Jonny and I shared memories. I wanted to go where we'd spent time together, or sit in the lounge in my flat and try and take it in. I wanted to be around people who knew and loved him, who could understand something of the grief and sadness, even if we didn't talk about it. I didn't want to be in the house on my own but I didn't want to be looking after my own little children either, as much as I loved them. I just felt I had nothing to give. 

The first thing that took me by surprise about grief was the rage it brought. It just came in blows, triggered by the tiniest of things. Gracie would be crying because she'd run out of Rice Krispies in her bowl and I just couldn't keep my cool. Someone would do something annoying in a car park and I'd want to scream. I found myself going upstairs and hitting the bed with pillows. There was such physical, frightening anger inside me. A good friend (Em, again) told me it was part of grief. Okay, I thought. But I didn't realise it could last so long. I was angry with people who didn't understand, angry with the expectation that I could talk about anything else, angry with the pressure that I felt to be a good mother somehow, angry that the world could be so hard, angry, angry... angry, finally, that he was gone. That I could lose such a precious friend. And with myself for ever taking that friendship for granted and thinking Jonny would be there next time I got to Leeds. 

In the last few weeks the rage has subsided. And it's hard to describe what the grief has been like. I look at photos and think of memories and I feel a warmth inside, for Jonny and our friendship. The sadness part feels too deep to access. Only now and again can I really cry if I read something about him or hear a song. Or, most of all, if I listen to him singing. Suddenly he's right there in the room. But I suspect that the sadness will grow as time goes on and the - still present - disbelief wears off. 

Going to Jonny's grave with his lovely mum and dad was a very precious and important thing to do, along the journey. And yet as I stood there, it felt mostly unreal. I think it will take a long time for that to go.

I'm not going to keep writing so much about my grief, after this, but more about Jonny, and our memories. I hope that the writing can help someone, and that if anyone who likes reading and 'sharing' Jonny wants to tune in, then they can enjoy this too.