Me and my councellor

I’ve been seeing a councellor for three weeks now.

I wasn’t loosing it, I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t bitter or having twisted thoughts, I wasn’t crying all of the time, I wasn’t tired or depressed, I wasn’t suicidal or struggling with my marriage or at work.

But I don’t want any of the above to happen if i don’t have the toolset to help me cope with that.

I don’t want to be bitter.

I want to face grief head on.

 

It’s good too.

I like speaking about Dad. Remembering and enjoying telling a stranger about how amazing he was. Sometimes it all sounds to good to be true, like I am making it up. This makes me appreciate how truly lucky I am to have him.

Don’t get me wrong, its not all silly anecdotes and fond memories. Some feelings are raw and hurt very much. I need to learn to express and work through these feelings too. They are just not as easy to come through, when I am so used to looking for the positives all of the time.

I’m just saying, I’m pleased I am having councilling.

I am not ashamed of it.

I think it is a fantastic and free resource available to everyone and anyone and I couldn’t recommend it highly enough.

Every week I feel more and more accepting of my new reality.

Farleigh Hospice really do life changing work, with all that walk through their doors.

immortality

When you loose someone close to you, you are reminded that we are not going to live forever.

This reality check gives you two options:

  1. be sad about the idea of dying
  2. live everyday you have left to the fullest

I don’t know about you, but number two sounds far more tempting!

Im going wild this year. I’m leaving my well paid and steady teaching career, I’m shaving my head, I’m painting my skin, I am starting a business, I am travelling the world, I am becoming a parent… all in 12 months.

Have no regrets.

Life is too short.

My aim is to inspire you to do the same, okay you don’t all have to shave your heads, but my challenge to you is to live life to the fullest. Everyday. Not just on Saturday.

Say yes not maybe

run don’t walk

forgive quickly

and love everyone

 

because life is short and living life is wonderful.

 

 

 

 

Feelings on Father’s Day

How am I doing this year?
I’ve been thinking about Dad extra amounts this week. More has reminded me of him. I’ve felt quieter and more subdued. I’ve been nervous about how today would be. 

This morning I’m trying to keep busy, but also keep in mind the knowledge that I can still celebrate Fathers Day. I have a wonderful Dad, that in twenty six years with me, gave me a wonderful childhood, advice and so much love. 

Looking forward, this time next year, we will be celebrating Father’s Day in a different way. We will be parents, caring for our gorgeous little boy or girl. A child far less fortunate than myself, in regards to parenting. Jim will step into that role. He will be wonderful. He is so much like my own Dad. 

Please don’t feel sorry for me, or any other grieving children today. Just promise me you will spend time with your own Dad’s while you still have the chance.

The same black dress

 

I didn’t think yesterday would hurt as much as it did.

But it’s still so soon. It seems like only a fortnight ago we had the whole family round for my Dad, and now this.

I woke up in the morning with a huge knot in my stomach. With gritted teeth,Β I put the same black dress on I had worn last summer. I painted on war paint. Heavy makeup so I couldn’t cry. Nothing could pass through my mascara. Like filling a hole. Like glueing my insides shut. Nothing would get in, nothing could seep out.

I got in the car.

I told Jim that I wasn’t going to cry. I was determined for this not to get under my skin. Not to reach me. I would build a wall where no emotion could pass. Self preservation at it’s finest. I didn’t take tissues in with me. I didn’t need them.

I sat through the Crematorium part of the ceremony. I was in a daze. My mind kept drifting away. I wasn’t concentrating on the words or what was in front of me. Like it wasn’t really happening. I stood up and walked away. I gave no-one eye contact. I refused to let them in.

I kept moving, flitting from one group to the next. Avoiding small talk, questions and conversation without looking alone. All a tactical ploy. All part of the plan. I swerved conversation to happy things and I dodged the curve balls.

It was working. My mascara hadn’t moved. I felt in control. Now onto the church.

I opened the order of service.

It hit me.

The same song. The same song as last summer. Sitting right there. How could I possibly sing that? How could I hear others sing that? I flicked through the pages to find other songs repeated. How could I get through this? I felt like I had been set up.

I decided I wouldn’t sing. I would stand crossed armed and closed mouthed. I would let the words pass over my head and then sit back down. no one would even know.

The organ introduced the first few chords.

My throat felt like it was going to burst. A single tear leaked onto my right cheek. I didn’t wipe it away. I just felt it trickle down my skin.

But then more started seeping out. This time from both eyes. I closed them shut and leaned into Jim. I felt my shoulders shaking and my fists tighten.

I lost it.

I cried more than I had since my Dad was diagnosed fifteen months ago.

All of my anger and sadness and confusion and frustration poured out of my body.

My sister passed me her tissue.

Why was I crying? I was so angry at myself. I wanted to be strong. I thought I could do it.

 

My eyes kept leaking right into the evening.

I was a mess.

Over nothing and over what happened then and now and everything.

I couldn’t even put into words why I was so overwhelmingly sad. Only that everything I had been holding in all this time was bubbling up and I couldn’t stop it.

 

 

It was lovely though. The day. Everyone being together.

 

I finally got home, slipped off my black dress.

And went to sleep.

 

I am feeling more myself today. I think I still have more to let out.

But that can wait for another day.

Not enough tears

I am sorry that I have run out of tears to cry.

You deserve far more than I can give, you wonderful wonderful man. 

You inspiring, eccentric, jolly and passionate man.

It has been an honour being your first born grandchild.

Your passion for family and the arts has made me the person I am today. 

You deserve rivers of tears and processions in the streets to celebrate all you have achieved, with your wonderful beautiful mind.

Sleep well. 

May you leave peacefully, believing whole heartedly that you are joining your wife and son in heaven.

One Year

So this little blog of mine is a whole year old.

I started it so I could sort out my feelings of things happening in my life at the time.

It has seriously been so useful to me.

When hearing of my Dad’s diagnosis, I didn’t know how I felt about anything. Everything was up in the air. I would flit from one emotion to the next. I needed something concrete to set my feelings onto. If I wrote them down they would become truth as I felt it in each moment.

And so ‘indigo_hart’ was born.

By writing and sharing I have frozen in time one of the most significant years of my life.

Everything I felt and thought is here. I can go back and read them anytime, and I often do.

It’s a way of checking how I am progressing on coping with living life and death.

It has also been doubly useful as it has been a way of sharing with all that wanted to know how I am doing without them having to ask me. It keeps people at a safe distance. You don’t need to ask and I don’t need to tell.

I like that I don’t have to say my thoughts out loud and yet everyone around me just knows, they totally get where I am at.

It has kept emotional injuries to a minimum. It has kept me in control.

I think that’s it.

This blog brings order and control into a situation I have no control over.

 

So it’s been a year. It’s been an incredible, catastrophic, terrifying and daunting year.

But, life’s challenges do not stop here.

Life keeps rolling,

as will this blog.

 

Saying Goodbye

It wasn’t as hard to leave as I thought it could be.

During my last two visits I have known my Mum has to sell our lovely holiday house in the alps.

it has been our holiday destination for the past 12 years. It holds so many memories for us.

but as I walk through the house, I remember it is just concrete, wood and plaster. There are no memories stored away under the beds. They are in my head. I can take them anywhere with me.

I feel much closer to my Dad there, I can’t help but think about him. Imagine him soaking in the sun on the balcony or getting giddy at the pizza restaurant. I need to remind myself that these are all memories, that are too precious to sell. I still have all of them in my head at all times. Photos and videos will help me remember.

Now it’s time to start a new adventure. In fresh and exciting places. Exotic places.

I am grateful that my Dad made the decision to sell the house upon diagnosis. It takes some of the pressure off of Mum. 

The decision to buy the house was lead by him, and so was the decision to sell.

I am so proud of Mum. 
You can find my short film of Saying Goodbye [in a minute] over on my YouTube channel.  

Click here to go to the video. 

❀