So it’s the 7th January. Again. And it’s grey and miserable outside, and I am grey and miserable inside. Actually that’s not quite true. Inside me there is a storm of massive proportions taking place, my emotions battling the elements in a maelstrom of grief, loss and anger.
It’s 17 years ago today that my sister was ripped from our lives. She was 18. Next year, she will have been dead as long as she lived. That seems inconceivable to me.
(We lie, you know. We lie to save your feelings. We lie to comfort you; we tell you ‘Time heals’. Well it fucking doesn’t).
Please excuse my melodrama. I am not trying to elicit sympathy from you. Just an acknowledgement that anger is a part of grief. And whilst grief does lessen to a certain extent over time, there is always the danger that it can erupt at any time. After being fairly dormant over the last few years, last night my personal volcano erupted, spewing forth hot lava of bitterness and loss. Anger that she’s gone. That we never got to wave her off to university, or see her excelling in a career. That I will never have nieces or nephews; that my children will never have the cousins they so envy their friends for. That yet again I feel that my sister’s death is such a huge defining part of who I am.
I know I am being self-indulgent. I am not the only one to lose someone. It happens all the time.
But I am so fucking angry.
I don’t know what has caused this particular reaction this year. Perhaps it was the loss of an old family friend last week, or the long walk down a hospital corridor yesterday with a friend, but I don’t think so. The volcano of grief can erupt at any time, or be set off by the smallest spark.
My husband is brilliant; supporting me and comforting me as he does, despite his own volcano which could itself erupt (it’s his mum’s anniversary next week). My kids are either unaware of the significance of today’s date or they are tiptoeing around me (sadly they never got to meet their aunt). So I ask them to bear with me, as I ask you to. Just let me have my tantrum, kicking and screaming, tearfully raging about the unfairness of it all.
I’ll be ok tomorrow.