Grief, and What Will You Bring?

Wednesday 29th November 2017 

Grief is an interesting animal. Animal? Seems unfair to use that imagery, like that poor black dog who represents depression. When I’ve had depression it’s more like a high pitched, paranoid and faceless thing, not a dog at all. If depression were a dog, I would keep my pockets full of treats and brush up on Dog Whispering. I am fortunate as I have not been in a deep depression for years (I know what to watch for now).

Last week I saw this white van with ‘Hallertau’ on it. The art work featured a man with two wild wolves on leads and I immediately thought ‘oh it’s a mental health unit’. This doesn't make any sense, but it's what I thought. The man (bearded, smiling, very cute) driving the van was returning to it, and I suddenly clicked that it was an alcohol-related brand, not a mental health facility vehicle. I blurted this out to the bearded man, and he laughed.

I said (too bright, too fast) that it would be a good logo for mental health, the man with the wolves
was strong and had found a way to befriend the part of him that was wild, that could attack, and now they served him.

He laughed and agreed, all bright white teeth and said “well the other side (artwork) might not work so well!” because it was a man in a chariot. I was delighted. No, I said, it works. It’s the chariot of love!

Of course later on it clicked that I had been to Hallertau twice, a beautiful bar and restaurant in Riverhead that has craft beer. I don’t drink beer, but it’s still worth a visit.

Anyway, I was talking about grief. Although I hadn’t known Q for long, he was one of those people who I felt a soul connection with immediately. You know how in love we fall? That happens to me in friendship too; that honeymoon phase where you both have all your stories to tell, scars to display, poetry to share. To have the friendship end in the beginning is painful in a way that metaphors cannot express. No darkened landscape or rabid dog can capture it. I visited mum and was quite positive, almost buoyant, and then half an hour later I was gripped by fear. I think I was literally wringing my hands because I didn’t know what to do. I named it the best I could.

I felt like I was four years old and mum was working late at the burger bar (The 3 Bees in Papakura) so I was staying the night at my Aunty Sandy’s. I loved my generous Aunty, but I was also a little afraid of her (she took out her teeth and chased me with them which gave me nightmares). We lived right next door to her, and sometimes I had my motorbike helmet with me from when my father had dropped me off (parents divorced that year).

I would wake up in the night and not know where I was. I would be gripped by an intense and deep fear, a longing for my mother. I would then realise where I was, but the fear would not leave me.

On at least three occasions this fear propelled me to get up and get dressed, quietly pick up my bike helmet and escape. I would sneak home and knock on the door “mummy, mummy, let me in” and on at least two of these escapes she was not home and I had to sneak back again, defeated, terrified, but at least I had tried.

On those failed missions I did not dare say what I’d done in case I got a ‘good hiding’. My older cousin once said ‘shit’ and my Aunty thought it was me and made me wash my mouth with soap and water.  The injustice of it burned through me, but my cousin got way more hidings than I did so I kind of understood why she lied.

There was one time that mum was home when I escaped, but she was annoyed with me and told me that it would scare Aunty Sandy if she woke up and I wasn’t there. She had to explain that it wasn’t safe for me to do that. Four year olds can’t wander the street, even if it is to go next door. From what I remember, she made me go back, knocking on the door and waking up my Aunt. They were both upset.

That terror, to wake up and not have my mother, to feel like I am betraying everyone with my fear, that was how I felt the other day. Panicky, nauseous, falling through space inside my own body.

Mum and I made cups of tea and hug regularly. An hour later and I’m laughing at something on TV. Then mum had her turn. She couldn’t describe it. I said ‘do you feel afraid?’ and she said ‘yes’. She had a beer. I had instant coffee. If I want my own quality wanking coffee I have to remember to take it when I visit.

I am visiting friends. I am keeping up a support net work. I am texting Q’s mum without expecting replies, but generously, she gives them. I cannot imagine her pain.

I am still imagining a big picnic. An event for all of us. Then that picnic will spark mini community picnics, or maybe it will be around the other way? I want to go on a picnic where I bring oysters on ice and sip very cold white wine out of real wine glasses. This might be at the domain, or maybe it’s at Pt Chevalier Beach in Auckland?

I am inviting Q, because he can go anywhere now. What would you bring to the picnic? A song? A daisy chain? A loaf of bread and a bag of hot chips? Ooh that sounds good doesn’t it?

The grief shows up in different ways. I still keep talking to Q’s spirit, but I know it’s for my sake, not his.

Live. Live. Live. Compare yourself to no one. Take hold of your beautiful wolves and train them, show them how to be here, how to wake in the night and live through the longing for escape. You have a chariot of love too. Whatever you are going through, weather it is depression, chronic mental illness, grief, there is a place of deep richness, like a well with fresh water. Going deep doesn’t mean you have to be lost. Stay awhile longer. Tell me, what will you bring to the Picnic?

Love Cx