Christmas can be a quiet trudge for many bereaved people. Another public celebration without your loved one, another year away from them overtly marked beyond your control. But in other ways Christmas is no different from the rest of grief- just another day, time relentlessly out of our control.
One of the many strange experiences related to grief is the close juxtaposition of alternating emotions and how comfortable these seem together- my Christmas day was no different. For a period in the morning, after the sugar rush of excitement, after Tom opened his presents, after spying an empty stocking with Ruby's name on it, I cried like the aftershock of new grief. It is now three and a half years down the line and too late for me to question why she isn't here anymore, I just know she isn't and it's as simple as that- she isn't here and I miss her, particularly at Christmas. But within hours of those tears and the cut of grief reopening I was chatting, laughing, feeling a part of a family again.
Like any impending difficulty, survival and thriving involves considerate planning. I knew I had to be together with the people I love (as much as I could, some are in a different country), I had to sleep well, I had to go jogging as much as possible, I had to have no major plans and I had to relinquish control of my time and be somewhat of a slave to my environment (this is something I do more and more- I have found it increasingly comforting to identify those things over which I have little control, or temporarily don't want it, and to let myself flow with others or with the prevailing environment. In no way is it constructive and involves no real consideration of my direction but sometimes that's OK. Sometimes it is lovely to put the world slightly out of focus, to not work, to not make the effort and drift a little, to stare out the window and daydream for a while).
My coping mechanisms mostly worked. There were sadnesses and laughs, no real stress, no arguements. Close friends came for New Year's Eve. I managed. In fact for someone as unsociable as me I felt proud I had interacted with other people every day and rarely felt overwhelmed (although by New Year's Eve the stimulus was getting to be a little too much. I wanted to hide away for the night but my friends are aware of my occasional social anxiety and are lovely enough to accept me, quiet or otherwise).
I have been reading some great books, running through the unseasonably bright, dry, warm winter, playing children's games with my son. Simple pleasures.
I have some plans for 2017:
Run the Belfast marathon in May (start training ASAP)
Maintain a consistent calorie deficit for weight loss
Keep moving
HIT training (boxing and spin bike)
More tenderness, kindness and patience
No alcohol during the working week
Read more
Sleep more
Learn to appreciate fine art
Try pottery and archery
Spend less time on Twitter
Be a better uncle
More jazz
Investigate starting a running/exercise/wellness group
Investigate how to make long-interview podcasts (about mental health, surviving adversity, etc)
Eat seasonally
This is the view from my Christmas run over Cavehill, Belfast. I twisted my knee minutes after taking this photo but every time it twinges now I smile because, at the time, I was sprinting downhill, in new trainers through the squelchy mud, running with a smile on my face, free like a child. Good memories. And I truly appreciate my good health and ability to run unimpinged.
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