Grief Club
Hours after Dad died, when someone first introduced me to the idea that I was now in some sort of grief club (that no one asks to join and no one actually wants to be a fucking part of), I almost laughed in their face. I mean, I would have laughed in their face but they said it to me over the phone, when I was driving, making that initial trip from Hertfordshire to Manchester to be with my mum after hearing the news that Dad had died.
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A club? A bereavement club? What the actual fuck? I mean, come on... How crass. How insensitive. What a ridiculous use of the word club. A club is a group where you pay a yearly subscription to crochet scarves. A club is where you sit in someone's crusty living room and compare opinions on pretentious, wordy novels. Or play fucking walking football (what is walking football anyway?). A club?
However... a little time has passed and I think I'm starting to get it. More and more I get used to this idea. I mean, the rebel in me still doesn't want to call it a club but I get the concept.
You see, since Dad died the amount of people who have reached out to me to say “Hey, that happened to me too. And… it’s shit. Really shit.”
These understanderers (see, I may be 'grieving' but I can still create a new cool word - look at me go...) crawled out from the shadow of their own grief and in a mini-moment of interaction, just seemed to get the weirdness that I was (and am) experiencing. In one conversation, I could connect with these people who could be anything from close friends, relative strangers, mates I hadn't seen in years, family I never spent time with. I found comfort in their own experiences of how shit someone dying actually is. Their stories were never told in a way of ‘my grief’s better / stronger than your grief’. The usual restraint in conversation that the world teaches us, was no longer there. Instead, honest and raw conversations would spontaneously happen in a hug of collaboration. The stories these guys told, showed me that what I was (and am) feeling is ok. The stories reassured me. I craved them. They weren't telling me that everything is going to be fine they were telling me that it’s ok to not be fine.
Without these guys, I’d be fucked. I’d be in some weird revolving door of emotion… feeling emotional anger and sadness, physical pain and lethargy, only to mix it up with a bit of self-hatred for even allowing myself to feel these things. Without them I’d be convinced that I should have moved past the third stage of grief by week six. I’d be convinced that my energy levels and motivation should be as high as ever. Without these guys....
It's not a club and I haven't joined anything. We’ve just found that we’ve been moulded together through some weird fucked-up shit and actually, because human beings are in general pretty decent, we have cared for each other and accepted each other for who we are and who we can be at that very moment. I'm not in a club but they are my crew. They're my crew and I’ll be ever grateful to them.
Gill
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