Grief – The First Year



It has been a year since loss tore my world apart. 365 days that have seemed interminable but at the same time have flashed past, lightning quick.

I’m can’t, I won’t, use the word anniversary. That conjures up images of celebrations; balloons and champagne, party dresses and lipstick. The polar opposite of this hollowness inside me that’s so acute it has caused my vital organs to shift, my blood to flow a different route. There’s a black, gaping space that may never be filled and I don’t know whether I want it to be.

Grief is like ivy. It curls and twists, blocking out the light, and no matter how much you cut it back it will spring forth again and again whenever, wherever you least expect it.

Life goes on. That much I know to be true. I watch from my window as people scurry like ants, plastic bags brimming with shopping, handles cutting grooves into palms, smiles plastered onto faces. I study those smiles. Are they real? Are they hurting too? Sometimes I go out, I slip into the crowd and pretend I am one of them. That I have not had the very fabric of my universe changed. But I’m afraid. Afraid I may slip down the cracks in the pavement. That I won’t be able to contain the scream that’s always threatening to spew from my lips. I’m rooted to the spot. Frozen in time. Waiting, I’m always waiting, and I’m never quite sure what for.

And so I place one foot in front of the other – what else can I do? I guard my fractured heart. And I wait.




9 thoughts on “Grief – The First Year

  1. After a while there are days when it gets easier. Then it is weeks. Then it hits you like a freight train…and it is almost impossible to breathe. But then you start walking again. Because life doesn’t wait for us. There is a point when you start running and you wonder how you ever managed to stand still. It starts with a single step. { ❤ }

  2. Hi Louise,I feel for you, this is a really hard time to be going through. I lost my father when I was fifteen and everyone gave me the usual platitudes that it would get easier with time. Well a lot of time has passed and I don’t think it does, you just learn that you have to cope without him there. I still treasure the things my father and I did together and well up when remembering them. So many little things; when I watch Everton, when I visit certain places or listen to certain music, when family relate stories or my kids ask about him. Little things, but kicking a ball together or writing stories together, he was the biggest part of my life.A proper father is a hero to his children and yours was to you. You’ll always remember that and you always should, and if it makes you sad, it’s because he is and was so important to you, your hero. All that love, strength and reliability.Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that your father is still part of your life and will be, going forward. My father never knew my children, but I know he would have loved them and they would have loved him and somehow I know he sees them and looks over them. You’ll have events in your life where your father isn’t there physically, but you know he is there nonetheless. Its hard sometimes, but in those moments I talk to him and sometimes I write about him, which can be very cathartic. I’m like you, I still have that space and I know it’ll never be filled and it never could have been. So I’m glad and proud to have had a father like that, someone so immense that nothing will fill the hole his leaving left. Learning to cope and accept that life is as it is, is the best we can do, but I don’t think I’d want it any other way. Hope this might help in a small way, where nothing really can,Mick x Date: Wed, 2 Dec 2015 08:16:09 +0000 To:

  3. There is no timetable. How you deal with this grief will depend on you and continue to shape you. “one foot in front of the other” insures that you are moving. Baby steps or running flat out, it doesn’t matter.

Thanks so much for reading!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s