The Cleaver

A bit of writing about being neurodivergent, disabled, ethnic and a widow in Wales.

Kate Cleaver

I’m living two lives. I mean most of us live two lives; that one we present to the outside world and the one we live behind closed doors. And I’m not talking anything kinky or bad, I mean the life that starts once we are home from work, the one that makes you kick off your shoes and hit the sofa with a glass of wine or hot chocolate. Where you run a scalding hot bath or jump into a hot tub or curl up on your bed with a bad movie and popcorn.

Although I would not recommend popcorn in bed, it can cause a huge number of crumbs and discomfort.

When R was alive, the person you met outside and inside were the same. There was no difference. I laughed and smiled and yes, I masked. I’m autistic, I always mirror and mask, but I was essentially the same.

Now that isn’t the case. R was able to make such a secure environment that I felt I could be the same. Now, eight months after his death I can sense the distance between what I present to the world and the reality I feel.

Oddly this is what the last book, and my PhD, was about. The peacock situation that occurs between outside and inside. In that case it was an insane asylum, the peacock of patients set out like splendid feathers whist the back is filled with hopeless souls, caged. Now, I’m not saying that is happening here.

Under no circumstances am I hopeless and caged, but subtly I am creating a front that pleases people.

It’s been eight months, sounds a lot. It is and yet it is also a blink of the eye. I can still feel myself holding him as he died, but so much has happened since. The house is almost sorted bar painting, and probate is nearing the end. People are moving on and living their lives. I no longer get food parcels, and posts on social media about anniversaries get a sad face and a comment. People aren’t forgetting about him, if you met R, you know you never could, but they are accepting living in a reality that he is not a part of. And that is great, but I am not moving that fast. My whole reality and future have changed. It is huge. Even as a theoretical concept the loss of a spouse is massive to comprehend. How do you move on when the person, your person, has simply vanished from this plane of existence?

But there is that number, that monthly count that is steadily climbing. I try not to count it. Otherwise, the 26th of every month becomes a hateful day. So, I ignore it. Instead, I am always surprised when others keep it for me. Grief does not count months. It does not work to a countdown, and it does not follow a set of rules. Everyone is an individual on how they cope with it. I can tell you now that I will never get over R’s death. I will learn to live with the loss but to ‘get over it’ is a concept that I don’t think exists.

Panic

How much do I grieve?

Well, I had my first full day of not crying to the point of getting a panic attack on a Wednesday two weeks ago. That was the first and so far, that is it. But that is okay. That is fine. I am allowed to feel sad and grieve and I’m allowed to take as much time as I need. The difference is that now I do other stuff as well as grieve. I draw, I paint, and I write. I walk my dog and meet up with friends. I show everyone this side of the grief. I let them see the side of me that isn’t moving on but starting to learn to live with the grief. Unless I have no choice, I don’t let anyone else see the grief. They see me starting to live.

I could turn up to a meet-up with friends and burst into tears, but your energy affects those around you. So, if I smile and live in that moment, just for an hour or so, I make their life better and my own. The trouble is because no one talks about grief that can seem to others like I am ‘getting over’ R.

Never going to happen.

Memories

When the two worlds do collide, I tend to go quiet and allow the grief to flow. I have found to fight it just makes it worse. I let the memories come, and the anger and the what-ifs. Last month R graduated. Finally, Dr R. Something he so wanted. You see R had ADHD. He was, of course, not diagnosed or considered to have it until he was in his late fifties. By then he had ‘almost’ hit being the top of his game so many times that he’d become bitter about it. Missing out on a good degree because he got obsessed with work, becoming distracted at jobs so promotions slipped past. He felt that there was something wrong with him.

Then ADHD. There was a reason why he never got to where he wanted to be.

“Could I be a Dr?” he’d asked me.

“Goodness, yes,” was my reply.

Cruel creature

You see R was the smartest person I knew, and he could tell stories so well. So, he started, and it wasn’t easy. The ADHD was a cruel creature lurking in the background waiting to distract him or make him feel as if he were failing. But he stuck to it, and when he passed away, just days before submitting, me and J submitted for him. He got it. He graduated. His twins collected the award, and everyone clapped. For me, my personal grief and my living clashed, and I cried. I cried for the love we had, and the future that could have been. I cried for the grief and fear and anger and hopelessness.

And then we went to have a meal. The university showed us to a room, and we all sat, at a table of us. All locked in our own grief. I looked around that table and saw the tears, but I also saw the love.

“Do you remember…”

I can’t say if it were me or someone else, but we began to talk about R. Little stories, big stories, embarrassing stories, funny stories. Him getting excited and stimming by rubbing his head. Him laughing, the music he listened to, and the car he would clean with a toothbrush (not kidding there). We sat for hours, and we talked. We remembered and the tears turned to laughter. We went from grieving to living with the grief.

Tearful void

That is the goal. To live with it. Not to survive or get over it or anything else. But to live with it and find a future that isn’t a tearful void but one with laughter and sun and people. It is hard and a lot of the time I still need to lock myself away and live in the grief, but they are getting less. It is so much easier to live with grief in the company of others which is why people do so much after losing a partner. But, and here is the kicker, I am a disabled person with a chronic pain condition who works from home. If I live with grief, then I must do it alone. I will and one day the person you see out and about will be the person who sits on her bed and watches movies, but for the time being there are two of us, because that is how I am surviving. If you do see me though, don’t assume that R is in my life any less than he was when he was alive. Just because I can’t see him does not mean I can’t feel him there.

I am learning to live with grief the only way I know how, and I think I will get there, although I have no idea what the future will look like. Until then the person you see is the person I want to be, I’m just not there yet. Let me grieve and let me take my time doing it. There is no stopwatch to this. And no rules. But everyday is a step closer to the goal where I am smiling inside and out.