Honesty:

‘To believe in something and not to live it; is dishonest’

-        Mahatma Ghandi

‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  The snow fell again and covered the landscape in an unfamiliar blanket of white crystals.  ‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  I looked at my last blog and I realised I wasn’t entirely being honest with you and by extension, myself.  ‘It felt as if there was something missing’.  A chain of events, one approaching a first anniversary led to an unhealthy state of mind. 

A year ago, we suffered a miscarriage.  We were told on the first NHS scan that our child had died, for reasons unknown. I was expecting to become a Dad; this was a welcome, overwhelming surprise.  However, it was loaded and salted with the risk that it might all go wrong.  I felt numb, unable to vocalise or feel it.  I remember some angry tears, but these were brief and unproductive.  I couldn’t really vocalise it, I felt as if Mother Nature had cheated us in some way.

There followed a few weeks of whispering in corners at work and DM’s on social media.  We always knew the awful inevitable process would happen. I watched my wife go through a few days of what was some grotesque parody of labour.  Miscarriage is an unspoken process, people daren’t speak of it. No, not in front of the children. But it’s the worst kind of cosmic joke.  The box we were given (containing a candle, a balloon and a prayer) seemed somehow inadequate.  It’s a lovely gesture, but seems sometimes like a consolation prize in every sense of the word.

I continued to stay silent. Not a tear.  I slipped into default male stoicism.  My main concern was looking after my wife and stepson, being a grafter.  Dead, but alive at the same time.  I gave them space to vocalise their feelings, but I didn’t give myself that privilege.  I continued to work in a job I hated.  I overate, which has always been a problem for me.  Always will be.  Food is fuel, but at the same time, stuffing your mouth is a way of stopping yourself from screaming.  The dayjob continued.  Hey ho, get up every four days and feel exhausted every other four.

My wife needed more support and I applied for a career break.  My employer was amenable to this, but the actual process would take three months.  I mused this over for a good four days.  I then decided to resign and become my wife’s full time carer. My emotions about leaving; were the proverbial mixed ones.  Sad to be leaving some nice people (and some annoyances in human form), but happy to be leaving something that was slowly killing me.

A few months later, I saw the local coffee shop was looking for staff.  This was New Year weekend and I felt it was time for a new start.  I loved the time and space that being a carer gave me, but at the same time: lazy and unproductive.   The nagging voice of conscience was nudging and interrupting my happiness.  I got the job, but it was more about mopping floors and cleaning toilets than it was about making coffee.  I felt I was learning, but I also felt I hadn’t been given a fair shot at the actual joyous process of a flat white or a cappuccino.  It would take time, I reassured myself as I came home every night with unsold bread, cakes and paninis. Free food is free food, after all.

My employer emailed for a meeting the day before Valentine’s Day.  This caused the creeping realisation about what was inevitably about to happen.  I handed my wife her presents, whilst at the same time being poked in the psyche by my own fear. The following day, I walked into my employer’s office.  Handed in my shirt, apron and name badge (which wasn’t mine). I would be charged for these, had I not.  I was asked to work my final shift.  I refused, caught the next bus.  The whole process had taken a little over twenty minutes. 

And then the snow came.  Twice, we were snowed in.  We put candles in a box and watched an orange splurge work it’s way across the weather map.  We listened to local radio and developed a drinking game; which involved us cheering and taking a slug of tea or coffee when we heard a local school was closed.  We watched both series of Agent Carter. And at the back of my mind, that insistent buzzing again.  I could feel myself, slipping and sliding down the icy path towards depression.  The two events, recent instances of loss and the unique unfairness of each one began to fall into place.  The fact that I hadn’t vocalised either, began to bubble.  And the last ingredient: It felt as if there was something missing.

I put a block on all of this.  I had an honest conversation with my wife and the pus came out of the wound.  She was quite right, as she was on a great many things: I hadn’t been honest with myself.  I need to vocalise my feelings.  Becoming honest with myself in words rather than in print.

Honesty is a much underrated human value.  It’s the first strand in the DNA of love and friendship.  I needed to vocalise what I was feeling; to process two very different kinds of loss.  One, takes up much more in terms of memory than the other.  Together, they were lethal to me.  I could have gone down the slippery slope, again.  I could have piled on the weight, again.  I could have been swinging between happiness and sadness, again.  Had I not been honest with myself.

In the end, it’s all about space.  We lose things, from objects to people; all throughout our lives.  We all need something to fill that black, aching void.  I needed words, a sentence to fill the hole.