Who am I?

The $64 million question. When I first started this blog, I said that it was a journey of me finding Emma. But in all truthfulness, that journey has taken a bit of a dip these last few months. I’ve spoken a little bit before about the loss of identity I’ve felt since being widowed, but it’s really come to the forefront lately. So many times, I’ve said “I just don’t know who I am anymore.” It’s something that friends of mine struggle to understand. And I can see why.

Because on the surface, it seems odd. I’ve always been Emma. I was Emma before I met Mr C., I was Emma during our relationship. I’m Emma now. And that’s true. But I’ve lost a massive part of me. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of a couple. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of Emma and Charlie (or Stuart and Emma depending on your perspective.)

The two pictures I’ve selected to accompany this blog I’ve done so for a reason. The one on the left is the last ever picture of us on Christmas Day. I looked at it in the run up to Christmas last year and didn’t recognise the people in it. The one on the right is the penultimate selfie of us taken a month before he fell ill. It’s what I chose for November on my desk calendar. I’ve been looking at it every day this month. And I don’t recognise myself in it. It doesn’t look like me. I struggle to understand why. But I simply think it’s because I don’t believe the person in either of these photos exists anymore.

Being shallow, you could easily put it down to a change in hair colour and growing my hair ever so slightly. You see I’ve always had dark hair. Never in a million years would I have considered blonde highlights. But in August last year, I needed to do something to try to hide the grey hairs! Or so I thought. But looking back now, I think I needed to do something completely different with the way I looked. To try to find a new identity to help with what I was going through. I’m so glad I did it. But, interestingly enough, when I had to dye my hair dark ahead of the highlights being refreshed this August, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person looking back at me. It just so happened this took place the day before I was due to go the Palladium to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and chance my luck at the stage door for a certain Mr Donovan. You would not believe how much I stressed over not looking like me on the train to London. How I positioned my sunglasses on my head to try to hide the fact I had dark hair again. I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Jason that day, my sister got the most amazing picture but when I first looked at it, all I could think was “does that even look like me?” No-one else noticed, they all told me what a great pic it was, but I still couldn’t help thinking about the person in that picture.

Because on the surface I am still very much the same person I’ve always been. I do know that. But what’s different is what’s on the inside. What’s different is the way that I feel. The way my life is now defined by “before” and “after” the death of my husband. What’s different is the insecurities I now have. Ultimately that’s what’s changed. Not the way I look. Not the way I dress. But the way that I feel. I admitted to a friend yesterday that I’m scared of being judged by people now. For how I’m grieving. For decisions I’ve made. But also, for my friendships. I’ve always had close and strong relationships with men, Mr C always accepted that and never had a problem with it. But now I constantly wonder whether people are judging me for it. I know this comes from my own insecurity about who I am, but it’s because I’ve never had to deal with it before. It’s new. Aside from a three-month break in 2003, I’d never been a single adult until last year. Navigating life as one on top of the grief is complicated. Because I don’t know how I’m meant to behave. I don’t want to change who I am because of societal norms and expectations, but I’ve considered whether I should.

It’s just another example of why I look back on a person from two years ago who now feels so very different. The person from two years ago who now feels like someone I used to know. Not me. That Emma can’t have been me. There’s so much about her that I miss.

I miss the Emma who used to be able to run at a 100 miles per hour constantly (figuratively speaking you understand). I miss the Emma who used to be able to juggle 1,000 things in her head without the need to make to do lists to even remember the simplest of tasks. I miss the Emma who felt confident at work and good at her job. I miss the Emma who used to host parties. I miss the Emma who could go to a wedding and not have a panic attack during the Father of the Bride speech because she doesn’t know who’ll give her daughter away if she gets married. I miss the Emma who felt safe and secure. I miss the Emma who didn’t sleep with her phone by her bed every night in case something terrible happens in the middle of the night. I miss the Emma who didn’t spend so much of her life on the verge of tears knowing that even the smallest of things can make her cry. I miss the Emma who didn’t automatically assume the worst was going to happen in every single situation she faced. I miss the Emma who used to have a bit of fight in her. I miss her most of her all.

I’ll type a message to family members about how much my daughter needs them right now knowing that I’ll never send it. Because of what’s previously happened when the protective mama bear kicked in and I stood up for her. Because of the unsubstantiated accusations levelled at me since he died. I have no fight left. And this pains me beyond all belief. Yes, for my daughter and what she is going through, but also for me. Because it’s not who I was before my husband died. I would fight for what I believed was right. I would do everything I could to make things right. I would do everything I could to make things better for our daughter. But now I’ll simply walk away. Because anything that takes additional effort and fight, I can’t do. I don’t have the energy in the way I once did. Because it takes everything I have just to get out of bed and keep going every single day. That is the hardest part of being Emma now. Getting through every day is a fight.

Now. That’s not to go all woe is me and make out that I’ve not had any enjoyment since my husband fell ill. To do that would be lying. We’ve now got a puppy. I have the most amazing people around me. I’ve been shopping. I’ve been to the cinema. I’ve been on days out with my daughter. I’ve been on meals with friends. I’ve had days in the office that energise me. I’ve been to theatres. I’ve been to gigs. I’ve been to a festival. I’ve had nights away. I’ve had a marriage proposal from Jason Donovan (more on that WILL follow in the future). But each of them is tinged with sadness. The changes that were made at Carfest that saw me think “I must ring Charlie and tell him about them.” Coming home to an empty house after a fabulous time in Brighton and having no-one to talk to about it because my daughter was away. Watching my daughter grow up and experience things knowing what both she and he are missing out on. The number of tears I’ve shed in theatres because everything feels like a trigger. All of which take it out of me. And quite frankly, are exhausting. I often wonder when the time will come that this will lessen. I suspect it’s a while off.

Yet, I do know there’s hope. I know there are glimpses of the old me coming back. Recently after a night out, a friend went home and told her husband “I’ve seen Emma tonight” because she felt that it was the first time she’d seen “Emma” in 18 months. I’ve had another friend say she’s starting to see the old me in photos I’ve shared. But this is where it gets interesting. Because as much as I miss the old Emma and who she was, I’m also a fan of the new one. I feel grateful that she is now a part of my life. The Emma who can write. The Emma who can take photos. The Emma who can actually cook a meal and not give anyone food poisoning. The Emma who can put shelves up. The Emma who has become a dab hand at building flatpack furniture. The Emma who is far more sensitive but who has opened up, let people in more and is now closer than ever to friends and family. The Emma who is gaining strength and friendship from strangers who she has a commonality of experience with. The Emma who has astonished me every single day by how she has kept going.

So, who am I? I still don’t actually know. If you asked me to do an elevator pitch to answer that question, I don’t think I could. Because so much of my identity came from my life with my husband. He helped shape the person I became. He was a massive part of my identity. Without him, I’ve lost that part of my identity. It will never be possible to gain that back. And while finding Emma is one of the scariest things I’ve ever had to do, I do know that one day in the future I will find her. I will know who she is again. And I already know she’s going to be somebody who in so many ways is the same person she’s always been. But she’s also going to be somebody who is stronger. Kinder. More thankful. More vulnerable. And that’s probably not a bad thing.