Tag: Identity

One tip run at a time…

My world as I’ve come to know it came to an abrupt stop on 10 February 2022. After a complete reality check and some brutal home truths from my counsellor during my appointment, I went to see my doctor. And was promptly signed off work…

I messaged one of my friends to tell him what had happened. His response? “Surprised it took this long…” But for me it felt bizarre. The thought of not working for more than just a few days or being a full-time mum during the day just felt alien to me. Because it’s what I’ve been doing for two years to help give me back some control. To help me try to navigate this horrendous situation I’ve found myself in.

Let me give some context. I am, quite simply, a control freak. I’m the person who goes to Florida with a laminated itinerary. I can’t tell you how happy my laminator makes me! I’m the person who goes to Florida with a folder with different sections resulting in the car hire man saying, “bet she’s fun to go on holiday with.” (And yes, Mr C did laugh just a bit too much about this comment). I’m the person who organises. I’m the person who plans months in advance. I’m the person in control.

But on 16 March 2020, that stopped. No, that isn’t when my late husband fell ill or died, but when the advice came to work from home. Because in the blink of an eye, the control and the life that I’d known for so long vanished. Over the next few days, further announcements came. Schools were to shut. The UK was being placed in lockdown. My world was shifting and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And let’s not forget, by the time the UK was put in lockdown, my late husband was displaying signs of COVID-19 and gradually getting more and more sick. My ability to stay in control was being taken from me. There was absolutely nothing I could control about this situation. I hadn’t realised that this was going to be the way my life would feel for at least the next two years.

When he was in hospital, I wasn’t in control. I had to wait for them to ring me with updates. My life turned into just sitting by the phone waiting for news about the man I was meant to grow old with. And then he died. I pitifully began trying to claw back some control. I decided not to tell friends for hours so that they’d be able to find out when their children had gone to bed. I woke at 6:30am the next day and went downstairs to make a list of the people I needed to tell such as banks, insurances and pensions. I was trying to do anything I could to be in control. Because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I needed some sort of order in my life. I really wanted this back.

But the pandemic had other ideas for me. I don’t think any of us anticipated quite how long we’d be living under restrictions. I’d arranged house renovations, but they got halted by COVID-19. I lived with boxes in my bedroom for just over nine months because I couldn’t keep moving them to different rooms. It frustrated the hell out of me. I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything. Every time I tried to make plans to decorate, to make my house nicer or to take my daughter to the theatre, delays happened. We couldn’t see friends or family which we really needed. I couldn’t plan anything. My brain couldn’t take it. I was angry. I wanted a chance to help us adjust to our new life. I wanted to be able to have a shot at moving forward. But every single time, it got halted. And just as we got into a rhythm of me going back to the office one day a week and started talking about me doing more days post-Christmas, Omicron hit. The advice was given to work from home again. At the same time, things were changing at work, people were leaving my team (I obviously have no control over this), and it felt like everything was changing again. The stability that I’d managed to create for just a little while dissipated.

But I kept going. Until that day in February. When I finally had to acknowledge that I couldn’t keep going any longer. I couldn’t keep calm and carry on. I actually had to stop. I had to focus on me for a change. Nobody else. Just me. I’d been trying for two years to give us “normality” but when this feels like pushing water up a hill, it’s incredibly hard to do. The same friend who I’d messaged about being signed off gave me some advice, “use this time for a little mini reset, not to think “how can I use this time productively.”” He was 100% right. But actually, what he didn’t realise was how much I did need to use some of this time productively. Because to do that would help put me back in control of my life.

I have had a mini reset. I’ve stopped. I’ve not just kept going. In all honesty, I’ve probably done what I should have done when Mr C died. But it simply wasn’t possible for me to do then. The world didn’t allow it. I will always stand by my decision to start working again three weeks after his funeral, because it helped me feel a little more in control and if I hadn’t, I strongly suspect I’d have gone stir crazy. But I’ve sat and watched TV or just thought more times since February than in the last two years. I’ve spent time doing lengthy dog walks. I’ve spent time sitting at my late husband’s memorial bench. I’ve managed to do some exercise classes. I’ve spent time having coffee or lunch with friends, in my view, the best form of therapy. I’ve done some writing. I’ve shed many tears. I’ve breathed. I’ve put me first. I’ve stopped trying to do everything and be everything to everyone all the time.

Yet, I have also found it incredibly cathartic and beneficial to be productive too. I’ve put up shelves. I’ve built radiator covers. I’ve emptied Mr C’s wardrobe and sorted his clothes. I’ve sorted through cupboards and got rid of things we don’t need. I’ve been exceptionally ruthless because I have to live for today. There is no point keeping something I might need in the future because I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve got rid of glasses we were bought for our wedding nearly 17 years ago that we’d never used. Not all of them and not our wedding china, because I’m not ready for that, but anything we don’t “need” has gone. I’ve bought new furniture because we’d wanted to do this since we moved into our house nearly six years ago. I’ve been able to do things on my to-do list. I’ve smashed old furniture that we no longer need. I have done numerous trips to charity shops. I have done numerous tip runs. All of which have helped me feel more in control. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel in charge of my own life again.

Until the week leading up to my belated 40th party. I spent most of that week throwing myself a pity party. You see, I’d decided the Sunday night before that I was going for self-preservation that week. I was absolutely going to do nothing and focus on me. 12 hours later, the universe had other ideas for me. A carpenter I’d had booked since April last year cancelled on me. I discovered that there had been a leak and my kitchen flooring which had only been down for six months needed to be ripped up. The floor had to dry out. Over the course of that week people pulled out of coming to my party. They were double booked, they’d tested positive for COVID-19, they weren’t well and while testing negative didn’t want to risk it, rising case numbers were worrying them… I absolutely respect all of this. I completely appreciate people’s decisions. But from a completely selfish perspective it wasn’t doing anything to help me. Once again, I started to feel out of control. Not helped by the issues in my kitchen, but mainly because I was feeling that COVID-19 was taking control away from me again and was going to ruin my third birthday in a row. I couldn’t get excited about it. I just didn’t care.

It took me until about half hour before the party started to get over this. At this point I realised that I wasn’t in control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I would just enjoy myself and have fun with those people who were able to be there. And that’s what I did. I just stopped stressing and caring. I went with the flow. A slightly novel experience for me. But one that without question paid off. Because it was absolutely perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be (I’d been planning it since 2018 so you’d like to think this would be the case). I danced. I smiled. I had one of the biggest surprises of my life (probably deserves a blog in its own right). I just let go. I woke up the next morning feeling that my heart was full. Feeling content. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. I knew it was something that I needed to hang onto.

And I’m trying really hard to do that. I know it’s not always going to be easy. I know that for me to survive, I do need my life to be a combination of being in control and learning to just let go and go with the flow. Because I’ve come to realise that as much as I’d like to be, I simply can’t be in control all the time. Life doesn’t really work like that. Yet, for the first time since March 2020, I honestly feel like I can begin to plan again. I can start to think about my future. I can book things for us to do which (all things crossed) won’t be cancelled or rescheduled. I recently went on a night out to celebrate my birthday. The same friend who had sent me that message in February was there and the next day he sent me this message. “You looked happy. You looked like “Emma.” Carefree. Was really nice to see.”

It’s nice to get messages like that. They make me smile. Because my mind is feeling clearer. I’ve got some annual leave next week and then I’m going back to work. I’m looking forward to it. I’m feeling a world away from the start of this year. But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them. And I also look around and know that there’s still things in the house that need sorting. There are still shelves that need to go up. Pictures that need to go up. There are still things that need to be got rid of. And I know that each time I do this, it will help me. I will gradually take back the right amount of control that I need. One tip run at a time…

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.