There will be good and bad weeks.
Last week was very bad.
The week in February that my dog was attacked and killed was definitely definitely very very awful. The worst, and I thought I’d already hit rock bottom.
You might imagine, that surely my mums death was the most horrific, and it was. That July day broke our hearts. The words and weeks that followed from finding out mum was going to die, so hopeless. Still, we were able to plan her death to an extent, we were able to talk and talk and talk about her life: quality going forward, her wishes, favourite memories, everything we were sad about, everything she would miss. I was able to give my best friends death the dignity she deserved to the best of my ability, and I’m proud of that.
When time was ready, she wanted me to inherit her beloved Herbie. Taking him home was a privilege. I had loved him for so many years already, I was ready to have him beside me again everyday. So, when we were attacked and I was left without him, unable to shower because of the pain in my hands, leave my bed or stop hyperventilating, I felt an overwhelming sense that everything was hopeless, how much can one person take, why us?!?! I was supposed to keep him safe and I failed.
February was unbearable.
When Winter slipped away and Spring entered, I was thrilled to find light at the end of the tunnel. I started to feel less heavy and encouraged myself to be independent. I wanted to say yes to life again. I thought I was doing pretty well all things considered. Having a nice time both on my own and with friends like I used to and maybe, even just for a second, felt the old me return. Silly Kate thought that feeling would last, but last week hit real hard. I cried. every. day. Multiple times. At work, in the car, at bedtime, as soon as I woke up. I wasn’t okay, I was faking it.
I didn’t understand until very recently that I am a victim. I pictured events as happening to my Herbie, and not myself, and that narrative was false. He was in my arms.
The expectation and praise for picking myself back up has been hell too, but I had no choice! Here is why my frustration lies, because I don’t have a huge support network, no one else is going to show up and save the day for me, I have to move, get back on the horse, pay the bills, sort mums death admin, sit with the sick feeling inside and relive events I wish never happened, whilst being invited and feeling expected to show up to multiple events and put on my bravest face…and I’m over it. I’m not going it any more.
The guilt, misery, bitter not sweet, resentful feelings are very present within me currently. I feel understandably angry at the world currently, jealous of my friends, scared when I hear a dog bark, anxious to walk through a park alone, and they’ll never be closure or a day where I won’t be a grieving human without a mum. They’ll never be a sweeter dog than Herbie, or any justice good enough to undo his suffering.
If I didn’t know this already, life is too short to do anything that doesn’t make me happy or nurture my wellbeing, and even if loved ones or colleagues would love to see me, that doesn’t mean I should prioritise their experience over my own. My safety and joy come first. I’ve literally said yes and been a people-pleaser my whole life and I’m totally shattered from being so polite, showing up and then spending the rest of my week in bed because I didn’t listen to my body.
Mums voice shouts louder than ever, that I need to say no more often, to nurture myself and only say yes if there’s a nice café or garden centre involved, preferably both.