What would you think of all this, pet; this blog which features you, your death, your first initial writ large?
(Yeah, who am I trying to kid with that? He’s called Mark. Anonymity seemed to make sense in the beginning, when I was unsure and cared about what people might think.)
I lay in bed last night, a single tumbler of wine between me and total sobriety, sobbing so hard my eyeballs ached. I missed you so much and I vowed I wouldn’t write anymore. Not intimately, anyway, not about the true state of things. I’d defiled you too much already. Told people too much.
From now on, I would tow the line, describe grief as it happens in the textbooks. Let me just check…ah, here I am, on page 63. According to this, at eighteen months in, I’m out of the mire of total despair, but am now staring up at the rock face of regret. (Turns out this is no more than annoyance though, as the next chapter sees me at the top of said rock face, looking down at the rose garden of renewal. Phew!)
Fortunately Mother stepped in tonight with a copy of The Guardian magazine. And it wasn’t the advert for a super pair of soft-soled sandals (choice of three great colours btw) which made my skin quiver.
It was the article about a cartoonist named Anders Nilsen who had lost his girlfriend to cancer aged 37. And written about it. With candour and a large amount of self-doubt.
Everything Nilsen says in the article resonates with me – every single thing. The piece is here: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/aug/16/anders-nilsen-the-end.
But as you can’t read it yourself, pet, I’ll summarise.
I have realised that this blog isn’t about you. It’s about me. And our love story. So I’m going to keep going for now, warts and all.
But actually, that’s OK, because I know what you think.
You’re with me all the way.