waspish grief

I am tormented by the impossibility of grieving in public. This is because I am a wasp, of the first order - that peculiar mousey type of wasp that finds even East-coast U.S. wasps rather loud and brash (this observation, by the way is meant to point up the craziness of my worldview, not a criticism of he American personality, whatever that might be). English wasps seem to favour a paired-down, silent, lonely model of grief. Alone with the night of the soul, private, 'at one' with one's feelings (or perhaps just sitting around for a while on empty).

My Italian colleague tells me that in Italy, people grieve together, sleep at each others' houses and eat and drink and feel together as a community, grieving very much in large groups. I find this such a lovely idea, but I know I would go mad with all the noise, all the overt weeping and wailing, the 'performativity' of it all.

Our way must seem so strange, so cold, so empty to him. I think it is precisely at times like this that I become who I really am - English with a capital E. This is not something that comforts me or makes me proud - quite the contrary. I feel as if gripped by a deadly quietude, a quietude that has haunted me most of my life. I am awkward in it, red-faced, uncomfortable with grieving, uncomfortable with grievers and I am dreading the public performativity of V's funeral, although ritual is absolutely right and I also know not to go would be the worst thing for me.  I must mark her passing in some way, even if I  feel  as dry as a twig, ready to snap under the strain of 'being in grief'.

My deadly quietude, something I hate and have sought to overcome most of my life is so profoundly at my core, so who I am, that I grieve with extraordinary silence. I find talking to others very hard, with the exception of A and P, who are both lovely and know what to say and what not to say.

I grieve, I think, as one who is utterly alone, and I cannot grieve any other way. A and P have struggled all week with others. They too have found the burden of being 'in grief' with others sometimes too much to bear, but they are brave enough to go out and face it. I admire them.

I have spent most of this week hiding under my duvet and only got up yesterday to feed my poor cat.

A few seedlings I planted in a seed tray 2 weeks ago have now impertinently germinated: I am so angry at them for daring to show their impudent stupid little heads.

I am feeling this more and more - deep resentment at everyone who walks past my window, at every laughter, at every smile, at every re-run of Friends.

Damn them all. Don't they know we've lost our V?

Comments

[Cheryline Lawson]

I agree with all that you said about the difficutly of grievig in public. But it is OK as long as you are not disruptive towards anyone. There is no way you can prepare for grief no matter how the person died, but each individual is different and it depends on their coping skills and personality as well as a bunch of other factors.

[blahfeme]

Why on earth would I want to 'be disruptive' of anyone? Your comment makes makes me feel as if my grief is somehow toxic to others.

[The Harvester]

I think, Cheryline, the point is precisely that blahfeme doesn't want to grieve in public. Not for any 'disruption' to others, but because it is not this individual's mode of grieving... exactly as you say, it is an individual thing. My Portugese colleague also bemoans the incredible public mourning of the Catholic countries... for the most part, if that's what you want, it must seem to work and help. We English are particularly bad at it all, but rightly or wrongly, public display of any emotional kind is in fact *not helfpul* for those who are so very *of* this culture.

Blahfeme, your grief is in no way toxic, as I am sure you know. It is valid and real and you must deal with it in your way, even if that means hiding under the duvet for whole days. The bit to be wary of is if it starts being toxic to you (and I'm not saying it is, btw). We're all here for you, you know that, but I will lay low and back off until you want to come out from the duvet. And yes, Friends seems especially banal at the moment. x