I am proud of myself for returning to work. It hasn’t been easy, particularly the first few days, and of course I still have my moments of grief. But being busy is good. Some of the pupils and staff have been so lovely. What struck me most about the funeral and what I haven’t written about yet, was how comforting all the support from family and friends was to me. The hugs, the condolences, the kind words: they meant a lot. The same can be said for work.
I’ve had a good week really and now there’s only left until the summer. I’ve planned out a large proportion of the time so I have things to look forward to. Keeping busy helps.
The hardest part is going home. It doesn’t feel right. How can my family home, the one I have lived in since a baby feel like this? I know the answer is strikingly obvious – Dad’s not here – but I don’t think I ever realised how much a person makes a home. His death, his absence is the shadow in every room.
Words cannot express how much I miss him.
I am fully aware that my goto technique of ‘blocking it out and pretending it hasn’t happened’ is really not helpful in the longterm. It is helping me get through my last weeks at work though.
Today, I received a letter from the local council about registering to vote. When I picked up the envelope, I wondered if Dad’s name would still be on it. I made use of the ‘Tell once” Government service but I didn’t know if they would have processed that information yet. I opened the envelope, half preparing myself for the insensitivity and incompetence if his name was still on.
It wasn’t and that hurt more. My lone name was on that paper and the letters stabbed at me. He doesn’t exist for them any more and only exists in my heart for me.