Anniversaries are really sneaky. Birthdays too, but for me less so as I’ve never been a big birthday person. For my 40th I was 9 months pregnant. Nathan was due the next day, but decided to wait another two weeks before making an appearance.
As if that wasn’t enough, we chose that day to move house from Brighton to Cambridge. My birthday present was an oat milk latte from Costa at the services. So, since J’s death, I’ve managed to get through birthdays (his, mine, the kids’) without too much fallout. Anniversaries of his death, however – that’s a whole different matter.
Here are the journal entries I made on those significant dates:
First anniversary
This time last year… you were dead.
I thought I would sail through today, I even wrote it last night, it’s ‘just a day.’ But it was harder than I expected. I had Dylan with me in the morning while Nathan played football. We went for a cold, muddy walk together. Then Neil popped by to discuss what needs to happen on the house while we are away. He plans to dig out the path in the front garden.
C came to pick Dylan up and I had some time to myself. It was around 2pm and I couldn’t help thinking that this time last year you were still alive. I tried calling my mum but within a short conversation she annoyed me.
I was anxious and crying, I couldn’t look at the camera and I was chewing my finger-nail and she sort of laughed awkwardly and said: “What are you doing?” I can’t explain why that annoyed me so much.
She kept telling me how hard she was finding today. That if she was finding it hard, imagine how hard I would be finding it. She didn’t say “I can’t imagine” she said “imagine” and that annoyed me too. I didn’t need to imagine.
Then she started saying she was worried she had motor neurone disease and was going to look it up on the internet. I said for godssakes don’t turn into someone who googles everything and convinces themselves they have it. And then I made excuses and said I had to go.
At 3pm C’s mum came and we chatted for a couple of hours and now I’m fine again. It’s 22:40 I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine but didn’t finish the bottle. When Larry sits on my lap I don’t like to move him to get more, so he’s good at stopping me from drinking too much. I’m going to go to bed now.
I’m getting my hair cut tomorrow, maybe I will cut it all off.
First birthday (his):
So, Happy Birthday. I haven’t written in two days, it finally happened. Not because I haven’t thought about things to tell you during the day. But more, because I haven’t felt an absolute urge to write them down, I haven’t needed to. I think that’s good? Does that mean I’m healing?
On the other hand, I still can’t actually believe this is my life now. I don’t know what more proof I could possibly need that you’re dead, it’s just still surreal, I float through the days, in the sunshine, gardening, walking the dogs and just existing.
We went to your grave today. You’ll be pleased to know that Larry walked right up to it and peed on it. I thought you’d find that funny, it made us laugh. Nathan was wearing his Watford kit. The boys sprinkled wildflower seeds over the earth.
We went into town, ate at Wagamama, went to the David Hockney exhibition, bought a book at Waterstones and then home. It was nice, and the kids were happy.
On the way back from the childminder’s (Dylan still wanted to go) Dylan said to me: “Why did we have to know he committed suicide? Why couldn’t we just think he hit his head on a hammer or something?”
It’s so strange, I battled so hard with being truthful with them and not hiding what you did from them. And there was Dylan saying it would have been better if I’d lied about it, or let them reach their own conclusions. I don’t think that would have worked for Nathan though.
Second anniversary
Two years. I was OK, and then I wasn’t. I felt sorry for myself. Rachel was the only person who messaged to see if I was OK. My sister didn’t, nobody else. Everyone has moved on with their lives, forgotten that this time two years ago I didn’t sleep all night, with both the boys in bed with me, because every time I closed my eyes I got a flashback of you at the back of the garage.
I’ve stayed angry at you for a long time now. I thought it would fade but it hasn’t. That’s the overriding feeling I have for you now, it’s sad. I found a notebook with some really fucked-up short stories you’d written, in perfect handwriting, they were really violent and shocking. They were in the garage, why hadn’t I found them before? I thought about keeping them in case your dad ever tried to get back in touch about your journals (“See? I told you they weren’t for publishing!”), but I don’t want the kids to ever see them, so I’m not risking it, so I destroyed them. They still talk about you. I try not to.
Third anniversary
I’d stopped writing to J by this point, so these were the notes I wrote for this blog:
The day of the three year anniversary I worked from home. It was a full-on work day and I then occupied myself with weeding and tidying in the garden. I had two “Hope you’re OK” messages from Rachel and J’s best friend, to which I replied that I was keeping busy and doing fine.
No tears, no flashbacks just an almost imperceptible smugness that I was in such a good place: I’m fixed! But of course, it doesn’t work like that.
The night after the three year anniversary I had a horrific nightmare. It was not directly connected to his death, but it was connected to death. In my dream, Nathan died in my arms, in circumstances so awful I don’t want to add weight to them by writing them down. I woke up sad to my core, tearful, fragile. I fought back (and lost) tears for most of the day. My grief had waited patiently for me to allow myself the sparkling hope of being done with it, only to sucker-punch me in the stomach when I least expected it and remind me who’s boss. That’s me told.
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