Buckaroo.

Friday was A Very Bad Day.

Most days now I start off functioning okay, coping okay, but as ever, aware of the nagging presence of Grief, sitting there on my shoulder.

She’s still quite a new friend to me – other people I know have learned to live with her, even to value her as a reminder of the love they shared with their lost person, and I can see how that will happen, over time. But for now, she and I are still getting to know each other. Still learning to tolerate our various quirks and hang-ups. Still warily eyeing each other up and testing boundaries.

On Friday she was poking me a bit. Just a little. Nothing I couldn’t handle. A few intrusive thoughts. A few moments of that gutting sense of loss, under control as quickly as it arrived thanks to my honed distraction techniques and coping strategies that keep me from falling apart and allow me to carry on doing my job and caring for Lyla and getting things done.

But then things started to go wrong. Other, external things. A broken laptop. Some (mild) criticism at work about a slightly stressful project. Nothing huge at all. Things that, when Mike was here, I would have shrugged off, or at most gone and asked Mike to talk it through with me, got a hug and been reminded of what’s important in life.

Yeah. That’s not what happens now.

I completely fell apart. We’re talking sobbing, wailing, hyperventilating, even thoughts of suicide (don’t worry, I stayed safe, I have lots of coping strategies for that in place and they work and will continue to do so – but it’s been a long time since I’ve had the urge and it was frightening). I could not get my emotions under control. In the end I had to go and take a Diazepam – something I’ve not had to do for 6 months – and just crawl into bed and wait for it to pass.

So silly. Such a big reaction, for something so tiny. But it always is something tiny. A broken laptop. A child with a cold. A missed bus. An argument with a friend. A burnt dinner. Something so small that when you find yourself wracked with sobs you can’t quite believe it. Such an overreaction. So little resillience.

Did you ever play that kids’ game, Buckaroo? The one where you load the plastic donkey with hats and ropes and lanterns and firewood and, if I remember correctly, a banjo? And it would take everything without complaint until suddenly, without warning, something – one tiny thing – would tip it over the edge and it would buck and throw everything all over the floor?

Yeah. That’s basically what it is. All the time you’re carrying Big Stuff. The usual things that we all carry – working and parenting and day-to-day stresses and the joys of living in a global pandemic – but also my new friend Grief (and let me tell you, she is HEAVY). And next to her, your child’s Grief, because that’s a burden you have to carry as well. And it’s hard going, but it’s manageable – you’ve learned how to carry it, over the months or years. You can carry it and keep going.

But then someone adds something else, and it’s too much. It’s too much and you can’t help but buck, and, to be frank, lose your metaphorical shit.

What a mess.

But there’s no choice but to pick it all up again. Working and parenting and being a friend, they’re things we all have to carry. And Grief, of course – the burden you can’t put down.

So you gather it all, and you load yourself back up, and you wait for the next tiny thing. The rope. The lantern. The bloody banjo, for goodness’ sake. The tiny thing that tips you over the edge.

Buckaroo.