What this weekend has taught me is that trauma is a really great way of forgetting an awful lot of great stuff that happened to you. Whole swathes of my life, it appears have completely vanished from my memory. My husband, however, recalls the past with a clarity I have to say I am somewhat jealous of. Needless to say, he cannot inject these things into my head, and so the pictures will have to do. It has been a rather detached exercise therefore watching other people this weekend deal with grief.
This is, for many years, the only way I was prepared to be photographed when alone. Of course this is back in the days of film and no constant reposing, so fucking up was commonplace, but I do recall getting very good at not posing. I also became wonderful at pretending nothing was wrong when everything was, a habit I’ve now managed to permanently ditch. Last night came the acceptance that no, actually, I don’t need to go back to counselling as I thought might be the case late last year. This is good. I am coping very well.
This is how we do this going forward.
I am disappointed, perennially, at how other people conduct themselves. Waiting until someone dies before remembering you had a life with them is not a good look. This last few days has only reinforced my utter hatred for Facebook and the complete hypocrisy of those who use it for their benefit, and theirs alone. We all know those people, and they are a long way away from the ideal. I also know, without a shadow of a doubt that my husband will never, ever be one of those people and he is, without doubt, a fucking hero.
Pick your friends carefully.