The thing about trying to make sure you’ve got everything under control is that when you don’t, sometimes you really don’t.
No matter how good you think you are at hiding it - those closest to you can see it - even if the general public think everything it just trundling along.
They carefully approach you and let you know, that they know, that right now, you’re not ok.
Or, it might just blatantly obvious that it’s falling apart because losing control has taken the shape of tears and panic attacks in the most obscure places.
The things that make you lose control can differ - places, events, conversations.
Most of them I can anticipate.
I can put some barriers up around the anticipated challenges - prepare to fend off the tears, breathe deeply through the enormity of a situation, make the crying person in front of me laugh with some sort of flippant self depreciation comment about why ridiculousness of it all because that’s easier than dealing with someone else’s tears and grief.
And I do this because we’ve all heard that story about the boy and the dyke.
And I know that if the dyke of my control facade gets a crack in it and I can’t be the person who can plug it, then it’s all going to go pear-shaped pretty quickly.
Granted, it’s exhausting. But it’s also my coping mechanism. And so far, it’s allowed me to navigate through some of the most challenging days of my life in the last year.
Even before Pete died, just the enormity of a changing household with his auto immune disease, the needs of the kids, the work/life juggle, the weight of responsibility that fell, and continues to fall, squarely on my shoulders.
But sometimes I can not plug the holes. Cannot stop the enormity of the situation overwhelming me.
Cannot grit my teeth strongly enough, take a breath deep enough, close my eyes tight enough.
Mostly I try the choose the times that I let it all slip. In a place or with the people of my choosing.
And probably because I’ve got those barriers so strongly fortified, when they come crashing down and I can’t control it, it’s reasonably spectacular.
This week the catalyst was one of Pete’s favourite restaurants. The Woodhouse in Bendigo.
Every time he dined at this restaurant in Bendigo - and over the last six years there were quite a few times - I’d get text messages from him with pictures of the menu. Of the food. Of the desserts. Of how delicious it all was. They came complete with ‘we need to come back here - without the kids...’ or ‘we could bring them, but I need to bring you to eat here.’
I never got to eat there with him.
Until Friday night.
When I did get to eat at this restaurant.
But without him.
And I cried reading the menu.
And then I cried when the meal arrived because the only thing I wanted to do was take a photo of it and send it to him. Because it was the only thing I couldn’t do.
So once the floodgates has started, and because I was surrounded by people who could help me, my subconscious decided that was an opportune time to pull down the defences a bit. Or the whole way...
Apparently that night when I had family around was the time for letting all that inner speak start yelling, letting all the bodily muscles that could impersonate actual life challenging situations run rampant (like pain from a blood clot in a leg, chest tightening from a heat attack... you know, just the small things) ... and just for some fun and games, tossing in some adrenaline leg shaking with a bit of cold chill action just for good measure.
At the same time, my brain can double down on this by reminding myself that I am the only surviving parent and potentially I could leave the children parentless.
When my subconscious decides it can let the defences down, it doesn’t hold back!
For that 20mins - 1 hour session in my body, it’s all sorts of hysterical ridiculousness.
But afterwards, exhausted and clearly still alive, my conscious brain decides to speak sternly to my subconscious, puts it firmly back in its box and I can put the barriers back up. And get on with it all.
Helpfully though, I’ve discovered whatever set off the anxiousness won’t do it again.
Like driving to/from Melbourne ... once I’d lost my biscuits over that first trip, it’s now not a problem.
Sorting Pete’s clothes, attending functions at the venue where the funeral was held,going to dinner at friends’ houses without him, going to school events, children’s birthdays ... the list goest on.
Once I’ve shown my subconscious that I’m strong enough to handle it, it seemingly acknowledges that the world won’t end if I do these things without Pete.
It’s why I keep doing all the things. To prove to myself, not anyone else, that I can do this.
I definitely do not think I can do all the things all of the time. I have absolutely been accused of this.
I haven’t been able to do all the things on my first attempt. I’ve said no to things that previously I’d just do on my ear. I was incredibly frustrated when a beer at the pub put me into a tailspin. Now, it’s all good. But the first time? Nope!
And so it was on the weekend. Once I’d lost it all, fallen apart. Put myself back together again. Done some talking to family members who clearly weren’t fooled by the small cracks in the control facade and knew they were actually gaping canyons, I could enjoy the rest of the activities planned for our weekend away.
As an aside, the food at The Woodhouse was just as good as he said it was.
His work colleagues ate there with him a number of times. They will be doing it again this weekend. I’m going to be giving them a learned word of warning that eating there without him is a pretty tough gig.
I’ll tell them to order the good red, they’re going to need it.
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