I am terrible at dealing with grief; worse at observing the grief of others. I cried at my grandfather’s funeral, but the tears came more from a sympathetic connection to the wailing people around me, and less a sense of personal loss, even though the loss of my grandfather hurt. I cry at unexpected injustice, emotional swells in movies and goodbyes. The last time I broke down completely was around this time last year, when the prospect of ever moving Arden to the UK suddenly felt impossibly distant. (Things have changed since then, obviously.) In general, though, I don’t cry. I retreat.
Today, blessed with an abundance of time but without the mental energy to really get to grips with editing my book, I finished an inventory of everything I own. Seeing it all reduced to a list is strange - as if the combined clutter of twenty-three years is suddenly manageable. It’s still a fucking long list, and I’m not sure how much I’m really going to be able to bring with me, but this feels like an achievement. Another step forward.
Speaking of progress, I am now at what most of my fellow visa applicants describe as the most stressful period - the time between submitting all of my application forms and the visa interview itself. There is no way to track this. I have confirmation that my application forms arrived, at least, and a record of my medical exam, but beyond that I have to sit here and wait with no fixed end. The best thing I have right now is hope.
I’ll be okay. There is a part of me that refuses to engage with the world at the moment, as if limiting my interaction and turning my days into amorphous blobs rather than discrete events will allow me to forget the passing of time. To some extent, it’s working. There is no Living My Life To The Fullest at the moment. That’s a doomed enterprise. Best to live my life at a mediocre level, and save myself from extra stress.
Really, though. I’ll be okay.