AUDIO: Party girl grief... the poems

Finding life's lessons in liquid smoke...

Hello, just a little intro/reminder to how the newsletter works… on Wednesdays I tend to write and record something shorter (mostly it’s been a reading of one of my poems and an explanation behind that poem) and on Sundays it’s a longer piece, exploring different aspects of grief and speaking to people about their stories. (If you have a story you’d like to share please get in touch and thank you to everyone who has so far, I’m working my way through your messages.)

I set up this newsletter to explore grief in all its forms. But also to be honest about our reactions to grief and trauma. The different ways we (try to) heal. Not as a guidebook, or as advice, as I’m not a therapist or trained in any way but to showcase that grief doesn’t look how we’re told it will look, and neither does our healing process.

I think, particularly now, there’s a lot of discussion on ‘healthy’ ways of coping: things like yoga, meditation, routines… I’m absolutely for those things, but when you’re in the hurricane of grief or trauma going down a healthy route is incredibly, incredibly difficult. That, I think, can leave people feeling ashamed if they didn’t manage to haul themselves into therapy (which also, of course, has a huge cost element to it) or introduce ‘good’ habits. I think people also have this idea that being someone with grief means crying all of the time, when that’s not the case. As discussed in my last letter with Mary-Frances O Connor “you can both be someone who has grief and someone who lives a happy life.”

It’s why I always want to be really honest about the link between my partying and my grief, as it helped me discover myself. I’m not advocating it, it definitely wasn’t the healthiest route but it’s part of me, my history and who I am today. The poem below (and read above with a short explanation) explores that…

Often I'm told that Jesus loves me
But that he is also
Sending me to hell

Whenever a man with a megaphone
Informs me that I will burn
I am back in Brixton

All that red

The place where I was
Hammering my fists against the door
Scraping my nails down the gate

Looking for where she lay

With every pile of salt
Licked from the crook of my hand
Tequila burn
Watching the fish swim in the 414

Those basement nights that I don't want to remember
Or forget
Were something that men with their sandwich boards
Their loud forceful words
Couldn't see
As I tried to find something that no pew could offer me

She made mistakes
I wanted them
There would be no motherly lessons
Imparted through the twirl of spaghetti on a fork

So this was it
Walking past street preachers and stepping into the flashing lights
The UV my halo
Making sin my salvation

Knowing one day 
I'd look up
And there, she would be. 

Photo by Lewis Patrick on Unsplash