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.
Your raw honesty is a rare & beautiful thing. Thank you for daring in baring.