AUDIO: Remember when Phoebe thought hers was in a cat?

Avoiding your own grief? Me too!

I’ve had a few people tell me that they’d like to read this newsletter but that they’re scared. That they’re avoiding anything that confronts them with their grief. Unfortunately, as they’re unlikely to open this email (and I’m not going to force pain down anyone’s throat) there’s no way to tell them that’s precisely what I want to explore, that avoiding grief has pretty much been my default mode for the past seventeen years. This newsletter was set up to help me stop doing that.

Running away from my own sadness, like a dog (forlornly) chasing its own tail, has led me to party too hard, avoid painful conversations to my own detriment and even, at times, made me physically sick. Yet, I still do it. Again and again and again. It’s why I went to therapy (which I had mixed feelings about, you can read about that in this Cosmopolitan long-read) where it was even pointed out to me that my relentless pursuit of my dream career was another form of avoidance. So, while this newsletter aims to explore grief in all its forms, I think avoidance grief (turns out there’s a name for it) and why it’s the go-to survival mechanism for so many of us will be a topic that I explore a lot. So, if you know someone who’s avoiding their own grief, however that may be, tell them this is the place for them. I promise, I really get it.

Here’s a wee poem I wrote, back when I was in therapy, exploring that, below and read above…

I wore my new shoes to therapy
They pinched me all the way home 
Hobbling on tiptoes, face swollen with sobbing
Avoiding the mechanics next door

They probably won't fancy me like this
So raw and exposed 
But isn't that what we discussed?
My insatiable need to be liked 

I've been holding a volcano inside
Won't it cause more damage, if I vomit it out?

My friends have told me the same wisdom
at 6.30am, sunlight pouring her curves through the curtains
I tell myself it's better from a pro

But it just so happens she has a round face, and a huggable aura
That reminds me of mum

Remember when Phoebe thought hers was in a cat?

Am I overthinking, overthinking?
Let the lava out, see what happens

Then I look down
There's blood all over my sole