Everything’s got to end sometime

A ramble on grief, pain and getting started

I miss when Twitter worked. I didn’t think that I would. I thought that the website would fall into a black hole and suck all the hatred and the screaming and the narcissism along with it and I would ride off into the distance on a metaphorical unicorn, smiling with freedom. Reader, I am not smiling.

Twitter is my primary source of getting my writing seen and since it began its slow demise, the algorithm feels like a closing door. Maybe I’m being sensitive, but I miss how the platform brought me creativity, friendship and comfort. I miss when I could share things and people would share their things back with me. I miss feeling like I had somewhere to share things. I’ve had real doors of opportunity closed in my face and I feel like I am losing another.

I also miss seeing enough people regularly that they would notice if I got a haircut or brought a new jumper. In the before-times, most of my friends or colleagues would point out new accessories or shades in my hair or what bag I was carrying. I’m not in a room with many people often enough for anybody to even notice the small things anymore. I miss when my life was filled with so many other people that they would notice the little things.

I miss when I felt hope for the future and being young and hanging out. Just spending time with people, doing things, all the time. Those moments when I’d end up having lunch with someone new or exploring a new part of London or watching a comedy show or going out with pals because that’s just what we did. Socializing now feels like something I have to work hard at, if I am well enough, and hope that it turns out to fill me with energy rather than deplete it.

I miss when people asked me “How are you?” and I could think of lots of good and happy things to say. I miss when people asked me about my creative endeavours and I felt hopeful and excited about them. I miss when I could say I was fine, not chronically unwell and sad, and struggling to lift the cloud that has taken residence above my head. It hasn’t budged in so long it might as well begin paying rent. I miss when I didn’t have to try to explain the latest hard thing that I’m dealing with on top of all the other really-hard-things.

I miss walking instead of getting the bus. I miss when I felt like I had a home to go back to. I miss when people weren’t burnt out. I miss when I wasn’t burnt out. I miss my body before surgery and I miss my body before endometriosis. I miss my body before the pandemic.

I miss when it felt like things were getting started.

I miss when my body didn’t double over from the fire spreading through me. I miss when my legs worked properly and carried me into forests and new towns and exciting places. I miss when my mind didn’t give up three hours into every working day, screaming YOU CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE. I miss when my heart didn’t have to work ten times harder to propel me forward through what feels like layers of barbed wire.

I miss when I didn’t grieve a past life, a past version of myself. I miss when I didn’t grieve my future. I miss when I didn’t have to miss living. There’s a parallel universe version of this post where I go on for thirty-eight pages, but I’m sure I’m not the only one feeling so lost.

I wish I could regenerate like in Doctor Who and watch it all begin again, safe in the knowledge that I could always have another go at another life or be another person.

Everything has to begin again. But how do we create from the ashes of what was lost if the fire has burnt through the hands that were meant to build? Maybe I’ll have to rebuild my own hands, my own body, my own mind; or nothing will ever get started.