Dear 2020,
I think a lot about the things I would like to forget. I’d like to forget the night my mum died, and the morning Caroline died. I’d like to forget some bad experiences with guys, some fights with friends and a few with Chris. I have some terrible memories of being a young girl. I’d happily remove a few instances where I have behaved badly and upset people, and others where people have said things that have hurt my ego. There are memories that I wish would go away, because they don’t serve me well and just trouble me (mostly when I have a hangover or can’t sleep). And then there’s 2020: we could just forget entirely about it and start afresh in 2021 when everything is going to be perfect, right? RIGHT?
But forgetting things won’t get me anywhere. Caroline dying gave me compassion for those who have lost people through suicide. My mother’s death means I understand what childhood trauma can do. My fights with my husband have forced me to listen, and any mean things I have said have left me guilt-ridden and sorry. My bad experiences with men have made me an excellent mother to boys. My fall-outs with friends have made me a better friend to the ones I keep. I’ve learned from them all. All pain is worth it. All mistakes make us better, all fear more understanding, all love more open. Every experience we have prepares us for something else down the road. It’s all just life, and whoever said that was going to be easy? No one did, and if they did, they were likely lying or exceptionally boring.
So what have I learned about myself in lockdown? I’ve always wondered what my other life could look like. The one where I’m single with no kids, where I live in a nice flat in London, alone, with a couple of cats, writing novels in my bed. I’ve often wondered if that life would have suited me more – if I’m just trying on a version of the person I am now, rather than really being her. But lockdown has taught me that I am so her. So fully and completely, with dedication and every inch of my soul. I am a wife and a mother and this life is the one I want to be in, no doubt. I want to be friends with the school mums. I want to cheer my kids on when they play sport (if they are ever allowed to play sport again). I want to make EXCELLENT cupcakes for bake sale and costumes for Halloween. I can be that woman. I AM that woman. I don’t have to be good at pretending, I am good at this. I love being at home, I LOVE my friends, I adore my job. I feel very deeply and I am spiritual as hell (remember those crystals?) as long as people don’t bang on about it too much. I know I can survive with a few close people, rather than seeking the approval of thousands, and that is a huge and wonderful relief. I know myself a little better than I did before, and I like myself more for the knowledge.
Putting a positive spin on things isn’t easy, though. I wasn’t really raised that way. When I was growing up, conversations at our dinner table would happily lean into the terrible. It wasn’t that we were a sad family, quite the opposite. But as a collective, we didn’t hold back from sharing the bad things that happened over the course of a day, as well as the good. I think it’s probably quite British. I actually (also quite British) like being that way. Never enjoying anyone else’s pain, but always happy to discuss it. Just yesterday, Chris came into the office to say, ‘hi’ to me and I immediately said that I was worried about my friend’s new house in case there were more fires in California. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Your brain really goes to a dark place, doesn’t it?’ And I just said, ‘Yeah. Yeah, it really does.’ It always has. I’m kind of used to it.
Irish people tend to focus on the positives. Gratefulness is a big part of the culture, or so it seems. If a conversation starts heading too far down a depressing road, someone is sure to bring it back. I found this quite hard when I was first around my in-laws, always feeling like the Debbie Downer at the table who wanted to get into the nitty-gritty of any recent tragedies, only to be stopped when things (as far as I was concerned) were getting really juicy. I’ve had to learn to find a middle ground. But isolation has been a challenge for me: the grief, the fear, the loneliness, the distance from the people I love, the political unrest and anxiety, the terrifying death rates, the never-being-able-to-leave-the-house, the relentless childcare and many sleepless nights. I had to learn not to wallow in it all, it wouldn’t have been fair on my family. If I had succumbed completely to grief, my kids’ memories of this time would be traumatic. I wanted it to be a period of fun family time, where they had way more sugar than usual, went to bed late, and had me and Chris mostly to themselves for months on end. They have no idea how sad I have been, but I protected it from them because I wanted to. I did that, and I did it well while taking care of myself too. I’m proud of myself for that. I did good. When the world goes mad, you either go mad with it, or focus on the things that are OK. And there were loads of things that were OK. More than OK. My house is lovely, my kids are awesome and I love my husband so much. That was what got me through. The life that we have built. It was strong – not even Covid-19 could knock it down. And luckily, for now, there is no storm.
As I look back over the last few months of a year that has changed us all, I can see how so much of life happens when nothing is really happening. I’d go so far as to say that the smaller your life gets, the more room there is for your emotions to grow. Without the distraction of normal life, I have cried, hurt and loved harder than I ever thought possible. I’ve been able to spend time with myself, my kids, my husband and my dog and my cat and now my fish. And I’ve realised that the way I feel when I am with them is me at my very best. I don’t know what the future holds, 2020 has taught me not to presume anything, but what I do know is that another chapter will begin. Soon, we’ll close the door on our old house where we lived as newlyweds. The first place we brought Art home to, the house where we conceived and then I gave birth to Valentine. The house where we hosted more parties than we can remember. The house that friends lived in while we were away, where babies, not just our own, took their first steps in. A house full of so many memories, eight years of love and a million other emotions from laughing to screaming, shouting and a hell of a lot of crying in cupboards. It’s a house of 40 billion cockroaches. A million meals cooked and an infinity of margaritas drunk. Many a weed gummy consumed and some seriously excellent kaftans worn. This house was the last place where I saw Caroline, on 22 October 2019. It’s where I was when I received that call. It’s seen me at my most powerful as I brought life into this world, and my absolute weakest as I saw it disappear. And now we are moving. Just me and my favourite people. To a new house. A new start. There are no memories there, only the ones we decide to take with us.
I’m going to take them all.
Love Dawn x