A Talking To.

"What am I doing?" I scream internally.

Check my watch; five minutes until I must get out of this car!

Nauseated. Trembling so violently I wonder if my skeleton will crumble to powder; like the ashes of you I released into the sea.

I learned the types of restraints in mental health training; now I need chemical restraint myself. Or maybe physical...certainly environmental.

Seclude me.

Isolate me.

What am I doing?

Rain batters my windscreen. It hasn't rained like this in months. It is telling me to turn around and return home, surely.

Why on earth would I start a new job while deep in catastrophic grief? How can I be my best self when running on no sleep? Dark circles beneath my eyes are embedded like bruises. My skin is crepey, my hair dry, and I can’t fit comfortably into the new uniform because I drank a bottle of wine two nights ago.

What am I doing?

I’ll tell you what I’m trying to do.

My old job was comfortable, it paid the bills. Not that I care if they are paid. What’s the point of staying afloat when you’re gone?

I actually adore my old job. But I had to leave because of you.

When you were killed, I became workplace gossip. Conversations dropped to whispers whenever I entered a room. Each time I started to feel okay, someone would bring it up, compassionless. They’d ask how I was, their voice lowered as if the question were illegal. It should be. Because I’d end up a blubbering mess in a cleaner’s closet, leaning against mops and brooms, wanting to die. On good days, a nosy colleague would mention my weight loss or say your name, and the good would be over. I couldn’t escape the terror in my bed. I couldn’t escape the horror at work.

If I must stay alive, I can’t face the constant upheaval each day at that place.

I crave a workplace where nobody knows me.

Where no one has a clue that the high-profile murder case is tied to me.

If I walk into this new job today, no-one is to know I was your lover.

No one is to ask how I’m surviving.

To escape, I must walk into this new building. New clients. New protocols.

I’m the new girl again, and I’m about to black out from panic.

Your death has become my secret superpower. When I feel anxiety rise, I revisit your final moments alive; torture, the blood, the screams. This jolts me into numbness, dissociating from my present reality. To most people, especially mental health practitioners, this would appear to be an unhealthy coping mechanism.

But it serves me.

The anxiety vanishes; panic dissolves. Because you are dead. And I miss you. And nothing is worse than that.

So, this trembling lump closes her eyes and sees your face.

It's time to go in.

Eight hours later, I’m driving home, dare I say it, with a smile. I made it through the day, and I even enjoyed it. Then, I start to cry.

I cannot call you to tell you I made it. I will not see you at the front door of your house wearing a barbeque apron and a cheeky grin, cooking our favourite dinner, grilled prawns.

♡

I was complimented on my calm today.

Working in community care, clients can present challenging behaviours, and before you died, my judgment could become clouded during episodes. I would spiral into How-can-I-fix- this? mode.

Before your death, I never experienced panic, anxiety, complicated grief, suicidality. Now I know these states intimately, and when they arose today, I stayed composed and grounded with lived experience.

“You handled that impressively” said the coordinator. “You de-escalated with calm.”

I didn’t say why.

I didn’t reveal how.

Because no one here will ever know the trauma I endure.

I will not say your name here.

I will never mention your murder.

Instead, I hold you close like armour.

You are my secret superpower.

I can do anything now because you are dead.

Because nothing is worse than losing you, and nothing else really matters at all.

This is not unhealthy.

This is fucking magic.

I started a new job today.

♡

The day was long but fulfilling, and I am at home soaking wet. The rain is record breaking, dominating headlines and the land. My garden is a puddle, the chickens' feathers stick to their bodies and they look like tiny dinosaurs rather than birds. I gather eggs without an umbrella, because whenever it rains, I hear you: "kiss me in the rain, sweetheart."

It was our favourite thing to do. Like a Hollywood romance, we pashed like teenagers; giggling and licking rain drops from one another's noses.

I wander back to the house and realise, the bins are still out so I wander along the driveway to collect them. It's when I feel you:"look up, sweetheart. Take a look in the sky."

The clouds have parted in the shape of a perfect love heart. Sunlight spills through, illuminating the raindrops; liquid gold.

And then, you scold me; a right talking to.

"Enough! I can be the reason for your gloom and doom no more! I know it's tough, but ENOUGH!"

The rest isn’t words, but energy. Your human cheekiness surges through me like a storm. Your jokes, your laugh, your happy homeostasis. To make another person cry was unthinkable for you. Unfathomable! You brought joy to everyone you met. And now, through your spirited scolding, I see it: my sorrow is a weight on the very wings that should lift you. My wallowing; complete disservice to you.

You have been wonderful to me since you died; always by my side, supportive, patient, hugging me when I wail. The ethereal adventure of signs and messages, synchronicity and blessings. If it weren't for you, I would not be developing mediumship. You have literally been my BFF, like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

But, what have I done for you!?

"You did great today" I feel you say of my first day at the new job. "Lets do more of that."

Well, I have been told!

I bring in the bins.

I carry out the most mundane chore while ethereal magic shines all around.

Now, I know what I am doing ✨️