Jessie Cave On Grief And Hope For The New Year

I’ve sat down to write this in an awful mood. Selling Sunset is primed in the background with the hope that at some point this evening my thunderclouds can be alleviated by some real-estate hunting in high heels. My kids – including the baby, who seldom sleeps longer than one hour – are asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep. Sometimes, they are scarily empathetic and can sense when they need to play ball.

I don’t feel like I’ve been good enough in any way today. I’ve not been nice, I’ve moaned, I’ve felt sorry for myself. My therapy has always been writing, and I normally write in my diary every day. Most days, it flows easily. I clock the remarkable things my kids have said during the day, the particularly sweet or funny moments, and ready myself to write them down the minute I can. I fiercely believe that the words they have said to me must not be forgotten, and nothing about life can be taken for granted. But I’m beginning to accept that some days are just awful, and even if remarkable things were said, I don’t need to record them. On some days, it’s OK to complain about the measly, insignificant things, blow things out of proportion for no reason and wallow in the mess.

2020 was a year of massive collective grief for us all. Grief for the lives we weren’t getting to live, grief for those we weren’t seeing, grief for the life we had and – even if only temporarily – lost. Suddenly, there was a Before and After that everyone could understand. Because, usually, grief can be solitary. You can’t share your dark thoughts with everyone because you know it’s like shouting into a void if they too haven’t experienced a loss. You can’t communicate anymore with the lucky ones who’ve managed to escape the brutality of someone they love dying, because – quite simply – they just don’t get it, no matter how empathetic a human they might be.

Losing a sibling shattered my sense of reality, and instantly smashed any hopes I had for my future. I stopped dreaming. My Before was over and I was into the After where all seemed ruined. The only thing I could do to feel better was to cling on to my creativity; keep making stuff. That might seem macabre and gross – to use your own excruciating experiences for art – but it’s slightly better than going mad. And the work created might even help someone; it might resonate with one or two of the unlucky ones who also find themselves unwillingly in the pit of despair.

I wrote my debut novel, Sunset, in the immediate aftermath of tragedy. It’s about the worst thing imaginable happening to two sisters, two best friends. It was largely inspired by my relationship with my sister Bebe. In a typically weird way, I wrote it for her, as my way of showing her how much I love her and how much light she has shone into my life since the moment she was born. But there is no doubt that Sunset is an incredibly sad and heavy book. I’ve lost count of the number of DMs I’ve received from people telling me I made them cry on holiday. I’ve also received many from people who’ve lost a sibling, stories of grief. These messages leave me feeling at once so, so sorry for them whilst also relieved that someone else out there ‘gets’ me.

Death is just shocking. There’s no way it can’t be. Writing this book gave me focus when I was in the grips of trauma. When I was re-writing and editing it months later, it was like someone else had written it, and I’m glad I have some evidence of what was going on in my heart during that time. It may be fiction, but it’s drawn from truth. It’s highly exposing but I’m not ashamed. Mostly, I’m grateful I had the wherewithal to open up Word and Save As each time.

My baby will wake up in approximately 20 minutes, or my seven-year-old will wander down the stairs and say he’s been awake playing with a torch for two hours and that he’s sorry. I’ll say it’s OK and he’ll watch Selling Sunset with me, which isn’t ideal viewing for a young mind, but it will do for tonight.

I binge-watched the first three seasons during lockdown last year, as I was heavily pregnant, scared about having a new baby mid-pandemic and frantically finishing my book. It feels odd that there is a new series already on our screens, that the baby has already had his first birthday, that life has gone on when it felt for so long that everything was on pause. I will take a breath before I press play, because I almost don’t want to be reminded of that period because it was hard. But I will press play. I will enjoy it (and I will be happy they have a new female realtor talking about grief in between the scenes of huge fancy houses with moats) and I will be glad to see their faces again and to be giving my brain a break.

I have a new baby coming in 2022 and they will be coming into a world that is likely to still be mid-pandemic, still scary. However, along with the collective grief, there seems to be a collective belief that things are going to get better and an enthusiasm about what we can achieve. I want to try to be kinder to myself this coming year and to allow for days like today. Awful days might happen, but there will be good days, too. I’m hoping I can escape into a more imaginary world, rather than drawing forensically from my own life. But more than anything, I’m going to try and open myself up again to hope.

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