A Response: On Loss and Loneliness

The first piece for our 'Saying' section is a wonderful writer from someone who did a lot for the old blog as well. She's a bit of an inspiration to me and one of the most interesting and intelligent people I've ever met. I found this article really difficult to read but very important.

- T x

Since Tessa posted her touching post about her Grandpa, and that ominous theme death, I’ve been thinking of writing a response, but have been far too anxious. This post is opening up some of the darkest, most vulnerable parts of me, and so is kind of uncomfortable to share with varying degrees of Facebook friends, and even complete strangers, though the latter are probably a less threatening audience to be completely honest. However, a good friend of mine (hint: it was Tessa), once talked about practicing what you preach. I would always encourage my friends to share what was going on in whatever way they felt like, and I also know how stories, in whatever medium, can help you feel less alone, from my own experience, so here it goes. (I also know that Tessa is a great mate, and if I ask she will take this down, and we can all collectively forget it ever happened).

Also please note, this is going to get a little dark, and touch briefly on themes of suicide, so if this is a trigger for you, please don’t read it.

Although 8 years old is very young, in some ways its where I mark my childhood, or at least a part of the innocence and naivety of my childhood to end. This is because that’s when my ‘first death’ , the death of my dear uncle, occurred. To quote Brandon Flowers: “I’d never really known anybody to die before”, and I couldn’t quite wrap my head around, that the last time I’d seen him, had been the last time ever. That next time I went to Pakistan, he wouldn’t be there. In fact, when I did return to Pakistan a couple of years later, I cried all the more, as it was suddenly so real. The fact that he was so funny and full of life, made his absence ever more deafening. Since that first death, I’ve had an uncomfortable relationship with people close to me dying. I remember in year 8, having to read a poem about a dead dog, in class and not being able to stop the tears. It was highly embarrassing and awkward, but I couldn’t help it.

Now, lets flash forward to starting university. I wasn’t overly excited to start university, I was scared that no-one would like me, that I wouldn’t get along with the lifestyle, and had doubts about the course I’d picked (my friends and family will tell you how agonizing it was for me to choose between two courses, so in some ways this was inevitable). However, despite the nerves, I was determined to at least try it out, and see how it went.

But then, my uncle died. I can’t ever express how much this affected me, and my time at university. I think the main thing was is how unexpected it was. I’m not sure how much death can ever be expected, and to be honest, having seen him the weeks before his death, I probably should have realized it was inevitable. I still remember the empty shell of him, when I visited him at his home a week before he died. I remember my aunt, his wife, one of the strongest women I know, breaking down. I remember the last time I saw him being able to speak, and him being much more full of life, but not really making any sense. I remember harboring an unfair hatred towards Owen Jones, because going to see him speak, had cut down my last meeting with my uncle. I remember recording a podcast for my first university assignment and my mum texting me, when will you be done. I remember my mum calling me on the tube to Harrow, and telling me the news, which I felt I already knew, but wanted to deny. That was the first time I’ve ever cried on public transport.

The loss of my uncle is probably the most significant loss of my life, and it also marks the start, which coincided with the start of university, of the loneliest period of my life. When my uncle died, I felt I had no where to turn to. I remember informing my group (for the podcast), that I couldn’t make the original time we planned to record as I was at hospital all day, and being met by my message left on ‘read’. I remember the countless emails from staff, and the words of the few flat mates I’d told that they were ‘sorry for my loss’, but feeling the words fall flat. I know this is completely unfair, as that is just what you say, but I didn’t want to make them feel awkward when we had just met, by burdening them with my feelings. I remember the coldness of being requested to supply a death certificate of my uncle in order to get an extension for my first university deadline.

This barrier, where I felt I couldn’t speak to anyone led me to isolate myself. I refused invitations to go out, and soon stopped getting invited. I went to my lectures and didn’t talk to anyone, choosing to sit on my own. I felt that I wasn’t worth being talked to, I was boring and mopey, and no-one would want to be my friend in ‘the best years of their life’. I know realistically I could have reached out to my home friends, but I felt I didn’t want to inconvenience them in their new lives, with their new friends. According to Facebook, they were having the best time of their life and I didn’t want to be that voice from their past bringing them down. I understand now that my friends aren’t actually terrible people, and me struggling to come to terms with a death would not be an inconvenience for them, but my brain at the time didn’t give them enough credit, or me enough worth. I did share with my family eventually how much it affected me, but it took a while, because they were all reeling from the shock themselves and I didn’t want them to worry about me. When I finally confessed to my mum over reading week, that I dreamt about my uncle nearly every night and woke up crying, and that I couldn’t possible go back to university, where the memories of him dying lived, she asked me why I hadn’t said anything before.

I would honestly describe the loneliness of university as losing myself. When I think back to the last years of school, I was fairly self-assured (for an 18 year old). I had a lovely community at school: a solid sisterhood of friends and supportive teachers who I knew had my back and only wanted the best for me. I had doubts about the future, but I was happy with what I’d achieved. While I’ve always been shy around new people, by the time I got to the end of school I would describe myself as quiet, but confident. However coming to university knocked all of that out of me, undoubtedly made worse by me isolating myself. UCL is a university lacking in community, and while my course seems to have a pretty nice one, I always didn’t feel a part of it. The refusal of invitations at the beginning of university spiraled into me thinking that everyone (and it literally seemed like the whole course) had clicked as friends, and there was no room for me, especially when I had nothing interesting to offer. The lecturers as a whole seemed impersonal and didn’t seem to really care if we turned up to class or not to be honest.

This losing of myself in an extreme crippling of loneliness led me to wanting to die. It took a call to Samaritans to realize this counted as suicidal thoughts. I didn’t actively want to kill myself, but I had extremely detailed fantasies of a double decker bus crashing into me. An instant of pain and then eternal peace. I also fantasized about falling asleep and then never waking up. The only reason I did not want to die was I knew that it would absolutely crush my family, and I would never want to cause them that pain. It is worth acknowledging here how brilliant they have been in supporting me, especially my mother, who is the closest thing I have to heaven on earth. I also wanted desperately to die on my own terms, to know it was coming, so I could tell the people I loved, I loved them. This comes back to the unexpectedness of death, the inability to mark the last time you shared with someone as special. When my clarinet teacher died last year, I drove to his home, which new people now live in, after the funeral and took the walk up to his door even touching the handle, as a sort of pilgrimage, so I could pretend it was the last lesson I had with him. After that I sat in the car and cried for at least 20 minutes, before driving home.

I’m not going to end this on a dark note. While my time at university has been coloured by loneliness and perhaps an uncommon amount of death - as well as my uncle and my clarinet teacher, I also lost my 16-year old cousin and my aunt – with the support of my family and also actual medical help, it’s started to get better, and despite deadline stress, third year has probably been the best yet. I realized there are way more people at university than those on my course, and now by being on two society committees, I’ve met some of the most interesting and kind people ever, as well as somehow pulling off running events. I’m slowly becoming myself again and along the way, I actually have made friends on my course and have started saying yes to more things. As that great thinker of our time Idris Elba tweeted: ‘The best version of yourself comes after the worst journey you could take yourself on”, and I think I can see the truth in that.

However, while it has gotten so much better, these three years will always be clouded by the death of my wonderful uncle, and I still think of him when I pass UCH where he had cancer treatment trials and when I pass Russell Square, where he told me there was excellent pizza, the last time we spoke. It still hurts me that he won’t be around to see me graduate, but I hope he would be proud of me. I’m now looking forward to graduating, and starting a new part of my life.

The picture is from a Ben Howard gig because music 'helps me so much and particularly his second album IFWWW which just so happened to come out around the beginning of first year'