Couch to 80k Week 5 Day 3 – Up close and personal

Oh man. Today. Today was tough.

I like emotional distance. I like humour and sarcasm and playful silliness – these things keep you from drowning in your emotions. My oldest son has ASD and I think for kids with ASD the general population think they’re cold emotionally, but they’re really not – if anything they can feel things very deeply and struggle to keep emotional dampers on those feelings. So they often overcompensate (learning how to cope) whereas neurotypical have very fine grained control over their emotions, it’s easier to keep it all damped down.

(Like, I think, every single thing about humans, there’s no real binary here – there’s no such thing as neurtypical and ASD – rather brains that work in varying degrees in varying different ways, but humans LOVE LOVE LOVE to classify stuff, so we end up with words that cover some portion of that rainbow of colours)

(I mean, the unspoken thing here is my constant wondering of whether I’m on the spectrum, the answer is: of course I am, so is everyone else. I’m human)

Anyway, I’m moving too off topic.

Continuing this week’s theme of Psychic evaluation, and – to put it crudely – plundering your own emotions for content (and I mean a more romantic way to put it would be to say “enriching your writing through the exploration of your own emotional experiences ” which is also nicely alliterative ). Week 5 Day 3, Tim tells us is an optional day – do it or do not. (There is no try).

(Is it obvious I’m stalling? It is, isn’t it?)

It’s write about a traumatic event in detail. I have a few to choose from, but the one that, I suppose impacted me the greatest – the real life changer, is my mum dying. It broke me for a good long time. So I’m posting it here, sometimes I feel like I need to keep these things private, and sometimes – often in fact – I discover that sharing this stuff touches reaches other people and they find they’re not the only one to have felt like this. I will be honest, I cried typing up a lot of the following. So, as per Tim’s instructions on writing it, I’ll give you the same on reading it: you can skip this one if you like.


I was in work. I think it was the start of the week. I had a shirt on sleeves rolled up. When someone came in to the room to tell me.

“Paul. Your dad is on the phone”. She looked concerned, but it was impossible to tell what it was about, though it seemed serious.

I phoned my dad.

“Your mum is dead”.

I don’t remember asking to leave, I think I told someone, I think I lifted my coat and zipped out there. I don’t remember how I got home. I think I phoned Annette. At that moment, everything was blurry, nothing was real. I felt a hurt so deep down, that I just wanted to wail. Not scream, but to reach inside and pull out of me a noise from the depths of my being. A Death moan- suddenly I wasn’t a man or a boy, as I was an animal, mourning the loss of its mother. A wolf cub, lost in the forest, its mother – its entire world gone, and I just wanted to howl out.

I think I went home to my dad’s house. I think my wife met me there. And, really, I disintegrated. I couldn’t take it. My brothers were there. My youngest brother, Luke, was in the room. The house smelt like home, but stale. My dad was shaking a little. Maybe I was vibrating through the room, like the only thing alive at that point was my loss. Mum was lying in bed. Someone mentioned a note.

She’d left a note.

“I felt something in my heart last night, something broke. I don’t think I’ll wake up tomorrow, take care of Luke. Love you”

I could feel stinging behind my eyes. Tear ducts heating up, stifling tears. And then I ran, I wanted to both run away as far as I could and go to my mum and crawl up beside her and lie there and never move again. Never move away from her. At that point, I forget I had siblings. It was only ever me and mum. For one year, when I was too young to even understand or realise, it was only me and her. She had me when she was 16. So from 16 to 17 years old this young girl had a baby, and that horrible moment made me feel what that must’ve felt like. I felt that love she must have had for that child, for me, and I felt it go. For it to suddenly be taken from the child. I felt sorry for myself, of course, but I felt sorry for the child I was. And the girl she was. And that she’d never had a life as an adult without kids.

I ran and ran and ran, and I’m still running.

I went upstairs, and went to the toilet, locking the door. I didn’t want anyone to see me, I wanted to be alone in my grief. I wanted to climb in to the forest, and stand over the body of the wolf and howl at the moon and the world and every bastarding thing that was in it that took my mum from me

3 Comments

  1. Lovely piece about a terrible thing. My dad died when I was fifteen and I’ve written about it often, but never in public. It’s a brave post.

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    1. Oh man, this nearly made me cry. Thank you. (I may be still a little emotionally hung over from the post – but this comment means a lot.)

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  2. I might not comment on all your posts, but I do read every one of them, like the last one where you DM’d with your son. Lovely and makes me realize I’m not the only one with a kid begging for attention as they need it 🙂 brave to write down your experience of your mom’s death, I can only imagine what it must be like but have been fortunate enough not to have experienced it yet. Although it’s something that lingers in the back of your head as you know it’s something that you too will experience one day inevitably… (why was I writing in some twisted form of third person? perhaps to keep it somewhat distant?) Anyhow keep at it Paul!

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