The thing with grief, of any sort, is that it’s not a straight line. Or a puddle, receding gradually in the sun. It’s wilder than that. It’s unpredictable. It’s alive.

A break-up is a grief, you see. Or it is if you were the doing it right in the first place…

Sure, no one’s died. So it’s not exactly comparable… But a future has ended. A family has ended. Abruptly. Awfully. At least death has the merit of being universal. Divorce is so PERSONAL. The ultimate rejection. It’s not just one of those things, the luck of the draw, the circle of life – it’s YOU.

And if you’ve got kids you get to keep running into the ghosts of what you lost again, and again. Or maybe you’re the ghost and the person you split up from is the real one. I don’t know.

Grief is a Tiger. It stalks you. And just when you think you’ve outrun it, outwitted it, reached safety – it pounces. And it’s teeth and claws can still tear strips off you.

That’s happened to me this week. And I suppose if I was a ghost I wouldn’t feel it as much, would I? So I am real, after all.

It’s been a hard week, for a number of reasons. Including a sick and incredibly angry and anxious child. Who now has the power to text.

When they’re babies you feel like the separation anxiety when they cry for you as you leave them somewhere is the most awful thing ever. And then they talk. And then they write… And the ability to express it in words somehow makes it so much worse.

So I started sending silly pictures. And she sent pictures back. Family pictures. Of her and her sister with their Dad and his girlfriend. And the Tiger leapt up from nowhere and sunk it’s claws into my back.

The images of the family I wanted, of the man he never was for me, of the woman playing Mummy in my place – sent me straight back into a spiral I thought I was done with. An orange and black cyclone that leaves me bruised and broken every time I’m caught in it’s vortex.

Why couldn’t he do that for me? Why couldn’t he be that man, that father, with me? Why couldn’t I have that family? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I have someone to share it all with? To tag team? To play happy families? What did I ever do that was so bloody wrong?

I’m better than this, mostly. So I’m sorry if I’m boring – a record stuck on repeat… But that’s kind of how grief works. The Tiger doesn’t get bored. It just visits less often.

For the most part time is a great healer. I’ve learnt to protect myself – for instance by deleting my personal social media. Not looking. Not asking. I’ve learnt to repeat the mantra that I’m happy they’re happy. I’m happy he’s a better Dad. I’ve learnt to see the gift I’ve been given of starting over.

But GODDAMIT, when it does hit me the impact still hurts SO MUCH. It’s still in those moments so alien that this is my life now. This is my reality. Like I’m looking at it from afar. And it’s sad and awful and lonely and it’s NOT FUCKING FAIR. And then the pain is horribly familiar and sickeningly, weirdly WELCOME. I’m GLAD it hurts. I’m GLAD there’s something to help me remember I am real, after all.

It doesn’t stop following you, that bloody Tiger. Whatever your particular grief. But it does change. It has already. It doesn’t catch me as often. The wounds heal faster. I’m better at predicting when and how and where it will pounce. The scar tissue from past attacks becomes a sort of armour… And the Tiger becomes a sort of friend.

One day the Tiger will shrink. It’ll be a tabby pussy cat with an attitude problem – like Catonthenetheredge. And one day, one day maybe every now and again I’ll welcome it onto my lap and remember what I lost deliberately.

Right now I just have to clean up the blood, get up, and steel myself for next time.