And this little piggy cried all the way home

Tears.

I remember Ems telling me that he'd gone home the evening after he'd asked me out and couldn't stop crying in his room because he was so happy. I remember his tears during our first argument, bewildered at 'what had gone wrong' and so desperate for us not to break up (the very existence of this blog shows that the desperation was mutual). I remember us driving along and realising it would be 4 days before we were next able to see each other and simultaneously looking at one another with tears in our eyes (that will sound desperately silly to those of you who've mastered long distance love). I remember saying my vows in our wedding rehearsal and struggling to get the words out through my tears; I mistakenly thought that getting the tears 'over with' in the rehearsal would mean I was ready to say them in the actual ceremony tears free. I was wrong!

Love it seemed had released something in the two of us which was difficult to contain. Neither of us were the sort to spontaneously burst into tears regularly before. Something about the love we shared moved us, equally so the fear of losing it. I poignantly remember us both sobbing in my parents living room while watching 'The Notebook', unable to imagine what it would be like to lose the other with age, age we were never to reach, to dementia in front of our very eyes. I remember us sat on our sofa, talking about how it would be impossible to live without one another, tears rolling down our faces.

Tears.

It seems rather peculiar to remember particular instances of emotion now. If falling in love with one another had opened the flood gates to some extent, losing sweet Ems has burst the reservoir wall and I have no control with each bend and bump in the road how much water will come my way. There have been tears too many and too often to remember particular instances like those when he was here.

Before Ems died I didn't realise that a broken heart actually physically hurt at times. I also didn't know that the sting of tears was more than a temporary burning sensation while the tears were still flowing, and was in fact a lingering ache that pounded even after the tears had long since soaked into my clothes or pillow.

Tears.

Tonight I was at one of our monthly leadership meetings and found myself in tears after the meeting. I wasn't moved by the matters we were discussing. I simply couldn't control the emotion that burst up as I tried to speak up about something I felt passionate about and failed to make my voice heard (literally - I was like a mouse). I get annoyed at myself; at the underlying confidence which is so fragile now. I get frustrated at how different things are, how I can't do my job like I used to, how I can't stand before the crowd like I used to, how I can't speak up about things I feel passionately about in conversations because of the flood that can inevitably follow.

And so lately I've been finding myself staying silent, answering 'yeah I'm ok' to people who genuinely want to know how I am. I put on the mask and I smile politely, even go overboard with the day to day chit-chat. I'm not even trying to prove that I am ok. I even detest my falseness at times. I've just struggled to be any other way.

So do I stay silent when I want to talk about things that I'm passionate about? Do I not say how I am when someone really wants to know how I really am? What gain is there in giving the appearance of being stone-like when underneath the love and passions rage?

I sobbed all the way home tonight. I remember braving my first leadership meeting after Ems died and getting emotional about being welcomed, getting emotional at the end of the meeting as people said "I'd better get back to my wife / husband". I missed knowing that Ems was at home waiting for me, whether it be his open arms to celebrate with me, his shoulder to lean on if the meeting had been tough, or to catch up on the Ray Mears programme he'd been watching on iPlayer while I was out (he always conveyed the adventure so excitedly!).

I missed Ems tonight. I drove home asking him in my head why he wasn't here. If he was here I would have been more confident. If he was here I wouldn't have lost control of my emotions even if I hadn't been heard. If he was here he would have comforted me on my return, even if I had got emotional. If he was here...

And so, I can't do anything about the tears. I can act as though there's nothing going on underneath, but that won't mean that there isn't.

The tears come unexpectedly now.

As I sat on the plane back from New York last week (I'll write about that trip soon), I put the earphones of his iPod touch in, clicked play and looked through the beautiful photos of us that are stored on it. I have done so several times without emotion but as I sat on that night flight, the interior lights off, I started to sob. With 2 seats to myself and the lights off I could easily hide visibly but had to put all my efforts into avoiding making any noise as the sobbing got stronger. As my body convulsed with the sobs and the noise sought to burst out, I bottled up the noise so instead the emotion poured out in rivers. The Virgin Atlantic pillow was saturated as I thought about my Ems and the fact that going 'home' is never that without him. Even up so high in the sky I am still no closer to him. It wasn't 'home' anymore that I was headed towards. One beautiful day it will be.

I have memories that spring up on me in the most 'normal' of times, as though there to remind me that all is not 'normal'. Sat in church singing and suddenly reminded of the 600+ who gathered for Ems' funeral: 600! At first I am touched at the amount of love people had / have for Ems and then I'm reminded of why those people gathered. It's a 'funny' kind of reminder, to go from 'normality' to 'reality' within seconds of my thought patterns. The mask is shattered with them but I'd never be without those reminders. To be reminded that all is not 'normal' reminds me that one day all will be well; this is not 'home' forever.

Many ask if the photos placed around my pc screen (in above photo), on my car's dashboard, kept as numerous bookmarks, upset me; but these photos are reminders of blessings I still count as mine. And if there's a tear or two to pay for them, then they're a small price to pay.

One day there'll be no more tears.

Waves

I feel quite sick right now. It's not a bug. It's not anything I've eaten. It's a pit of my stomach sick. It's a feeling that comes over me when the emotions build up before they emerge.

They say crying's good for you. It is. Time and time again I've been told by everyone to 'let it out'. In times of intense sobbing it doesn't feel so good. The pain is acute, the familiar sting of tears burns my cheeks like no fire ever could. Yet, there's a peace, quite beyond understanding, that follows those times of heart wrenching emotion; a stillness that overcomes my soul and begs me to be still. I will never get from the undercurrent of bubbling emotion to those pools of tranquillity without first accelerating down the rapids and letting the rivers flow. I really need a good cry right now.

Far more often than any time in the last 10 months, there is a veneer of normality about me. The number of times I expose my emotion daily has decreased considerably; even to those close to me. I now hold conversations about the weather on a frequent basis. We Brits really do always talk about the weather.

I spent 90 minutes after work with a journalist from our local paper. I got choked a few times, yes, but I controlled it. I fought the place within that was crying to get out. Despite the conversation being about our story - the love, the joy, the heartbreak - I got through it without 'losing it'. All the things that stir me most - my beautiful Ems, the way we fell for one another, the way we were with one another, the way I admired him as a person in almost equal measure to the amount I loved him. All these things talked of. Yet no rivers.

I appreciate not making other people feel awkward quite so often. But to bottle it up? I hate this wall that I put up so readily, without even trying to. The 'me' you see is not superficial. I'm not pretending to be anything I'm not. There's just this plug, this seal that I fix so that only the surface is visible.

Mrs Davies' surface can chat with you now. She can joke with you now. She can talk of the weather and other unimportant things. She can notice beautiful sunsets that once were invisible to her darkened vision. Mrs Davies' surface can look to the horizon now, she can thankfully see the beauty of day to day things, she can enjoy the company of her 2 year old niece without always wondering what their own children would have been liked. She can throw herself into her work, even the mundane, without continuously asking what the point of it is. Mrs Davies' surface is quite pleased to be able to eat a large pizza without worrying about putting weight on because the emotion eats up calories like no diet ever could.

And all the while underneath the surface, Mrs Davies, thrilled that her name will forever show that she is Ems' Mrs Davies, aches with a pain that she cannot communicate with the world. It is not because of fear of others that she cannot communicate it. It is not because she cherishes the appearance that she gives. It is simply because she cannot come close to communicating the way that 'this' really feels.

I pile the weight of a mask on top of the overwhelming weight of heartbreak. Yes, the overwhelming weight of heartbreak. I am convinced that the only weight in this world heavier than the weight of a broken heart is the weight of a broken heart without hope of repair. Yes, I do have the hope of repair one sweet day. The overwhelming weight acts as a reminder of that hope - that one day all this will fade - but it's still that, a weight. A weight that threatens to overwhelm. And here am I, fighting it, trying to keep it down, yet needing undeniably, to shatter the veneer for a moment, and let it overtake me.

I am somewhere in the middle. Situated between the springs that bubble away beneath and the calm of the peaceful lake. The sea may look welcoming but the undercurrent is strong.

I am desperately in need of the power that calms the seas to come and calm the waves within.

[Memory #21 the 'rolling waves' episode
As I've mentioned water so much in this blog, I've been taken back to an instance we shared on a team aid / mission trip to Brazil in summer 2008. I am, on the whole, a good traveller. Ems on the other hand felt nauseas quite easily and usually sat in the driver's seat for good reason. On one of our days off during the trip, we embarked on a trip to the coral reef just off the coast of Joao Pessoa. The boat taking us out to the reef was moored just off the shore & we walked, bags on heads, out to it, boarded it and awaited our trip. As we sat in the sun on top of this boat I became increasingly aware of the way the boat was moving with the waves approaching the shoreline. As a simple car journey could often upset Ems, I looked at him expecting him to understand the unsettled feeling I was experiencing, but he simply looked back surprised and somewhat concerned at my expression. He was feeling fine and was almost shocked to be the one not experiencing the motion sickness. He held me close and steadied me as much as possible, reminding me to look at the horizon, and whispering sweet nothings, helping me to rest in his arms. We were soon moving; my head rested in the pit of his shoulders, and soon reached our destination (which was worth it - look at the above photo and see if you can spot the fish). Ems liked to repeat that story any time tales of his motion sickness would come up. He always was so good at pointing out the horizon ahead of us as well as encouraging me to rest a while in the busyness of life. I guess I could do with some of that advice right now.]