When it first happened, I had a big reaction against possessions, all the things in our (my) house.  What value does some small trinket have, when you’ve lost the biggest, most precious thing that was in your life?  What’s the point of collections of china and horse models, of thousands of books and CDs?  I would have given everything, every last possession without question for his life, so what’s left is meaningless.

But then I’ve gone through a phase of valuing the familiarity of the things I own.  I’ve lost him, but I’ve still got some other things from my previous life.  Now possessions seem precious again.  Of course no-where near as precious as him, but reminders of so many past times and different places.  And they have given me pleasure and comfort, to hold something, to look at things.

I’ve pulled out my collection of brooches – they look so beautiful all together, a shame no-one else sees them.  I have put miscellaneous objects which I’m coming across in my clear out in a cabinet, things that catch my fancy, that’d I’d forgotten I owned.  Some wooden carved lizards, a painted ostrich egg, an unusual teapot.  Am I allowed to enjoy them?  Am I allowed to spontaneously order another Breyer horse model on the internet, even though I’m supposed to be packing the collection up and throwing things away?  Just because it gave me a moment of pleasure to choose it, to unpack it, to have it in my hand?

I suppose I’m like a child with an urge to have a new toy for comfort.

The trouble is I think I’m going full circle again.  What will happen to these things when I’m gone?  Who will care?  What’s the point of possessions?  What’s the point of anything?

How poignant that things – all those museums and shops and houses full of things – outlive people.  He’s gone forever, but the little round Bakelite container he so liked sits on a shelf still, guiltily (unforgivably) continuing to exist.

I’ve tried to cheer myself up by going to see a film today – Jurassic World!  I thought some nice straightforward dinosaurs would lift my spirits.

It sort of worked during the film.  It was captivating and escapist and I enjoyed it.  The trouble is, I’ve noticed, that when you’ve been absorbed with something like that, it’s actually more of a blow, a wrench, to come back to the real world and remember your situation and your problems.  It’s happened to me before recently, when someone gave me a computer game to try.  Your mind is drawn into this escapist, unreal place, and then it’s like reality is more real when you return to it.  You’re upset and reminded of your new status all over again.  You’re dragged down deeper under water.

Of course I can’t help thinking, poor John will never see that film.  I can’t talk to him about it, discuss it with him.  We always used to laugh about this concept in the Jurassic Park films that because something is a herbivore and not a carnivore, it’s okay to wander around right next to it and pat it on the nose, because of course it won’t hurt you.  What, like elephants and rhinos and hippos?  Like a bull in a field?  Like a stag, or a wildebeest, or a buffalo?  It’s only a herbivore, so let’s just walk right up to it, shall we?  Brachiosaurus?  Largest land animal that ever lived?  No problem, it only eats leaves, so let’s have a nice safe stroll between its giant feet!

Well, they still had people going on rides right next to herds of massive herbivores – but otherwise, it wasn’t too annoying.

I just have a problem at the moment with the world going on.  Every person in that cinema is just living, not thinking about dying every moment.  Everyone still here is here by default.  Yet I’m so overly aware, now, that it’s all temporary.  It’s all just like a funfair ride, and we’re all approaching the moment when we have to get off.  And we won’t even know about it.  And the world will go on without us.  There’ll be another Jurassic Park film we’ll never see.  There’ll be seven billion people still living on the planet, still reading the same books, listening to the same music, watching the same films and TV programmes we’ve seen.  So you’re gone from the world, but it goes on.

It’s difficult to explain – just something jars so much with me, that the world still exists to be experienced and commented on, but he’s not here any more to experience it and comment on it with me.

I went to Portobello Road today – fought my way through the tourists, ate bratwurst, looked in vain for some nice brooches to buy, battled with the way I was feeling.

You see I was feeling particularly bad about John again, and though I knew it would be difficult, because the Portobello Road antique markets are a place we had been many times together, I needed, well, a maximum amount of interest and diversion, to keep my mind busy, so I could get some perspective on life and the present and the future rather than dwelling on sadness.

I wanted somewhere busy and full of wonderful things to look at.  I thought a museum or an antique market would do the trick.  Loads and loads of beautiful items crammed into glass cabinets.  All sorts of curios, not knowing what I’ll see next, a million stimuli to keep my mind occupied, to distract me.

It worked to a certain extent.  The trouble is that I’m in that ‘torn in half’ stage.  Everything that happens, everything I experience, has a sort of dual aspect to it now.  There is the grief and the loss and the memories, and all the unfolding implications of this unexpected change in my life, on the one hand.  And on the other, there is the beginning of a positive sense of looking forwards, of thinking, ‘I’m still alive’, and that ‘me and the world’ are still here, that there is a future.

So one second I’m looking at a stall and thinking, that’s where John bought those anatomical drawings he wanted, or that’s the shop John always particularly liked to look around.  Or I’m trying some food I’ve never tried before (rice and curry and spinach from Ghana) and wishing that he was still here to try it with me, or I’m discovering a lovely little tapas bar with plates of food out on display, and thinking, oh what a shame I never knew about this before, that it’s too late to take John there, he would have liked it so much.

But then I’m remembering some moment that even predates my relationship with John, I’m thinking about how it used to feel to be exploring new places when I was travelling on my own in the early days.  Or I’m thinking about some collectibles I’ve got at home, and planning how I might display and enjoy them when I get home, or something I see reminds me of a particular place, and I find myself daydreaming about how I could go back there and where I might stay.

So confusing – to continually find yourself still alive, when the person who was closest to you is tragically gone, and will never enjoy Portobello Road again.  I’m torn in half – between the past and the future, I suppose.  Between grief and recovery.  Between loss and resilience.  Between death and life.