October is Mental Health Awareness Month, and this month I’ve been facilitating meetings around that theme. The image I keep coming back to is sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool, and I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t have to look very far for inspiration.

If you’ve ever let yourself sink in a pool, you’ll know the feeling. The noise of the world goes muffled, the light gets further and further away, and there’s a heaviness pressing in on you from every side. The surface starts to feel like it belongs to everyone else. Last month, that was me.

Sinking

It’s been six months since I lost Ian, and somewhere along the way the shock wore off and the reality settled in. The phone calls and check-in messages slowed to a trickle and people went back to their busy lives, which is exactly what they should do. Some even told me, kindly enough, that I must be “over it” by now. I wasn’t over it. I was sitting at the bottom of the pool.

There were days when I didn’t speak to a single person, not because I didn’t want to, but because there simply wasn’t anyone to talk to. There were evenings when I’d scroll through Facebook and see people celebrating milestones, family achievements and exciting travels, and I’d wonder why everyone else seemed to be having big wins while mine felt so tiny they hardly counted. Even a holiday I’d pinned a lot of hope on didn’t give me what I was looking for. It turns out grief packs itself in your suitcase and comes along for the ride.

The thing about rock bottom

Here’s what I’ve come to realise, and what I’ve been sharing in those meetings: the great thing about the bottom of the pool is that it’s solid. When you’re sinking there’s nothing to push against, and you just keep drifting down. But once your feet touch the bottom, you finally have something firm underneath you. You can bend your knees, use it as a springboard, and launch yourself back up towards the light.

I don’t believe rock bottom is the end of anyone’s story. More often than not, it’s the place you push off from.

Kicking towards the surface

I’m tired of feeling this way. I want the brighter moments in my life to outweigh the heaviness, and slowly, quietly, they’re starting to. They don’t look like big wins, though. They look like getting dressed in something nice even when I’m only going to the shops, cooking a proper meal for one and actually enjoying it, and spotting the first mangoes of the season and feeling a little spark of joy. Starting this blog was one of them. So is catching myself daydreaming about the future again, whether that’s a rail trip through Britain, weekends away, or maybe even a little dog to keep me company.

I’ve also started picturing what feeling okay might look like a year from now. I’d be busy with work I enjoy and spending time at the library. I’d have plans for the weekend and a regular activity in my diary, and I’d feel in control of my money and comfortable in my own skin. None of those things are out of reach, and I’m learning that small wins aren’t small at all when you’re starting from the bottom of the pool. Every one of them is another kick towards the surface.

The part that doesn’t go away

I want to be honest about this part too, because I think it matters. Even on the brighter days, the loneliness is always there. What I miss most is having someone who speaks my language. For 32 years Ian understood me without me having to explain anything, whether it was a look across the room, a joke nobody else would get, or a sentence that didn’t need finishing. That kind of understanding is rare, and I feel its absence every single day.

I also miss being someone’s first priority. For so long, I was the first person Ian thought of in the morning and the one he wanted to tell things to, good or bad. The people around me love me, but they have their own partners, families and full lives, and I’m a part of their world rather than the centre of it. That’s just how it is, and I understand it. But there’s a particular kind of loneliness in knowing there’s no one whose day revolves a little bit around yours anymore, and no one who would notice straight away if something was wrong.

I don’t think that ache ever fully disappears, and I’m not sure I’d want it to, because it’s a measure of what we had. But I’m learning that I can carry it with me and still keep swimming upwards.

If you’re at the bottom right now

If you’re reading this from the bottom of your own pool, whether it’s grief, loneliness, illness or just life piling on, please know you’re not alone down there. You don’t have to make it all the way to the surface in one go. You just need to find your footing, push off, and keep kicking, even if it’s slowly.

And if you know someone who’s gone a bit quiet lately, someone who might be sinking, please reach out to them. A simple “thinking of you” message costs nothing, and it might be the hand that helps them back up.

With love,
Michelle

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