The scariest man I ever knew.

My way of processing almost everything I encounter emotionally is to analyse, rationalise, contextualise, and then write about it. And while I have left this blog to grow mould and foster cobwebs, I thought it was about time to breath some new life into the old girl. Ironically, it's death I'm here to talk about. Before I start, I'd like to make it clear that grief is everyone's personal journey, and it pays to remember that just because something looks ugly, doesn't mean it's wrong. 

My grandpa died last night and I have spent the whole of today feeling perfectly confused. When my friends have asked how I am, I've only been able to say "I just feel weird." In terms of grief, I've luckily had only a a short run in before. All I know of grief is that it looks somewhat like sadness, but it's more hopeless than that. It's often described as love with no where to put it, which while lovely, doesn't feel applicable in my case. I feel an aching sense of confusion. I feel relief, anger, guilt, regret, just to name a few. I've spent the day sitting with these feelings, trying to understand what they mean and how exactly to process them, but I've come to the realisation that this is grief; it isn't just another word for sadness. Grief is another thing entirely. 

He has never been a man that took very good care of himself. For the last few years, his health progressively got worse until he was diagnosed with vascular dementia and moved into a care home. I remember thinking at the time that it was for the better and that he would start receiving the care he so desperately needed. And in fact, those things were true; he did get the care he needed. But he somehow managed to get worse. He grew more aggressive and more confused by the week until he was at the point of barely making any sense. At the very end, he lost the ability to chew and swallow his food, so his body eventually gave up and he died in the middle of the night. He was alone.

My grandpa has, as long as I have known him, been an entirely terrifying man. While physically he posed little threat, I don't remember a single relaxed moment I spent in his company. I was never truly myself around him; I didn't feel like that was allowed. Myself and the other grandkids got used to behaving at a reduced rate of ourselves whenever we were at his house, because we learned what not to do in order to survive. But it didn't matter how hard we tried. We were too loud, we dragged our feet, we touched things we weren't supposed to, we walked wrong, we sat wrong, we ate wrong. We were always in the wrong and grandpa made sure we knew that. 

As I got older, I started to understand that he wasn't just a bitter old man that complained too much. He was abusive. He controlled my grandma's life entirely; she wasn't allowed to drive, she didn't have a bank account or bank card, she didn't go anywhere or do anything that he didn't have an input in. And just like us grandkids, my grandma was always in the wrong to him. When he moved into the home, my grandma was a shell of herself. Riddled with anxiety, she was like a toddler learning how to walk. I finally got to understand the damage he did on a different level. 

And so naturally, for a long time, I have been looking forward to this moment. And yes, that's a horrific thing to say. But I said it. It's truly how I feel. I've been consistently vocal about how his death would be a significant relief, not just to me, but to my whole family. Particularly, my mum. She carried the weight of the burden that my grandpa imposed on us all. She spoke to the doctors, managed his appointments, and even after he moved to the home, she was their first call for anything to do with him. She is an older sister, which is important to note. Though I can't confirm, I imagine she also fought off the bulk of his behaviour when they were growing up. 

But then I also feel so incredibly sorry for him. He was full of anger. He was miserable. He had few friends, and most of his family disliked him. Sometimes I think about the way his parents might have treated him. Or anything he might have experienced at school. Then I think about him being raised Jewish. In my life, he was narcissistic, manipulative, selfish, racist, aggressive and insulting. As I knew him, he was poison. But he can't have always been, right? I wonder who he was before I was born. Or before my mum was born. But does any of it really matter, when the damage he's caused is so visible? 

So he's dead. And I'm relieved. Sounds pretty evil. Then I start feeling guilty about my relief. Because it's awful, to feel like that about your family, obviously. Then I feel confused about what I'm supposed to be thinking and feeling. Which is insane, because there is no correct way to grieve. But then I think about who he was and the things he did and I start to feel angry. I am angry at him because he is dead and I don't have a single happy memory of him. I didn't see him when he went into the home and I can't remember when the last time I spoke to him was. And then I just feel sad. I think about the fact that he has robbed my grandma of her sense of self, he has put my mum through an unnatural amount of stress, and he never had an ounce of interest in me.

So that's... relief, guilt, confusion, anger, and sadness. I think I might be grieving.