Here We Are Now

This is how my March finished! Last weekend, 26 friends, colleagues, and someone I had never even met (thank you Chris!), gave up their Sunday afternoon to see me through 18 miles. I was SO nervous. After a dreadful run a few weeks ago, I just didn’t trust that my legs would get me through it. They did. My legs and my friends. You never saw a chirpier group of long distance runners! 18 miles and 26 friends! It was WONDERFUL. It was MAGIC. Then we had a couple of drinks and a bite to eat at the pub. All the talk about the power of community in my last blog……. this is it. This is really it. Thank you all so much. It made me so happy. And we tipped £4000! So after smashing every target so far, I am setting a final one, £5000. 4 weeks left, let’s see what we can do. If you haven’t already, the virgin fundraising link is at the bottom of this blog…. any sponsorship is hugely appreciated. If this is the first blog you’ve read, I am raising money for Addaction, a charity that helps support people with addiction and their families, in memory of my sister, Eva, who died aged 24 from alcohol addiction. The amount of money we’ve raised so far is life changing for someone. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

And now the blog…..

I found my notebook from 2011, from a year after Eva died. It was never written to be read. But this final blog, this is my last chance to say what I want to say. And this is what I want to say.

23.7.11

Eves,

I am sitting in the garden of the Juggs pub in Kingston, the day started beautifully so I’m in a denim skirt and a New Look blue checked shirt, trying hard not to put my cardigan on because it’s meant to be high summer. I have a pint, and the paper, and I have just smoked a Marlborough silver. Didn’t really enjoy it to be honest, but I’ll have another with my next pint I’m sure. I am reading a review of a book, called “Say Her Name”, about a woman who died in an accident. It’s written by her husband. He wrote it to keep her alive he says, “Because one’s biggest fear is always forgetting”. And so, I am finally starting to write to you, like I have always planned to. He says it was painful to write, that it didn’t make it easier, that it made him crazier, that it made him miss her more….. but I am worried I’ll forget, and I’ve been thinking about you so much over the last week. And then yesterday, Amy Winehouse died Eves, and this morning I cried and cried, for her, for her family, for us, for you. I feel sorry for myself a lot you know,  because I miss you. When the news came on about Amy last night I left the room, I had to, I couldn’t listen to it, but I felt I was making  a scene and I’m sure I talk about you when I shouldn’t, when I know that it probably makes people uncomfortable, but I can’t help it, I miss you all the time and if I could I’d tell everyone about you. And I always say the same, you’re a better person than I have ever been, than I ever will be. About how pretty you were, just gorgeous. I have so many favourite photos, although I wish I had more. I love those photos of you before we went into Beverley that night. I don’t remember what we did, what we talked about or where we went, but you were wearing that beautiful blue dress, with that interesting back, bright blue, and you looked amazing. Your skin was glowing, glowing, and your makeup was perfect. And there’s a photo of the two of us, your smile is so pretty, not manic like mine is a lot of the time but calm, the way you always seemed to be. Calm and really beautiful. I wish I remember what we did that evening.

I was meant to start back at work on March 15th after you died, but I got back late on the Sunday and drank so much with the neighbours that I couldn’t go in. I went back on the Tuesday. Too well. Talking about it like it had happened to someone else, so detached. Then, a few weeks later someone mentioned someone she knew that was alcoholic and the difficulties the family were having and I broke down badly. I cry now because I miss you, I cry for what could have been, for what we could have had. Sometimes I imagine us living together and I feel like I lose my stomach. Because if things had gone the way they should, you’d be with me now, telling me that my moustache is too blonde after I bleach it (like Mum does), telling me what I look good in and what I don’t. I could talk to you about all the problems I can’t tell anyone else about, although I have been able to talk to all of your friends you know. Al, Jade, I am at my most comfortable with our friends at home because they understand, they lost you too. Everyone lost you. We have such a special bond now, not that we didn’t before, but you’ve changed things now. We’ve all of us experienced such sadness, such loss, that we’re close. But it’s closeness for you. We miss you Eves, we really miss you.

31.7.11

I listened to the funeral songs yesterday for the first time in months, I sat on a bridge looking over the Downs and I smoked. Then I made a playlist for you. Arctic Monkeys – I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor, I drove us somewhere and you’d bought it, and it was the first time I’d heard it and you always looked good dancing. Au Revoir Simone, Sad Song, you forced me to listen to it, I love it now. Banda Espuela de Oro, it was on the Amorres Perros album, I taught you the lyrics and what it meant and we sang and did actions in the car on the way down Norwood on the way to Tesco. The Cribs, Hey Scenesters, reminds me of you dancing somewhere, you stamped, looked so good. The Kooks, She Moves In Her Own Way. We talked about songs we’d have at our funeral. I chose Circle of Life (as a joke), can’t remember what George decided on, but I know you chose this. We didn’t go with it in the end Eves, hope you weren’t too mad! I still listen to it and it reminds me of you. Libertines just because it was the Libertines. I just picked my favourite, Don’t Look Back Into the Sun. Remember the Pete Doherty gig in Hull when Willow got on stage and crowd surfed!! And then we actually met him and he sang For Lovers down the phone to Dan? Amazing night. NYPC – Get Lucky – you introduced me to them and I run to it a lot now, and I always remember how I learnt about them. Patrick Wolf – Magic Position. We drove home from York once and danced in the car to it. I love it now, love it. All good memories Eves, and wonderful songs. All you.

February 2017

Watching May and Beth together is such a joy, I’m so grateful they’ll have sisterhood. Chats over boys, nights out, squabbles, rude jokes. We were so lucky, simple joys, chatter and play and constant piss taking, mostly lovingly applied, sometimes shouted in anger, but always on solid foundations. All I do every day is try to emulate our childhoods for May and Beth. For me to be trying so hard means it must have been really good. But I know it was. Rose tinting is inevitable, but I honestly think I see it clearly. It was so so happy. Why am I writing? I have started to write so many little things to you, started so many letters. There must be something I feel I need to say. Maybe it’ll appear to me as I write.

I was at home for the anniversary, I always have been. It’s always an unpredictable day. I always dread it. It’s never as horrendous as I imagine it’s going to be. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because the date doesn’t really matter, because the memories are so shallow of that day all the time, they reappear in seconds without warning from the slightest trigger. I remember Mum’s face, where I was in Mum and Dad’s room, the feeling of dread when the phone went (we all knew it wasn’t a prank call), all scorched into my brain – no need to revisit them. Unuseful, hurtful memories. Why can’t I remember useful memories? Your smell, your clothes, what we talked about in the car to Asda or on the way back from York? I ache to remember those conversations now. Or to dance with you once more. I do remember things that are important sometimes. I remember vividly your hands and nails. What I regret is not cherishing it, all those times and nights out we had. Not remembering to remember, not absorbing it or trying to turn it into a forever memory. How could I have been so stupid? Taking all that precious time for granted? Why are you not taught to never forget the outline of your sister? It should be the first thing people tell you: DO NOT FORGET HER OUTLINE. AND DO NOT FORGET HER SMELL. You cannot take a photo of her smell. Hold it. It won’t come back. I have not since walked past anyone wearing your perfume. I can’t remember what you wore.

6.3.18

Eves,

So here we are. The London Marathon is days away now. I’m excited. I remember making the decision to run whilst Nev and I were on honeymoon. We discussed it, whether or not I could run, whether I could find the time to train, whether I could raise £2000. I had a large glass of wine with lunch and I lay down on the boiling sand and I swam in the sea and I felt completely alive and I felt fire in my chest and I felt my fists clench and I decided YES. I didn’t think about getting ice in my hair on a cold run, or injury, or running when I felt a bit under the weather, or the emotional toll it would take on me. And yet. And now. Here we are. Seven months later. I’m not sure I’m ready. But I will be there, I will cross the start line, and I will have my Addaction tshirt on and I will be thinking of you. This is all for you.

I miss you. I really, really miss you. And this has been great because I’ve spent so much time thinking about you. And because I feel in some way I am atoning. That telling people about my guilt makes me less culpable. I do know that it doesn’t. I do know that. So I am so so sorry. For every time I shouted at you or sent you abusive messages for causing chaos, for every time I threatened to cut contact with you if you didn’t stop, for every time I made a back handed comment, I was desperate and I didn’t know what to do and I felt like I was losing you. And then I lost you. My desperation doesn’t excuse it. It was mean. And you needed something so different to what I gave you. I am still learning and I am still reflecting and I am still trying to be a better person. I know my faults. I try all the time. I wish with all my heart that I could change it. But I can’t now. So here I am, after months of gruelling training, ready to take on 26.2 miles. Saying sorry really. The biggest and most heartfelt apology I will ever make. This is all for you.

I don’t believe in an afterlife. But my take on these things is a bit illogical now because I still tell you things sometimes and I still write to you sometimes. I feel peace when I think of you. And I hope that there’s forgiveness. I have to believe that there is. I will always, always, always love you. Run with me Eves. See me through it. See me over the finish line. I’m so sorry and I love you x x x

https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-portal/fundraiserPage?pageId=854688

https://www.addaction.org.uk

https://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk

Home