Virginia Woolf said famously in her book A Room of One’s Own, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” I have a copy of this book, a one-bedroom condo of my own, but sometimes the fiction doesn’t flow as well. Perhaps what’s missing is the deservingness to squirrel away with sentences that may never see the print.
Since we’re on the subject of grieving here, grieving also needs a little bit of money for therapy, since therapy is mostly covered by insurance in most countries, and a room of one’s own, irrespective of the gender of the griever, because who wants to grieve on display? Grieving needs to feel safe like this, but safety might mean different things to different people. Money and rooms for Mrs. Woolf, and money, a room, and a WordPress blog for me.
The room is the oxygen, though. Just a few days back, I ugly cried when I saw some old birthday cards from my ex-husband addressed to his wife. (This deserves a post on its own, so I will save it for another day.) I chose my den to engage in this tomfoolery because no one can see me in there, whereas, although I live alone, curious onlookers can see me meander around in my living room and bedroom. Now I partially understand the freedom new moms feel in the toilet where their babies can’t follow them.
So, without the right room, there will be zero grieving. Maybe this is why most people can’t or won’t grieve. Privacy to be in one’s own sad thoughts is a precious privilege. People who live in families or chosen families like roommates don’t know what they’re missing. Or maybe they need to still create a pseudo room in their days, with walls of time, bricks of sheer determination, and paint that resembles growing self-acceptance? Because it’s still important to grieve and clear old relationships inside new ones, old jobs when the new job is thriving, and old friends among new ones, especially if we forgot to grieve before or chose to forget to grieve.
