Over the years I have become rather adept at it.
I think I may even be an expert, just quietly.
I'm not sure if I should feel proud of that, or ashamed.
I think the lesson was taught to me very early by my mother.
One of my earliest memories is of her telling me about a woman in New Zealand, a female broadcaster whose name I forget, who had gone on air on the day of her sons death- perhaps it was a suicide.
"That" my mother said emphatically, " is professionalism"
It was a lesson in getting on with things.
That this memory comes to me so strongly, and that my early childhood was one filled with the terrors of an abusive and violent stepfather provides me with answers to questions I wish belonged to someone else.
As an adult the link is clear.
As a child, the message was just as clear.
Shit happens, and you need to find a way to get through the day.
So I learned, early, to get through the day.
Boxing each and every pain, each trauma, into it's own little cubby hole until there was time, or breathing space, to deal with it.
Or to lock the door on that memory and throw away the key.
Whatever worked.
I still compartmentalize.
Automatically, as it turns out.
Only now, with the advantage of a less broken self, I make the effort to open the doors behind which I have hidden pain, and deal with what is there so as not to discover one day that I have spent my entire life banking away nothing more than sadness.
Which is why I am writing today.
This morning, via a private message on face book because this is the way we do things now, I learned that a girl I once knew, a friend from a distant past, died- at the ripe old age of 43- from illnesses related to years of alcohol abuse.
Her name was, and still is, Felicity.
It means 'Joy' and 'Happiness' in Latin.
I remember being in Latin class when I learned that, and I remember thinking how remarkably appropriate that was.
For a short while, until hormones and adolescent stupidity got in the way, Felicity and I were close.
I thought she was the coolest thing ever.
She wore the school hat, had a quirky kink in her teeth, had amazing skin, and a great voice, and had invented her own form of handwriting that drove the teachers to distraction because it was so hard to read.
The fact that what she wrote was so amazing kept them at bay.
She had a gift.
She had flair.
Looking back now, I think at some point I may have even have had a crush on her.
After I left school, I lost all contact with her whereabouts.
But I thought of her often.
She was always a benchmark of sorts.
She was the personification of potential.
Another girl had become her best friend, and their friendship endured beyond High School.
I heard through this girl how there had been a car accident, and how after that there was heavy drinking involved.
Felicity suffered from chronic pain after the accident.
Perhaps this explained the drinking.
But I wonder.
I am, as some people know, a recovering addict.
My drug of choice was cocaine, and I did enough of it to put my life into a tailspin that I was lucky to survive.
I have been clean for many years now, but I know that my addiction was a way of coping with some of that compartmentalised pain.
I wonder what pain there was for Felicity.
Was it just physical, or was there something else that hurt her?
I will never, ever, be able to ask her.
We will never, ever, sit down and discuss anything ever again.
Maybe we never would have, but maybe one day we might have.
The thought has been with me all day.
A day where, after reading this sad, sad news, I went about my business.
I met with clients, chatted with friends, bought groceries, and even ran a busy pub quiz with more that 100 people, all without mentioning her name.
Well, nearly.
Tonight, just for me and for her, I changed one of the questions to include her name.
'What word, starting with F means happy?'
And as I asked it, if you had been watching, you would have seen a little catch of breath.
A little micro expression of pain will have darted over my face, so quickly, so secretly, as to be imperceptible.
The door of that compartment not quite strong enough to contain the pain within.
That's how I keep the doors to my heart these days, open just enough to let the dark out, and the light in.
That's the way forward.
Then I came home and threw up, the weight of my grief overwhelming for even my body to bear.
Grief at her early passing, grief at all that will never be said, grief that nothing could be done to save a soul with such promise.
I wish you good rest Felicity.
Sleep now.
Death is the last enemy: once we've got past that I think everything will be alright.
Alice Thomas Ellis
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