I don't want to have a bath

No, I don't smell! That much

As soon as my mum died, people started telling me to have a bath. I don’t think I was particularly smelly, or no more so than usual.

I think it was because the British public — actually, make that the world — seems to have decided that baths are the answer to every interpersonal problem or mental health issue.

I will not be persuaded! In fact, I’d go as far as to say we must resist, like when people started describing going to the hairdresser or having a leg wax as “pampering”.

GET REAL. Those activities are:

1. boring

2. basic grooming (in theory, that is. In reality, I don’t do either because of the pandemic/my low tolerance for pain and small talk).

I don’t enjoy baths at the best of times. There’s nothing that appeals to me about getting a cramp while heaving my inflexible, muscle spasm-prone body into or out of a trough, potentially slipping and knocking myself unconscious with no one to hear me when I scream.

The opportunity to study my fleshy folds as I sit shivering in my own muck and worrying about the twist and flop technique I’ll need to employ to escape from my watery hell doesn’t feel like the most special treat I can imagine.

I don’t know what people think will happen if I lower myself into some tepid water (can’t have it too hot or I’ll come over all weak). Will it wash the grief away?

Also my mum hated baths, so it doesn’t feel like an apt tribute.

And I don’t have any Matey, so who’s going to clean the bath afterwards? I guess that’ll be Muggins’ job. The whole thing is more stressful and far worse for the environment than a quick shower that lets you wash your hair into the bargain.

Plus, you know, not to get too macabre but there are so many self-harm tropes involving baths.

I’m not planning to re-enact any of them but it seems like an insensitive reminder when someone’s at an all-time low. Why not suggest I pop to the Golden Gate Bridge for a little look around?

More importantly, we have to stop being twee.

I resent the idea that we’re all supposed to find comfort in the same things, and that those things are so pathetic and generic. I’ve heard from people who’ve called specialist mental health services and been told to have a bath and a cup of tea.

FFS. We have to stop going on about tea.

It’s some leaves in hot water, it’s not a panacea. It does nothing for grief and mental illness except give your hands and mouth something to do for a couple of minutes. Which isn’t nothing but it’s hardly sufficient.

And please don’t tell me to take up swimming.

If I could splash around for long enough to get my endorphins flowing, then I might be interested. But by the time I’ve got ready, headed to the pool and wrestled myself into a one-piece, I’m worn out and need to go home.

I resent the idea that as grievers, we have to live boring, flat lives at a time we need distraction and community more than ever.

Maybe what people mean when they say “have a bath” is “do something pleasant and relatively accessible”. And that’s good advice. (Although it’s equally OK to not practice good self-care when you’re devastated.)

I do tend to need reminding that I’m allowed to do nice things sometimes, even if that’s only singing along to Blondie as I cut my own fringe.

I don’t want to be forced into some constantly bathing, tea-sipping, mindfully meditating lifestyle when those things don’t appeal to me. I want to stay up late binging Hacks and/or ice cream and occasionally leave the house to drink wine (masked!) with nice people.

The implication is that if you don’t live a bland, cookie-cutter lifestyle in the middle of the worst trauma of your life, it’s your own fault if you don’t feel better. I don’t subscribe to that. Within reason, I believe in following your instincts.

Maybe you want to get drunk, go into the woods and scream bloody murder, or write endless rambling Substacks that have diminishing returns, content-wise. All part of life’s rich tapestry!

In those first few weeks of grief, I genuinely struggled to grasp that I didn’t have to follow the shitty recommendations of my otherwise lovely GP, well-meaning acquaintances and fellow grievers.

I wanted empathy, not solutions. But if you are going to suggest a solution, at least make it something unique and fun, not pre-made and weak.

Not a swim, a cup of tea or a bath. It’s water, it’s not magic. And I’m clumsy.

A couple of weeks ago, I cleaned the bathroom floor, slipped, fell face down on the laminate and sprained something in my thigh.

Because one of my feet had kicked the door shut and I couldn’t get up, I had to hook my slipper onto the handle, ease the door open, roll onto the hall carpet and crawl to comfort.

Anyway, the point is, I can’t be trusted on my own with damp surfaces. I need to stay dry and fully-clothed at almost all times. Not to mention constantly alert, with more caffeine running through my veins than the strongest tea can provide.

The other point is maybe try to engage with someone else’s pain. Listen for a few minutes and if the suggestion to recommend a particularly piquant Lady Jane pops into your head, swallow it.

In conclusion, stop telling sad middle-aged women that a bath is the answer to our problems.

Start giving us money just for waking up.