By Rachael Hambleton, Flat Out board member

Death is awkward. Categorical. For the last two years my dad’s ashes have sat on my windowsill, in a small vile adorned with a sage coloured tassel that I pulled off a candle. I could endure bereavement; it was everything else that became unmanageable. I naively wanted to stuff my grief into some small internal crevice, accessing it at appropriately allocated times for processing, slowly decompressing until I’d skipped right past trauma and reached the illustrious post-traumatic growth.