And now

And now, I have climbed out of my bed cave. I have eaten breakfast (albeit in the afternoon), taken my medication, showered, washed my hair, tweezed my eyebrows. I have opened the window, and there are fresh sheets to sleep in when I fall into bed again. Tonight we will eat roasted chicken and vegetables and drink wine, and we will talk about the week to come, and not the week that has been. Life resumes. I will be sad for a while yet - and angry at La Narcisse - but the truth is - this sadness and anger have been with me for a long time. They are not new. This death is simply the continuation of an old repeating loss. I have survived it for all this time, I can survive it some more. 

And now, I have a family who love me, and a home that is safe, and friends that seek me out because I matter to them. That is the life I have built for myself, on a foundation of love and respect. That is my story, the story written by me, not for me. This is where my consolation lies, not out there in a place where my questions will never be fully answered, and where any of the answers will only lead to more, aching questions. In our darkest times, the people who truly care for us do not push us away, they draw us nearer to them. They hold us tight so that we know how utterly precious we are to them. And now, I find myself being held close by the people who love me. 

 

Story

 

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. 

She had a mother. 

Her mother died. 

The end. 

So heavy

so heavy I fell through the earth

I rang her. She hung up on me.

I rang her. It was a special occasion that day, but instead of ringing her in the morning, or at noon, I rang her when I remembered, later in the afternoon on the same day.

She had my contact details

 

My mother died. 

Nobody told us. 

I spoke to her just weeks before she died.
She had my contact details. 

(I rang her. It was the first phone call in several years, after she had verbally abused me and then hung up the phone. After always being the person who rang back to placate her, that was the first time I didn't. I didn't call her back. She never rang me again, ever).

If there ever was any doubt
about just how abusive she was, 
how abusive they were, 
this proves it, finally, for all time. 

Apparently

 

My mother died, last year, and nobody told me. 

On excessiveness

Yes, it might seem that I have a lot of crazy stored up, or maybe not even stored, maybe just spraying copiously in every direction. I certainly can understand why, if you were reading this, that you might form such an impression, based either on this content or its prevailing themes. There is a certain excessiveness to everything I’ve written here, and well there might be. Imagine, for a moment, that you formed an undertaking, in which you agreed to a whole lot of stuff on the understanding that you would be supported in that, and then you weren’t. Imagine that, instead, you were actively excluded, undermined, refused assistance, misdirected, and denied resources and support. And then, imagine that this went on and on, not just for months, but for years. Imagine that this became so entrenched a state of affairs that you realised it wasn’t just an undertaking anymore, it was now the permanent prevailing condition of your entire life. Wouldn’t you, too, feel utterly betrayed? Moreso if the parties to that undertaking were the kinds of persons who are commonly understood to be held to the highest levels of accountability, and yet they have behaved in deviously dishonest concert to fuck you over comprehensively? Yes, I know this is only one telling of an entire marvellously complex story, and that there are very many alternative tellings as well. But this isn’t just a story, is it? This is my actual life, as I must live it, as I have lived it for weeks, months, years. And until this story is confronted by actual evidence that disproves this particular telling, then there is no reason why I should protect the vile deceptions that have been enacted in the arena of my everyday existence. Until there is evidence of real support, of undertakings being met in both the spirit and the law in which they were formulated, then why should I pretend otherwise? Why should I act like an ordinary person whose life follows the established order in which agreements are kept and effort is rewarded? Why should I debase myself further with the mockery of pretense? This retching bitterness permeates every moment of falsehood that I am forced to live through by your multiple and repeated failures to fulfil even the most basic of your responsibilities towards me. And no, I will not pretend otherwise, not even if that means I blog like a crazed, raving banshee foretelling my own doom. Because, if only this is true, it is true: my right to pure expression of my absolute rage at the liberties you have taken against me will be guarded and respected as absolutely sacrosanct, or I am already doomed, and so are you. All of you. Therefore nothing I write here matters, and everything I write here matters more critically than anything else that I do, or have done, day and night, for years. This is not the fragile thread that holds up my universe, but it is the thread that holds up yours. 

If I ever started writing

 

If I ever started writing down what you have done to me, really writing what you have really done, I don't think I would ever stop. It is a very, very long tale, that starts a very, very long time ago. I remember how the power would only ever go out at our house, and a few other houses that were mostly vacant. I remember how that was never important enough for you to really do something about it. I remember how dismissive you were at the time. I remember your name, and your rank, and you wife's name, and the colour of your car parked in your own well-lit driveway, and the breed of your flatulent dog and I even know a bit of the reason why your dog suffered such acrid digestive issues, and this too would comprise part of the very, very long tale that starts a very, very long time ago. I remember how you preened in front of that tall blonde who really was not at all interested in you, and how you skated along the edge of a harassment charge for years, and the only thing that saved you was getting old, so that they shuffled you off to your well paid retirement in a manner that was easy, much too easy for someone who has victimised so many with your rigid, inattentive vanity. I know that it was you who supplied negative commentary about me, so that it held me back at a time when I was ready to proceed, how your irrelevant "behaviour targets" were a manipulative tool you routinely used to keep the very best candidates down while you pushed your own flunkies ahead. I even know that we are distantly related, by marriage of course. I remember all of this. Perhaps you are lucky, then, that I choose, at this time, to not start writing down what you have done to me. Perhaps you are lucky that you slunk away into oblivion when you did, as the after-effects of your victimisation began to finally recede from my own life. Perhaps you are lucky that, thanks to me, your flunkies now know what you did and why that was wrong and why that will never be the end of this story. Perhaps you are lucky that I know this is a very, very long tale, that starts a very, very long time ago and so I will not gouge you, personally, in retribution, and anyway that's not really how I roll. But you should know that I can and do remember, that I can and do see clearly what it is that was done, and how all those other people enabled it and set it in motion. And if I ever started writing it down, really writing it down, with all of the details, I don't think I would ever stop. 

Tis strange to think

 

Tis strange to think, there was a time
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,
And frequent smiles unbidden came,
And tears of grief would only flow
In sympathy for others' woe;

When speech expressed the inward thought,
And heart to kindred heart was bare,
And Summer days were far too short
For all the pleasures crowded there,
And silence, solitude, and rest, 
Now welcome to the weary breast -

Were all unprized, uncourted then - 
And all the joy one spirit showed,
The other deeply felt again;
And friendship like a river flowed,
Constant and strong its silent course,
For nought withstood its gentle force:

When night, the holy time of peace,
Was dreaded as the parting hour;
When speech and mirth at once must cease,
And Silence must resume her power;
Though ever free from pains and woes,
She only brought us calm repose;

And when the blessed dawn again
Brought daylight to the blushing skies,
We woke, and not reluctant then,
To joyless labour did we rise;
But full of hope, and glad and gay,
We welcomed the returning day. 

Past Days ~ Anne Brontë

(untitled)

 

This winding road

This pending load

This shining sky

This dawdling lie

This winding road

This skilling load

This shying sky

This dandling lie

This winding way

This hard-won day

This short-lived stay

This distant fray 

This winding road

This pending lode

This sounding sky

This dangling sigh