Separated

The bedrooms were moved around today. I am in one, he is in the other. So technically, we’re separated. In truth, we have never really been together mentally, spiritually or emotionally; not in a way that was ever harmonious enough to be called healthfully functional.

We’ve been two scared kids, emotionally traumatised, untrusting and unable to admit that we got married because we were loathe to be alone. The idiocy of it is we’ve remained alone; like two juvenile hermit carbs that should really find larger shells to expand our capacity but still morbidly determined to remain in the scarred and tiny shells of our youth. We may be in our thirties but shit, it’s like we’re still in our teens.

There are no plans to divorce or move away from each other. That would be tragically unfair for the children. Financially, it would bankrupt us. It’s not unbearable. We’ve been without any significant support network for long enough to know that each other is the best we’ve got.

The idea is to see if we can work a few things out whilst leaving enough room to discover who and what we really want to be and do as individuals. There are plans in progress for the general running of the home. Neither of us is angry; just really sad it’s taken this long admit there’s a problem. Blaming each other for any of it is fruitless and inhibitive to growth in the future.

Realistically, we’ve not had a lot of time work out a lot of this stuff. With multiple redundancies, becoming technically homeless and almost bankrupt, having several inappropriate interruptions from certain destructive family members, amongst other stupidly dramatic events, I’m not sure we had time to fully process things in the scantly placed ‘quiet’ times.

So basically, we’re close friends who just happened to f*** a few times, make a couple of babies and screw up enough that we only have each other to rely on…

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Deceased

Thursday night, my husband was hit head on by a drunk and high driver who had just overtaken a semi-trailer despite the double white lines clearly indicating it was unsafe to do so. My husband didn’t have time to react and as the airbags expelled from their casings and the cabin of the car filled with smoke, he struggled to open the door to escape…

Thursday night was, the eve of a year since my husband was made rendundant. It signalled a long year of job searching and ended in a new life forming and a job in a completely different town. Our incubating baby is thriving according to all the scans. The job is disappointing (understatement). We’ve been unsure if it’s worth moving for such an uninspiring role in such a negative and disorganised company in a town I couldn’t wait to escape from 16 years ago. Thursday night’s event has begun to unravel all of the determination to make the best of things, and the situation is feeling even more frustrating than it did this time last year.

The reality of Thursday night is beginning to sink in today… and we have to take him back up there tomorrow. What was meant to be four days of normal family life in a long distance family existence, has turned into a mix of complete gratitude and utter frustration.

The police and ambulance officers are amazed that he walked away, let alone without a bump or bruise. Witnesses equally amazed that he’s okay. The car is a write off. Our future plans and financial success yet again messed up. What was already a tricky situation is now feeling desperate. All because one asshole’s common sense is deceased.

Anti flux and a little premonition.

Christmas Eve morning. 2:45am.

BANG! and then fizzzz….

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Goes the NBN emergency battery box.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Went my heart and I sat up straight in bed.

Brown out.

Restlessness set in and within hours I discovered why. It wasn’t the loss of electricity that kept me awake. It was a sense a surprise pregnancy and an undesired move would not be the only unfolding events in our lives these summer holidays.

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The phone rang at 9:30am to break the tension.

My grandfather had finally had enough trying to hide from us this past month or so. Nan had called the ambulance at 2:50am as Pa struggled with extreme abdominal pain and breathing difficulties. Like the bullheaded man he is, he fought the entire time, eventually giving into the emergency care.

The old bull trudged through two days of precarious treatment. Doctors wanting to avoid surgery due to his chronically bad circulation. Finally, upon council between his two sons and specialists, they decided it was the only potential help. A Do Not Resuscitate order was signed. The medical staff relieved that at least this one time, a patient’s family wasn’t trying to prolong the life of someone in such ill health and advanced years.

Stubbornness won again with him surviving the removal of part of his intestines. No bag either, but completely delusional. Regularly muttering about the bakery he sold 35 years ago and repeated attempts to remove the various attachments form his saggy skinned body ensured the hospital’s rostering a special for him. These special assistants in nursing, brave persons ensure he doesn’t escape or terrorise the rest of the patients in his petulant state.

I was volunteered for a few days to stay with Nan. Her agility is definitely compromised. She seems to be on her arse more than her feet these days. We enjoyed ourselves as best we could under the circumstances; binging on documentaries about Scotland, the land of her mother and father, a land she never got to see because of my Pa’s firmly planted feet.

I’ve since shipped her to her younger sister’s place. They are having plenty fun watching old British sitcoms like One Foot in the Grave. Though, a sadness sits behind her eyes. She says she just misses her chair at home. I know it’s because she knows she’ll have to leave her home forever, sooner than later.

Unsurprisingly, Pa’s recovery is still ridiculously slow. Two weeks have passed and we are impatiently waiting for the news that we either find him a nursing home or send him home making him eating Meals on Wheels. Either way it may send him off to the great beyond.

As I sit here, sipping peppermint tea to ease the agitation in my own stomach, I wonder what will actually transpire in the next few months. I’m not sure 2017 is going to any less intense than its predecessor. It feels like the opposite of flux, anti flux and it was confirmed by a little premonition.

The Troll…

Application is pending…

I find out in 8 days whether or not I’ve been accepted. I’m as nervous as I was 16 years ago. The application form defines me as mature age entry. I still feel like I’m a kid and yet I’ve never felt older.

What I’m about to do feels like a troll under a bridge on my journey. That troll was scary and I let it intimidate me. I’m more determined now. I’m a little bit wiser and more thoughtful about my intentions. I have superior reasons for returning- I understand myself and my passions. I want set a standard for my daughter, to know she is in charge of her mind and she can use her emotions instead of them using her. I’m not running away, I’m squaring off.

I want to go back to do and be and say things I had little courage for the first round. Instead of letting my life cower in the undergrowth, I’m trying to grab it by the hand and guide into significance. I’m not sure where I am exactly going, I am simply placing my feet on the ground in determined succession.

University… how I love you and hate you all in one heart beat. You beat me in my uber-youth and I’m going back to beat you this time… if you’re up for the fight… so come on… accept my challenge.

The Dream Song

A few weeks ago, I had a dream and these words were ‘sung’ throughout the dreaming. I don’t remember the dream, only these words.

The stars fall into place

they see their place

And do not race

Looking down

shine on your face

Leaving no trace

they’ve been here

Ethereal

But truly real

I can begin to feel

My place

The way I am

The song I sing

The stars they ring

Ethereal

I know Vincent Van Gogh

When we were living in the city, we were in a unique place. Our neighbours were quirky, vibrant, and some were just plain inconsiderate- I’m talking meth labs, 5 people in one bedroom units. My favourite neighbour in all his mess still inspires me. I like many, adore Van Gogh’s work and I saw so many comparisons between the famous artist, and my friend, an artist. He is still one of the most authentic people I have ever known, and one day I hope that I get to see him again and tell him that. 

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His eyes are deep and tortured…  they tell me that he knows pain and sorrow. It’s the kind that eats away at your heart, cell by cell.

The furrowed brow has become his signature expression… engraved by years of misfortune. Offense hardens the lines around his forehead and under his eyes.  His youth depleted and his skin becoming withered.

With mouth turned down at the corners, his rusty beard does little to hide the decay… it tells me he has little hope in the future… faith something only of dreams.

His stature no longer willowy but tenuous and sketchy… loneliness is his constant friend.

I do see a child at times. A vibrancy of colour and spontaneity sometimes peeks out from the ragged faced. The creativity bubbles and springs forth when the momentary peace cracks the surface. Furious and controlled strokes sweep over the canvas… movement constant and deliberate.

The child who loves yellow is quickly swallowed up by the demons that entrap him. Hie reality is a cacophony of every kind of world view, he writes his own Bible.

He has the same kind of madness… It is a sickness erodes new shoots of happiness that reach desperately for the blue, pure sky..

Drugs mutated his personality into something that breeds ignorance, melancholy and psychosis… his art driven by this poison… the outcome a twisted mirror of his state…

He is my neighbour Richard.