What hurts when everything else feels good

Sat outside under a starry blue-green sky last evening and was eaten alive by mosquitos. Came in and began to doze off in front of the television after supper, went to bed. Somnolent, unaware.

Tremendous heat, stifling and close. Woke up at about 3am and looked out of the uncurtained windows at the grey wide skies and remembered advice Colette once gave to a would-be writer friend: ‘Look hard at what gives you pleasure, and even harder at what causes you pain.’

I have been trying to think about the things that leave me indifferent and that is not helpful. What I need to do is to probe the wounds and to do that with others, not alone. Dreamt that a group of seriously wounded people dug up my mother’s body in a neglected graveyard way out in the dusty scorched veld and found she was still alive, moaning and with bleeding cracked lips, her eyes imploring. Wanting to be killed all over again and not to have to do it herself.

I got up and went to the bathroom, looking out at the shining dark leaves of the avocado tree in the dawn light, hearing the dogs snoring. Haunted and pursued by the past, by the memory of her suicide, by all that is left undone and unfaced in my past.

My story is that of a runaway. I fled from catastrophe and carried the burning house somewhere deep within me, a conflagration consuming me from the inside, blackened walls  and smouldering ruins. My family, those still alive, are sitting waiting for me to come back and tell them why I ran away and that I am still a daughter and sister. But I do not know who I am.

There is a conflagration and a terrible darkness within — what is the next right thing to do? So much is not my fault, not the responsibility of the child I was then, abused and lied to and ill-treated and silenced, driven away. But when I reached adulthood I took revenge in another kind of silence and staying away in the geographic sense while sending messages like judgments or indictments from the tribunal. How is all this to change? I forgive, I say, and still there is a grave between myself and those still alive. My mother’s suicide, the incompleteness of that death, that choice that was not a choice.

Conscience is not wisdom. It is not even the beginning of wisdom. But there is all the same the desire to find a quietus of sorts, to make peace with one’s own conscience. Taking a deep breath and trusting to the hard looking inward. The ‘how’ of it will emerge in time.

Sticky heat siesta

The temperatures have been soaring all day.

Last night the wind blew incessantly and Una went to bed early with a sudden tummy upset, perhaps food poisoning. She awoke at 3am with a severe angina attack. I sat beside her, helpless and afraid, watching her struggle for breath and place Isorbels under her tongue, thinking about ambulances and the distance to Worcester or Vergelegen clinic in Somerset West. Knowing that both of us were thinking about a heart attack. The hard dry desperate prayer that comes in these times. Not now. Not this. Let her be  OK. Let her not suffer.

And then she sighed with relief and said the pain was easing. Lay back and gradually dozed off. I sat there feeling as if a reprieve had been granted, but also guilty. I should do more for her, more to help her, insist she sees a doctor, takes better care of her health.

The light began to alter to a dirty grey and the wind outside grew louder as I sat there. The image of her shoulders hunched tight in pain staying with me, the way she went to the open window to try and get more air.

Sobriety means conscious living and conscious living means being able to suffer nakedly when those we love are in pain or crisis. No buffer, no anaesthetic. Just to stay present to what is there. I seem to be learning how to live the slow way, taking one inept footstep forward after another.

Caught up on sleep this afternoon, lying down after reading a piece by Richard Ford recalling his friend the writer Raymond Carver living on borrowed time and gratitude, the ‘sheer gravy’ of his last successful years. Woke from sleep rested but not refreshed, sticky with heat, the cicadas like a syncopated drumbeat in the late afternoon, flies buzzing trapped against window panes in the kitchen, not a breath of wind. Skin glued to skin in the heat. Breathing fire and dust, and itching with sweat. A thirst that is just thirst for cold water, nothing more.

Post-Christmas Blues

Not really blues I suppose, But my poor dog’s health is deteriorating and she seems lost and drifting in and out of senility.  Another visit to the vet coming up. Looking at her puzzled expression and slow unsteady gait I think of her as a noisy pup, jumping right through a plate-glass window (unharmed) and stealing a fillet of steak, rolling on her back on the grass, jumping for joy when her lead was taken down for a walk.

Spent much of the day thinking about the assassination of Benazir Bhutto and the implications of this for Pakistan, the power vacuum. Bhutto who entered politics reluctantly and came from a tragic family in which her father, the prime minister, had been executed in 1979 and both her brothers murdered. A life of imprisonment and exile, a life consumed by the political. Her tears on returning to Pakistan in October 2007 coming home again, stepping onto Pakistani soil. Shot dead by a suicide bomber December 2007.

Looking too at articles on the Mexican writer Roberto Bolano, whose The Savage Detectives caused such a stir in translation from the Spanish this year. An extraordinary life, truncated by liver disease. Bolano said that the Latin American novels of magic realism ‘stink’ — and after Marquez and Cortezar there were too many tawdry ‘special effects’ imitations. The work of Bolano himself is like reading Thomas Bernhard or Sebald for the first time: the real thing. 

Made pasta Alfredo for lunch with shiitake mushrooms, cream, finely chopped onions, garlic, homecured ham and penne just al dente. Slivers of Parmesan, freshly ground black pepper. Delicious, and I smell like a puttanesca, garlicky and oniony and fingers slick with green olive oil, very lickable and cheerful.

Wondering as I sit here looking out over fields towards the mountains, an unhindered view, how to overcome the barricaded heart within. Here in South Africa we live with so much fear and vigilance. A dog is not just a beloved pet but a vital security safeguard. Out there, the violence spirals into chaos and seemingly unending case reports. Rape, murder, assault, armed robbery, hijacking, arson. No safe place. And yet I cannot imagine living aywhere else, love the country and find my voice here in the barricades, in the hushed fearful moments, in the protest and the resignation. This, after all, is how it is for us now. Facing the edge.

Tranquil hours

A cool summery morning after rain. The blue hydrangeas filling the sunlit rooms look very pretty. I am going out to cut bunches of lavender to dry and hang in the bathroom and kitchen. The aromatic oils will keep flies away in the hottest months to come. Listening to the smooth jazz notes of the late great Oscar Petersen, whose music I first heard as a child on a forest reserve in central Africa. Oscar Petersen and the Dutch Swing College Band, deep mouthy trombones and the lilting trumpet solos as the hot sun went down in the hills, the dusk like a red and black bricolage.

Grateful for peace and quiet, the slow tenor of the days now. Time to make decisions about work and health after New Year.

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting, older but still a naive girl at heart, amongst young women, some pregnant, who had ventured into the lion’s den of marriage. And then the scene changed and I was back in war-torn Rhodesia in the years of the second Chimurenga, on a farm with sandbags piled against the gates to stave off mortar fire, electrified fences and search lights, the crackling of two-way radios. That tension of waiting for imminent attack. Beyond the fence there was a dark wilderness and animals prowling but also an unseen enemy. A young man, ignorant of the realities of war, wanted to do a solitary patrol and was convinced it was safe enough. But it was not safe. There would always be more risk than safety and the danger was closer than he could guess, right up against the fence.

In the final scene of the dream I was  squatting beside a small vegetable garden at the foot of a steep flight of steps. The soil had been roughly tilled and raked, black humus-rich soil,  succulents broken and bare earth left unplanted. I needed to put in more plants and I needed a bold and tall plant for the centre of the garden plot. A sinking feeling in me because I knew I was not good at planning this kind of thing. Then I began to climb the steps towards a familiar university high on a mountain. There were wild grasses growing out of crevices in the mellow stonework and I wondered if I could prise them loose. Nearby towered gold and black clumps, tawny restios and miscanthus grasses growing on granite ridges, wild and untamed. I did not belong to the university but did not think any of the academics or students would mind if I dug up a smaller plant and took it for my garden.

Thinking of Hotspur and a quotation I cherish from Shakespeare’s King Henry IV: ‘But I tell you, my Lord fool, Out of this nettle danger/ I pluck this flower, safety’.

The First Sober Noel

Bliss to wake up and listen to gentle summer rain, sheet pulled up under my chin, filled with gratitude, clear-headed, a quiet conscience, inner peace, feeling loved and loving all those in my life right now.

And Christmas Day is just another 24 hours in itself. Another day in which we help one another not to pick up a drink. In which we share experience, strength and hope.

To Mass with Una, the early Mass at 8.30am. The sloping ceilings of a 1950s architectural design for ecclesial parishes of the Third World, economical and not especially aesthetic. Candles and a tinselly tree, icons and portraits of African and black saints nd martyrs on the walls. The only multiracial church in the village, and a liturgy in Xhosa, Sotho (for those from Matatiele and Mt Fletcher), Afrikaans, English and a little Latin. Beautiful unaccompanied singing of Xhosa invocations, stately Sotho hymns to Nkosi. The priest gracious and patient with the children gathering with lit candles, the elderly searching for familiar seats, the cell phones going off during the bidding prayers.

So moved, my old painful joy and sorrow around Catholicism. The beauty of this church of the poor, the crowds in shabby clothes kneeling on the floor, the women with babies on their laps, the gaunt youngsters with Aids, the weary stoic faces of the older grandmothers with their walking sticks propped beside them. Many of them have walked long distances to reach the church.

The stillness and presence of faith in the community, the living faith of the poor. This is what brought me into the Church when I was 23, the dream of belonginging to a transformed and transforming community, the hope of grace. And grace was there this morning, unstinted and overflowing, there for anyone willing to receive.

Rainy Christmas Eve

Dark and rainy afternoon. Made pasta agli, olio e peperoncino for lunch, Una’s favourite and the simplest of all the pasta classics, spaghetti or linguini with garlic, chilli and extra-virgin olive oil. Threw in a few torn leaves of basil. Culinary success but too tired to enjoy the food very much.

Feeling pressured to participate more in social gatherings even though I am tired and ill; wishing I could get past the cyber stage of virtual relating in one particular friendship; resting and hoping for a faster recovery but feeling quiet and withdrawn.

This is the first year I have no immediate family in Zimbabwe and that should make it easier, but I keep thinking with helpless distress of hungry people in derelict cities without electricity, queuing outside banks for money in bundles of paper notes that are worth almost nothing (new currency notes due to be printed for 2008), no petrol or cooking fuel, no bread, no fresh vegetables, no meat. Meltdown.

And the violence and chaos locally  at this time of year depresses me, the lashing out and despair.  Here in our village a woman aged 58 shot herself dead last night — marital unhappiness and a long battle with depression. That unstoppable trajectory of suicide, the lifelong trauma for those left behind, the questions and unfinished business.

Hail and floods are predicted for the Cape and thunderstorms will be occurring throughout South Africa. A strange time, the Christmas blues, mid-summer solstice moodiness.

 Taking it slow and thinking about a catnap. Letting the old painful memories flow like a minor bloodletting. Breathing in and out deeply, thinking of the present, the rain beating down all around the cottage, the sadness that needs to be experienced just as it is, the grief and uncertainty and lostness, breathing in and letting go with each exhalation. This is the time of year for vulnerability and coming to terms with displaced childhood dreams, what remains of those hopes, what needs to be grieved or given up for good. The family reunion of ghosts around the table, laughing or silent children at the foot of a glittering tree, gifts offered or withheld so long ago.

The living desires that began then and continue to rage in us today.

Think, think, think

Gift from Una (a few days early) of  a pewter-backed notebook with heavy cream paper. The focus of entries will be clear thinking and the process leading to decision-making. Learning to think through the hows and whys of my daily life in recovery, very slowly, one step at a time. Not to be afraid to go back to basics or to ask questions and involve others. To sty honest, open-minded and willing to engage and to be prepared to change.

In the last nine months I’ve changed and the release from my old self is not unlike being sprung from prison.

Do alcoholics tell lies? Watch their lips move.

That is who I was a year ago. Trapped in the riot of self-will and the sickness of alcoholism, feeling as if I was going to die and half-wishing I could die. Unable to tell truth from lies, sanity from madness, sense from nonsense, Always preferring the latter.

This morning, still fragile and easily tiring, but thrilled to be out of the house for a few hours, I went off to Greyton country market. The pleasure of queuing with other shoppers in straw hats and cotton tops for home-made bottled lime juice, organic shiitake mushrooms, bundles of washed spring onions, locally made feta cheese. Standing laughing and chatting and picking out small basil plants and rocket seedlings to take home and plant out. Absorbed in what was in front of me, in what I was doing right there and then. No scheming about buying liquor or working out how to sneak in drinks or how to get time alone to drink on my own or finding an excuse to get to a restaurant for an early lunch and essential glass of wine, or gulping down fruit juice to assuage a hangover. No hidden agendas, no inward tugs-of-war.

Living an ordinary straightforward life, the inner life consonant with the outer. That curse of the divided self dispelled over nine months as in an old Celtic myth. And looking up at the flowering Dais cotonifolia or Pompom tree in its dusty lilac pink, recalling the sight of a falcon on a fence post, very still and poised, the smoky blue of the mountain heat haze — recalling that it is mid-summer solstice, a turning point in the year. The burning dry furnace of  December in the Overberg. And for the first time I am present to and aware of my reality, beginning to think for myself, talking aloud to others in recovery, emerging from the long sleep of the poisonous enchanter.  Reflecting on the newly born woman and watching her lips move, at one with the stirring of emotions and physical sensations, the thoughts unfolding.

The Way We Were

Woke up this morning in the dark and found myself thinking back to the early 1990s and J’s death in Dublin.

This time of year is crowded with bitter-sweet memories and bereavement anniversaries and reminders of dificult times. And as I bathed and looked at the grey skies and green waving branches of the elder tree through the bathroom window, I kept telling myself that I cannot make amends to a ghost.

All the same, I wish I could.

When I was a young woman, in my early 20s, I decide for unclear reasons, to convert to Catholicism. I was living in Kalk Bay, beside the harbour with a flat overlooking the ocean, and taking the train into Cape Town each weekday to work in educational publishing. Predictably enough (the convert’s lament), I fell in love with the priest with whom I sought instruction. He reciprocated. A much older man, hard, cynical, disillusioned with his religious order but unable to imagine any other life outside the priesthood. I did not want to marry him, but needed his presence in my life. We could not stay lovers and were unable to become friends. He was, I now know,  emotionally ill and much lonelier than I realised. I was more alcoholic than he realised.

A clandestine long-distance affair ensued  and over the years we drew apart, came together, resented and despaired of one another — but could not part.

And then he was dying of cancer and terribly afraid and needed me. I wish I could say that I was there for him. He had only elderly, repressed men around him, also afraid and clinging to forms and rituals. The religious institution, rather like an orphanage. And my letters were not filled with voice or presence or love. My physical presence was minimal and unable to offer intimacy or truth. My own life was lost and adrift, I had nothing to offer anyone. He died alone.

There is nothing to be done for the dead, but they call out to us all the same. The past is with us in unguarded moments. How I wish it might all have been different.

Slow motion

Another cloudless morning wth cicadas tumbling onto the windowsill and red daylilies opening in the front garden. A small boy comes by selling bruised green beans, not caring if we buy or not, grinning on his bicycle.

My older dog has had epileptic fits and the vet has suggested she lie in a darkened cool room with the fan on, drinking iced water from time to time. Real Southern Belle of a dog.

Last night I made a Tex-Mex culinary triumph for supper, with tacos, ground beef, chunky guacamole, shredded heart of iceberg lettuce, salsa, grated cheddar and sour cream. One of those DIY successes with small bowls set out on the table and everyone reaching for their favourites. Such a simple selection, but tasty holiday food.

I’m tired of the invalid life. Not well enough to get outdoors or embark on work projects, but I am feeling very flat and deprived of stimulus. Thinking of all those who have to live confined to bed or indoors in front of computer monitors. I want fresh air and conversation and to feel alive, challenged, awake again. As if I belong to the world out there.

This kind of invalid existence reminds me so much of the dreary tedium of drinking, sitting and just doing nothing except altering my consciousness for the worse. Reading with a glass of wine in my hand. The first three glasses made anything I was reading more fun. Scribbling journal notes with a glass of wine in my hand. Having nothing to say and unwilling to write about the problem drinking. Watching TV with a glass of wine in my hand. Not recalling the programmes the next morning. That was the same deadly routine of an unlived existence set in stone over the decades. Nothing changed because nothing was changing, nothing was allowed to change. I kept praying for the addiction to be taken away but was not willing to give it up.

Now I am sober and dissatisfaction is like toothache, demanding attention. I need to get back to my real life and deal with things. Right now I can’t do that, but the desire is a healthy sign of inner recovery. All I need is a little more patience.

Summertime and time to recuperate from a major operation. So often I have a year of regrets behind me and a year of desperate resolutions ahead of me. Now I have one day to deal with. The hours moving in slow motion, the doves cooing and the cicadas humming, nothing happening in a hurry. Tomorrow there will be time to reflect on plans for getting fit. Plans to write fiction. Time to think through political implications around the new charismatic populist crook heading the ANC in South Africa. Time to address the depleting of hormones and the bodily changes folloing menopause. Today I am sober and healing in slow motion, looking out at sun on the fields and mountains, listening to my sick dog grunting in her sleep, letting words play back and forth in my mind like a musical phrase open to improvisation, just for the hell of it. Think of this as a time of invisible mending and incremental growth. Unseen stitches in heavy cotton, threading torn places back together.  Slow down you move too fast/you’ve got to make the moment last…

Nine months

Another quiet morning with sunlight and house sparrows on the stoep, a mug of coffee and the chance of a blessedly sober day ahead.

Today I am nine months sober and filled with a depth of gratitude that defies belief. My life has changed in so many ways and all of them for the better. Most of the changes were transformations and adventures and opportunities I could not have predicted. So much has happened to me. The old ‘me’ has surrendered and become another person in so many ways.

And the biggest. the most unbelievable thing, remains the freedom from daily dependence on alcohol. The reaching for alcohol whenever things went wrong. Or things went right. Or whatever. Just drinking as a way of life, a way of death-in-life. That deadness within, the bloated, miserable dragging myself through days and weeks of hangovers and gastric upsets and obliviousness and non-relating. The fear. Dying little by little.

They say it is easier to stay sober than to get sober, but I joined a community and ‘I’ did not get sober on my own. The Fellowship gave me a new life. The Steps gave me a new way of living beyond the old self-will. And so I sit here at nine months sober, brimming over with gratitude. Today I will not drink, whatever happens. Tomorrow will take care of itself.