One of those mornings when waking was like crawling out of a dark pit — but the phone was ringing, the kettle whistling, the dog clambering onto the kitchen table to show he could do it.
Dog: Why did Tensing and Hillary climb Everest? Because it was there!
And the sun was shining, the white and pink abelia bushes all in flower, pools of icy mountain water flowing across the back garden, little orange butterflies and dragon flies dancing in the warm still sunshine. The housemate is making devilled eggs to take to a festive party this evening. The crackpot landlord is flying off to France on some nefarious business deal, shouts ‘Allo! Allo!‘ and winks lasciviously at me while searching for a red neck scarf to attract rich French widows. I am supposed to give a literacy class this morning. And finish another 16 000 words of editorial.
Crawling out of the dark pit and feeling slow-witted, absurd, ungrateful, ashamed to not be coping better. The sun is like broken egg yolk.
‘Why are you weeping?’ said Bembel Rudzuk.
‘I am suffering from an attack of history,’ I said.
‘It will pass,’ said Bembel Rudzuk.
- Pilgermann
One of the newly sober women who will be here for lunch on Christmas Day calls to ask if her still-drinking ex-boyfriend can come along with her because she is afraid he will behave worse if she is not there to keep an eye on him.
‘No,’ I say promptly and with relief that I know my own mind on this at least.
‘He will just sit at the far end of the garden with his Baccardi rum and play his guitar and not cause any trouble,’ she says with that cluelessness I remember in myself at six weeks sober. Gosh, what could go wrong? How could a melancholy drunk sitting all alone with his booze and his droopy moustache, his six-stringed guitar and a tuneless rendition of My Sweet Lord spoil the lunch for everyone else?
He will, trust me, he will. Drunks have to do what they have to do.
The heat is belting up into the stratosphere. If I shave my legs, that might galvanise my sluggish body into action. Smooth egg-shell calves so I can help make retro-50s devilled eggs and go off to the festive party in capri pants, find a red polka-dot scarf for the mad landlord, get the dog off the kitchen table and wash my only decent-looking dark blue capri pants so they might dry by this evening.
If I stand still, I might be eaten alive by my own demons. Besides, I need to stop thinking about this quotation from Jeanette Winterson:
“[U]nhappy families are conspiracies of silence. The one who breaks the silence is never forgiven. He or she has to learn to forgive him or herself.”
I stood still yesterday and the demons came out. Time to get moving today.
Hoping we both have a better day Syd –
Glad you said “no” to guitar boy.
The good thing is having been there myself and knowing what happens next — I am not going to call the police on Christmas day, I am not going to have a houseful of guests watching someone drink themselves into a coma, I am not going to have maudlin drunken stories, threats and promises, and then sheepish apologies over the phone on Boxing Day.. I’m going to have a peaceful sober day without any melodrama.
Such a perfect title. The women bloggers I have met online are so strong, the collective strength I have the pleasure to read.
I’m sorry for your haunting past and hurts. I want to say your gift for all you have been through is your intelligent, discerning mind, but I don’t want to insult. It just seems you were meant to share, thus your art of writing. To make life’s walk a little lighter for the rest of us. I relate to so much, and I appreciate your sharing.
Thank you so much Lou — and I hope that some of the messiness and trauma of my past might have made me more compassionate and willing to share the hurting for others who are also there.
That last sentence, that quote, just wow. That’s it. Forgiveness no,and I don’t ask it, but does the torment, the ostracization and excoriation never end? Trying to remember everything Eckhart Tolle says about abiding in the present.
I remember those tropical Christmases, the bright, loud, manic Christmases with reggae-fied carols blasting through the village day and night. I remember now why I ran off there…
I imagine you will be a sensation in your capri pants. I would so enjoy it to observe and witness your triumph. To see you escape that loop that keeps us from our lives and makes us old before our time.
This blog has become my tropical island. A refuge.
I like the thought of being your tropical refuge Invisigal and telling family secrets is crucial even when it feels like betrayal and so many don’t want to hear.
Thank you so much. Your warm welcome brought tears to my eyes.
Send Thy peace O Lord, which is perfect and everlasting, that our souls may radiate peace.
Send Thy peace O Lord, that we may think, act and speak harmoniously.
Send Thy peace O Lord, that we may be contented and thankful for They bountiful gifts.
Send Thy peace O Lord, that amidst our worldly strife, we may enjoy Thy bliss.
Send thy peace O Lord, that we may endure all, tolerate all, in the thought of Thy grace and mercy.
Send Thy peace O Lord, that our lives may become a Divine vision and in Thy light, all darkness may vanish.
Send Thy peace O Lord, our Father and Mother, that we Thy children on Earth may all unite in one family.
Prayer for Peace – Pir-O-Murshid Inayat Khan – 1921
Very important to read the last quote, speaking the truth in my family, when I was able to discern it, fractured the relationships. How dare I say to my sister that my mother’s overdose was intentional. How dare I say the dreaded hospice word, states my other sister as the first one lays dying. How dare I?
I wonder if that is why I get so aggravated at this XMAS time, my religious ‘family’ wants to hand out calendars of a white, tall Jesus carrying a lamb over his shoulders while we gather at a manger with the star, etc, etc. Somewhere deep in side me wants to give the primal scream.