Anyway, I had to write and deliver a conference paper, so off I went and stood up and gave the paper and answered questions.
It’s funny that I can sit down in the quiet of this study overflowing with dogs, books, rain spiders and geckos, and write bold, brave stuff on paper, but so dread going out and standing up and reading my words and immediately hearing all the faults, mistakes and flawedness. But I got through it and answered questions in my schoolgirl French and so-so isiXhosa, then we all sat out in the autumn sunshine and talked about the death of Marie Colvin and Remi Ochlik in Homs, the tragedy and waste. Delegates from Lagos, Bogota, Maputo, Mumbai and Caracas all talked about what it feels like to live and work for change where they come from, all about making poetry and revolution and raising children and feeding the homeless and dealing with water shortages and ending the violence. No matter where we come from the commonality is stringer than the differences. We dream the same dreams, we suffer the same waking nightmares.
If you never read Marie Colvin’s reportage, you might want to read this American Journalism Review profile, to underline who she was and the immensity of that loss.
So then I came home and my beloved dogs all ran to welcome me because I am the heart and centre of their world, their special human.
A message left on my phone, bad news: somebody I met for coffee last year when she was just seven weeks sober died this last weekend. She took her new sleeping meds and got into bed with a bottle of vodka to wash them down and ease her into the longed-for unconsciousness. She didn’t wake up.
The grief will smack me down later but for now I wish I could go back to that coffee break and grip her by the shoulders, shake her and tell her to fight harder, get more help, stick closer to those of us who have been there. But it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. It is no good saying we lose control of our lives in addiction, that we are powerless, that alcohol has taken over, unless there is a part of us that wants to live, that wants to believe it can get better, able to trust that fickle, improbable hope is waiting for us on the other side of the darkness.
Light frost burning off the fields, the mountains hazy and purple. I must cook chicken necks for dog suppers, do something interesting with oyster mushrooms and a big dish of baby spinach leaves picked at dawn. In the middle of the grooved pine kitchen table there sits a large solid green cabbage, saying ‘Don’t boil me, for mercy’s sake.’
Such a loss of Marie Colvin and such insanity in the Middle East. Meanwhile, the last Republican debate was mostly about morals and contraception and so much that is irrelevant to the real problems that the world is facing. I am sick of religiosity coming from the mouths of politicians.
And I am sorry about the woman’s death. It is sad. I think that some people are not meant to live. The death wish is too strong.
I always hope for change, for connection but sometimes in hindsight I see my optimism was unrealistic Syd.
The Republican debates seem to be leaving a really nasty taste in people’s mouths –
The conversation with that woman will never leave you, I can guarantee it. It will come back to you when you are having coffee with some other woman – and it will make you less nice, less reserved and more honest.
But then I could be wrong and you won’t react the way I have.
I spoke as clearly and honestly as I could at the time Mary Christine — out here many people die of alcoholism because there are few detox facilities and so people don’t minimise the dangers of drinking.
I may come to understand more — right now I just feel powerless when it comes to talking about sobriety to someone who has no will to live. Many alcoholics are choosing slow suicide, and deep down they know that.
…unless there is a part of us that wants to live, that wants to believe it can get better, able to trust that fickle, improbable hope is waiting for us on the other side of the darkness.
Your words here really spoke to me and during my bought with depression there were times I didn’t believe I would ever feel different. I didn’t want to live but something kept me moving forward and today I am better and some days even a little happy to be alive.
I’m glad you were able to keep going Linda, glad you are here today.
So sad Marie Colvin left us. She loved her work devoted to telling the stories that compelled her to travel to the hotspots of the world. “She wrote about people so that others might understand the truth.” I dont feel certain there is absolute or real truth in this complex and uncertain world?
Well just for today I haven’t picked up a drink. My sobriety has allowed me to read, think and meditate and reach out others a full day. Life is precious but for some it just too painful to continue living.
Truths may be relative in some ways but most of us know when we are being lied to and that there are undeniable truths in war and human suffering.
I don’t know that ‘life’ is too painful Dee, perhaps it is an overwhelming depression or loss that devastates some.
No matter how bad life gets, I’ve always been convinced tomorrow will bring good news. My faith in my fellow man may at times be misguided, but it is unshakable.
I’m realizing this a gift I have been given–it is either optimism or ignorance. Either way, it keeps me from ever considering a bottle of vodka and pills.
Well, if you are not an addict Lou, there is no need to think about vodka or chemical numbing. That optimism may be justified or it may not.
A friend of mine who was healthy active and had never had more than the odd glass of wine went into hospital for a leg amputation and was given too much morphine, became addicted and I watched her personality at the age of 63 change overnight, reduced to longing for anaesthetic relief. Not for physiological pain but for emotional withdrawal and the anguish of cravings. It isn’t about will power or our innate happy tempeament.
You are right. I don’t understand it. I hope I never understand those feelings.