Posts tagged ‘sad’

THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME. 

This morning I woke up from a nightmare in which I was getting my children ready for some imminent apocalyptic event. I don’t remember what it was, I just remember speaking to my kids and trying to prepare them, in a detailed way, including instructions on what to do if separated from me, or from each other. They were smaller, younger, more vulnerable versions of themselves, just to add to the ambiance. I was talking to them in a very matter of fact way while in my head I was screaming because I knew it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough and the very bad thing was coming and I couldn’t keep them safe. 


Yesterday I woke up from a dream that left me so disoriented that it literally took me a full sixty seconds, without exaggeration, to work out – first – where I was, but then, when I was. In that order, which is weird. Yesterday disappeared into a bit of a hole that I was unable to crawl my way out of. The level of exhaustion is hard to describe. I read somewhere that people with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder feel so tired all the time because you are basically on high alert constantly. After nightmares all night (I will wake up several times during the night and even if I go back to sleep all I remember are nightmares) I slump into some days. My head pounds, I have chest pains and my limbs all feel like they are made of concrete. My whole body aches with heaviness. Everything, every. little. thing. requires such effort that, even if I can be bothered, a small task can take up most of the day. There are days I can’t even pretend to be a functional human being. 

I guess this is my annual Mother’s Day whinge. Feel free to stop reading. I don’t claim any exclusivity. Everyone has hard days and Mother’s Day is hard for lots of people, for many reasons. Childless mothers, motherless children, women who mother other people’s children, children and mothers who are separated by whatever circumstance. I don’t pretend my list is comprehensive. You all know who you are. 

For some, it will be their first Mother’s Day and for some it will be their first Mother’s Day since. For some, it will be both and that’s just the way it is. What I know is that as soon as Easter was over, literally the day after, shops were full of Mother’s Day merchandise. Mugs and slippers and photo frames everywhere you turn. Brochures in the letter box and advertisements on television and Mother’s Day espisodes of television shows. Choking up my newsfeed in every direction. A constant assault that is impossible to escape. And for me this year the added bonus of a later Mother’s Day bringing it even closer to the anniversary of my Daughter’s death. Two and a half weeks to go. Bonus. 

Would I have been a grandmother by now? I cried on the packed train today, silently, after scrolling past a mother guessing her daughter was pregnant on a facebook post. Bit, fat, hot tears that dropped singly from my lashes and felt like lava carving their way down my face. 

After tomorrow there will be marked down slippers, mugs and photo frames and that is nowhere near as fun as marked down Easter chocolate, nowhere near as fun at all. But the days, even the hard ones, pass. Just a bit slower. 

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Tonight I am baby sitting three rascals of the four legged kind. Two very special babies and the big brother of the little girl Son Number Two and I have staying with us; precious souls all of them and I am glad to be here. 
A friend asked me to edit her manuscript recently. I cannot possibly put into words what it meant to me to be trusted with that task, but it meant so much. It worked for me on a number of levels. 
I have friends I can text random things to and they will meet me where I am. I recently went to see a performance of live theatre. It was an incredibly moving adaptation of The Diary of Anne Frank hosted by the Western Australian Academy of the Performing Arts. I’ve had lunch in the quiet, leafy grounds of a University and laughed at my Daughter Number Two and my Sons. I have felt the relief of cool nights after just warm enough days. Videos of small boys and big dogs that melt my heart. And, you know, marked down Easter chocolate. 

The best of times and the worst of times. 
For the rest of my life; the best of times and the worst of times. 
Safe onward travel x 

DO YOU NEED ANYBODY?

As I said in my last post, I am not going to be the one who tells you it’s going to be easy. Because it won’t. Sometimes it will be a night so hot that your clothes stick to your skin and the heat presses down on you like a weight. Sometimes you will be looking for that funny picture you saved on your phone for a friend and you’ll come across a photo of a boy, peacefully asleep in his bed on Christmas night and it will hurt so much to see it that you literally cannot breathe. Sometimes the pain will be so overwhelming you will cry yourself to sleep, the tears burning like acid down your cheeks.

Then the morning will come (even though the mourning is still there) and you will pick yourself up, slowly, and dust yourself off, slowly, and keep on living. If you are lucky, like me, you will have the most gorgeous friends beside you. The ones who hold you close in their hearts and give you a safe place to rest. If you are that lucky then you will count your blessings even while your heart aches. Because what else can you do?

My Young Friend was going to bed the other night and said, as he often does, ‘Love you Kate!’. I responded in kind and he asked ‘Getting sick of hearing it?’ And I said ‘No’ and asked him back ‘Getting sick of saying it?’ And he smiled and said ‘Never going to happen!’.

Which is what I’m counting on x

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HERE I STAND.

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I have an app on my phone called ‘Timehop’. It sorts through your social media activity over the years and shows you what you were up to on this date a year ago or three years ago or seven years ago. I find it fascinating! Lately however, it’s offerings have just served to make me a little sad. Today was different. Today it was like getting a message from myself! And from this very blog!

Today Timehop informed me that three years ago I posted this poem:

let it go

let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

~ e. e. cummings ~

Thanks me! I needed that. It’s such a great poem! Say it out loud! The timing was perfect as I spent today sorting and packing. Letting go, letting go. I had a lovely phone conversation with one of my beautiful friends and managed to be quite productive. There are things I will carry with me and things that I will leave behind but each ending is a new beginning. And love is what remains.

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For the one who showed me what true love really looks like; Frankie, you and Deano will always hold a special place in my heart x

Safe onward travel x

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No One Remembers Your Name.

My new room mate, who is German, continues to use the toilet without closing the door or flushing. Doors appear to be a thing for her, as she ran to get a nurse after thinking I’d locked the door of the room, and her out. Ah, no. The Roommate seems completely obsessed by meals, although perhaps it is the routine she is trying to grasp. Who knows? There is lots of repetitive questioning. And she stands and watches me. It is not comforting.

You can’t have your telephone charger although whether you are meant to hang yourself with it or chuck it into water to electrocute yourself I’m not sure. Both would be physically impossible. I’ve checked the positioning of powerpoints in relation to water sources. Yes, I’m that hard up for entertainment. I’ve not had access to my charger to check the hanging thing but never the less believe it unlikely to be successful due to cord length and weight bearing properties. Sometimes it’s plastic cutlery but then sometimes it’s metal, much to everyone’s excitement.

There is a guy who I think is Russian. He keeps having heated mobile phone conversations in a Slavic sounding language. This afternoon I walked past his room to witness accompanying finger pointing. It was very dramatic.

Tonight I came out to the common areas to see an older lady, petite, sitting with her husband who had come to visit her. Her feet in his lap, eating an Easter egg he’d brought for her.

Still better to have loved and lost, ladies and gentlemen. Always.

Everybody’s doing a brand new dance now.

So far today one woman has attacked another, a code black was called and then fifteen minutes later staff advised over the intercom to ‘stand down’, the alarms have gone off three times (and the day isn’t done yet) and as I write a staff member, male, has stopped outside my door and asked a female staff member to come with him as ‘there’s a female arcing up and I need a female with me’. Cue more shouting and screaming.

‘Do you feel safe?’ they keep asking. Ah, no. I may be crazy but I’m not stupid. Most of the people here have been here before. They know each other. There is a camaraderie that I don’t want to develop. There is a competitiveness about medications and war stories and I watch in bemusement. My roommate, who arrived on the same day as I, is being discharged. This is very good for her and very bad for me. She was the least threatening person here and I am apprehensive about who will take her bed.

There is an unlocked area and a locked area. When people have violent outbursts they are moved to the locked area. Then moved back to the unlocked area. Excellent. There is communal dining, which is noisy and painful and my nurse tonight is lovely but very touchy feely and DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO BE TOUCHED? But I say nothing.

I wonder at the state of my life. This whole situation was brought about by the evil machinations of another, which continue unabated. You know, I wouldn’t have believed it possible but here we are. On the plus side; I’m still losing weight.

If I only had a Brain.

I don’t think I will find any kindred spirits here, but then I haven’t much spirit left. There’s a fair bit of denial within me tonight. This can’t be right. I cannot really be here. But then I remember I’ve nowhere else to be. I don’t think I have ever felt as alone as I do right now.

I’ve probably mentioned, dear readers, that I find social situations awkward. I’m not really a joiner. But my morning health professional encouraged my participation in a therapeutic group.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. I’ve had some loooong hours in my life but I felt every second in that little room. The two young occupational therapists were enthusiastic and attractive, the female with an Irish accent.

To my left was a young male with angry looking sores all over his body. He was very vocal about being conditioned by the system and labelled by the organizations. Passionately vocal. To my right was an older gentleman with no anger issues, except for the time he threatened a magistrate and two lawyers and how last August he threw a chair around the room at a course he was doing and took out seven computers. Then there were two women perhaps my age or younger? Both blond and tanned and over accessorised, who talked about their stays in rehab. And all the while in an adjacent room someone else screamed and shouted for the duration. You’ll forgive me for missing afternoon arts and crafts.

I just want my safe place. I just want my home. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. But the witch and her flying monkeys seem to have won.

That’s not the way the story is meant to end.

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Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night.

The nurses sound like startled chickens. Someone has moved patients and bed numbers on the board. The emergency waiting room is over flowing and beds beyond the veil (Ha. I wish.) are at max capacity. I must have stopped by out of peak hours.

A nurse from the ward came down
to tell me that they hoped there would be a bed for me today. Me too. Unfortunately, his name, which he was at pains to repeat so I could take it in, was the same as my Daughter’s murderer. Trigger. Grief and loss – Trigger. Powerlessness – Trigger. Trigger, trigger, trigger, trigger and neither a shotgun nor Roy Rogers in sight. Hardly seems fair really. But life isn’t, is it? It is just degrees of unfair.

I spoke to Son Number One this morning and he was genuinely sorry for me when I told him what has happened. This young man who is meant to lack in empathy. I expect if Baby Daddy ever gets around to letting Son Number One see Daughter Number Two again Son Number One will tell Baby Daddy about my change of circumstances. The pleasure he will get from the news will be equal to my despair and the gloating and crowing that will ensue really does not bear thinking about. So much to look forward to.

I am mostly left to my own devices. They have real sick people here. At night, when it’s quiet, I’ve taken to having a quick stroll around the bowels of the hospital. No one challenges me, lending weight to my theory that I am but a phantom. Hospitals, schools, they have a whole other vibe at night. You can still feel the echoes of the daytime bustle, a certain electricity remains despite the stillness.

The day is broken up with meals and medications. Breakfast around 7am, lunch between 1.30pm – 2pm, dinner by 7pm. The gorgeous male doctor who checked me in told me to focus on little things, to eat the meals and I do, because there is little else to pass the time.

This time last week I had a home. Now, I could not be more alone.

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