I’ve surprised myself over the last few days. Despite all my best guesswork I never know exactly how I’m going to act in a situation until I’m actually having it, and this has all been so new to me.
There was a long journey today. It was a great pleasure to step off the train that brought me home and see the sky stretching out over my adopted city, feel the cold air and the rain on my face. Then I realised yes, I think of this place as home. I don’t know why – nothing ties me here other than circumstance. I could leave tomorrow and it would be no richer or poorer for my loss, it owes me nothing and I owe nothing to it, but I’d be cheating myself out of the first place I’ve ever unreservedly called home. If there’s a future for me I think this place might hold the key, it just feels like it works.
I have no peace at present, but I like it this way. The dead can have peace, I’ll take the chaos and catastrophe and if it doesn’t bury me I’ll build on it.
The Wisdom of King Solomon – 3:1-9
Is not my choice. I’m not convinced it would be hers, and having googled the verse I’m sure the translation we are using is wrong, or at least fluffified. Given our family background the inclusion of the “holocaust” seems like an unfortunate wording, no matter if it means something different when used in this context.
The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us like annihilation; but they are at peace. If they exerienced punishment as men see it, their hope was rich with immortality; slight was their affliction, great will their blessings be. God has put them to the test and proved them worthy to be with him; he has tested them like gold in a furnace, and accepted them as a holocaust. They who trust in him will understand he truth, those who are faithful will live with him in love; for grace and mercy await those he has chosen.
But it’s too late to change it now. I can only hope my voice is strong enough to carry the meaning of the words to all present. I wish I could read the rest of it, it goes on to rant about the evils of premarital sex and ends with the delightful:
And if they live long, they shall be nothing regarded, and their last old age shall be without honour. And if they die quickly, they shall have no hope, nor speech of comfort in the day of trial, for dreadful are the ends of a wicked race.
Which, personally, I think is far more fitting and oddly poetic, given the cicumstanes.
I am twenty-three years old, and were I in any sense religious or superstitious I’d be convinced that the cosmos is fucking with me. So in a sense, I am indeed convinced that the cosmos is fucking with me.
Three days ago things really stopped making sense. Sometimes it’s nice when things don’t make sense, sometimes it’s an exciting little rollercoaster of weird that thrills you as much as it scares you. Three days ago I thought it was going to be one of those wild rides into the unknown, the enjoyable, manageable sort. It looks like I may have been shockingly wrong.
Two days ago this particular coaster took its first dip, but it was ok. It was still pretty high up, all things considered, dropping a few feet was no big deal. Then somehow I absent-mindedly chewed some of the skin away from my fingers and the inside of my lips as I was experimenting with my pain threshold under ill-advised circumstances.
Yesterday morning I woke up panicked and confused with the taste of blood in my mouth, and when I reached for the clock, my fingertips brushed against something and it stung. All day long I tried to do things as normal but every time I touched anything my fingers would start stinging and bleeding again.
Yesterday afternoon it took a nosedive. A careless conversation through innocent means led to a phone call that left me more shaken than I care to remember. It brought death and despair to my day.
My paternal grandfather is dying. Two years ago I didn’t know this man’s name. One year ago I was making plans to get to know him, and the family I lost, once I had the means and ability. Yesterday I am presented with the reality that there is no time left for this.
I don’t cry when I’m sad, as a general rule. Anger, and recently frustration, bring the tears. More than anything else I’m sad. I’m sad for my grandfather, he’s not dying well. I hear my father’s voice coming through the speaker on the phone and despite the years and distance between us I can tell he’s putting on a brave face. I’m just not sure who for. I’m sad for him. It’s clear he isn’t taking this well but there’s nothing I can do for him. But I’m crying now, so there’s more at work here than sadness. Yep, that’s right, I’m angry. Boilingly angry. Twenty years ago a lot of mistakes were made and I’m only now learning the true cost of them. I’m not sure who I’m angry with specifically. All of them, I think. I don’t know. The anger fades almost as quick as it flared up and the tears go with it. I’m left with something indescribable. I decide to try and kill it with gin. This is marginally successful.
Today I woke up in a panic once again, the blood taste in my mouth mixed with ash. I think I’ve been chewing on myself in my sleep. Takes me a moment to remember where I am, then who I am. Reach for the time and my fingers are bleeding again. The plasters were not hugely useful. I spent the morning lost in memories. The afternoon arrives and the phone rings again. Withheld number, but for some reason I know who it must be. I’m hoping he’s called just to say hi, but somehow I know what it’s about before he says anything.
This time there is no anger, just overwhelming sadness. There’s plenty of things here to be angry about but I just can’t process it all at once. My maternal grandmother is dying. We’ve known for a while but it looks like this might be the last leg of her journey, slightly ahead of the anticipated schedule. I can’t find enough words to describe how this hits me. I feel about my grandmother the way I reckon most people feel about their mothers. Now imagine your mother, old and frail and helpless, a hollowed out shell of the woman she used to be, only tiny sparks in her eyes where there used to be blazing fires, with a body that is finally starting to show signs of needing machines to help it function properly. She’s about four hundred miles away and the people in charge of her healthcare decisions are showing signs that they may not be up to the task, at least not by your excruciatingly high standards.
I can’t do anything about it, about either of them. At least not just yet. My hands are tied until I know where I stand on certain issues affecting both situations, and even when I get the answers I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them.
I think I’ve mentioned on here that I can’t stand sympathy, most of the time. I’ve been somewhat selective about who in my life I’ve properly spoken to about this because of this exact issue. I knew I didn’t want sympathy and I know I don’t need advice, but it’s taken me till now to work out what I did want. I think the word is solidarity. It’s a new and interesting desire and not one I fully understand, but I think it comes of experiencing true grief for possibly the first time. I’m so hugely interested to see where all this takes me but I wish so much that it didn’t come at such a high cost. And that they didn’t somehow pick the same bloody weekend to start packing up.
Very Localised Conflict 