Contemplating the Silence

15 04 2013

There is a silence in my flat tonight that I am not used to anymore, and I have to admit that I am not enjoying my solitude. You see I have a permanent little fixture who is not with me tonight and I admit whole heartedly that I miss my little four legged friend.

She adopted me at Christmas time, I was looking for a specific type of breed of dog and she was advertised as such, but when I went to see this little pup who was the last of her litter it was more than obvious that she was of a Heinz 57 variety of mix, but I fell in love with the little bundle of jumping trouble the moment I walked in the room.

I’m sure this is when people say that they picked their dogs because they were shy and sweet, or that they crept up shyly from behind their mothers back, but my little puglette was anything but timid, she run up to us with a joy that only the young and unregulated feel and started climbing up my leg and trying to eat my shoe. I wanted her from that very second. There was no way in the world that I was leaving that house without her, and of course I didn’t, and even now I feel guilty if I have to leave her alone (work gets in the way of this idealism).

I, as those who have read my blog will know, was always much more of a no-commitment kind of person. In fact I was always of the Holly Golightly mindset that me and belonging to anyone or anything did not go hand to hand. Funny how a little dependent with a naughty streak wider than the English Channel has changed all of that. Now I can’t imagine being without her, and know I never will be for all the years that we both draw breathe in the same lifetime.

I completely failed at being the alpha of the pack, and as much as I tried I didn’t quite get the ‘dogs join your family, you don’t join theres’ mentality, maybe because I didn’t have a family, but just lived a solitary, selfish home- life. This has resulted in me and my little friend creating a little makeshift family of our own, one in which we seem to have equal shares in the sofas, bed etc. In fact I am pretty sure that she actually rules the roost and i’m just the follower.

But boy does my little leader know how to make me feel like i’m the most wonderful person in the world. There is something wondrous in being responsible for someone that is not you in day to day life, there is something joyful in being depended on, in knowing that the simplest of acts can bring a gratitude that no human has the capacity to feel. I understand for the first time in my life the saying about a mans best friend, for my little terror, with her cute eyes and demanding ways, with her sense of fun, of play, with her basic simple needs, in her quietness, in her noise has brought to my selfish heart the most amazing of human emotions. I went and feel in complete and utter love with a little furry fawn girl with a soul as old as time.



12 04 2013

Sitting in my bed on a Friday night eating a box of Thornton’s and smoking cigarettes doesn’t seem very rock n roll, unless you’re one of those people who abhor smoking in bed (don’t care, I sleep alone), the dog is curled up at my feet …and instead of reading heat magazine cover to cover I thought I would attach the keyboard to the iPad and write something, anything.

I’ve had a pretty lousy week, an incident with my car (not my fault), the norovirus (winter vomiting, is that as ironic as daffodils in the snow? I think not!) and my ongoing battle with paying the bills (not possible for me) so tonight I planned on sitting around and feeling sorry for myself.

An ex of mine, who is still a friend, popped around earlier with a ‘care package’ which included wine, chocolates, magazines and flowers – which I thought was a really sweet thing to do and in my weakened state nearly made me want to reach out to him and invite him back into my life. But I’m made of stronger stuff it seems, and I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong that girl I was is still inside of me and a big part of me firmly believes that sharing my bed, and my body would have been a massive stress relief for me right now but my celibacy remains a truth for the time being.

It got me to thinking about relationships and how as my age creeps up I look for so much more.

I’ve always been a bit of a romantic underneath it all, beneath the walls that I built around myself in my brazen years, I hid a lost and lonely girl. The only way to ensure that I didn’t feel vulnerable was to become the cold one, I ran from beds before I was pushed, as if being the first to exit made me the one in control. I balked at deep conversations in the dead of the night, preferring to silence the words with the warmth of a body. That warmth used to keep my own coldness away for a short time, the blackness of my eyes burnt like coal with physical lust but emotionally I stayed distant.

Or maybe I was just emotionally retarded…maybe I still am.

I find it very difficult now, experience has softened my edges, I find now that I want to talk in the dead of the night, but i’ve never met anyone who I feel would listen without judgement and try to understand. The truth is I don’t want a counsellor, I don’t want platitudes or someone to list all that I should be grateful for. I just want to tell someone my story, how I got to be the way I am without them running for the hills with the craziness of it all.

There must be a deep satisfaction to know that someone else in the world knows the complete truth about you, but accepts you anyway, and more than acceptance is willing to listen to your words of despair while the rest of the world sleeps.

I’m rusty I know, my words do not make much sense to me let alone to a passerby.


3 12 2011

I want to write.

It’s been so long, time has moved so fast that often I wonder if soon everything will be over and there will be no new times to look forward too. So much has happened, so many dreams came to life and I threw them away, so many times of happiness and sadness that I cannot get back and I didn’t write about them – didn’t bring them alive through my words.

I was loved. Truly loved. I made him go away.

A year of life summed up in that sentence. A year of my life that I cannot talk about in more words as I don’t have them to explain. He tried so hard to love the unlovable, he tried so hard to break down my barriers. I couldn’t do it, my craziness took on a new edge as I felt stifled, confused, trapped. My anger took sinister turns as I pushed and pushed and finally made him leave. The coldness of my soul was put before him in all its evil glory.

He used to call me the ‘Queen of words’ because he felt so many of mine were untrue. It always struck me as odd, as my life has always been one big lie and when I tried to tell him the truth that too was judged as a lie. And me, this Queen of words, never found it in herself to write even though I tried so many times.

After he left I sought help, I knew I had needed it for a long time but I made myself gain the courage to ask. I was diagnosed with Pure O – a form of OCD. Some of it fits but not all. The medication started, and it helped me to live normally, it took the edge of life, of my feelings and worries but it also took the edge off me, it killed the thinking that drove me to this late night blog. Pain, happiness and sensitivity were numbed. Everyone told me how good I seemed, how happy I seemed. I made new friends, I started to carve out the career that I had let flounder for so long. I was living, but I was not real.

It’s only now, 18 months on, after a week not taking those little white emotion killers, after an evening drinking red wine and thinking about the new person in my life that I opened up this blank white page and started to fill it with words.

I want to talk, I want to talk so much, but when I talk I want someone to listen, I want someone to try and understand what makes me the way I am – try and understand my past and the mistakes I have made. I want to come clean, I want to talk in the dead of the night and be heard but still loved in the daytime. Please God, I want someone to see and know the truth but accept me anyway. I’m crazy, a little more each day.

And …

17 05 2010

She’s off again … going backwards …. back to the place that felt like home.

Volcanic Ash Part 2

3 05 2010

We are recovered taken back to where we started from, the insurance company paying the cost of a taxi … as it Spain on a Sunday … no recovery truck willing to do the distance. I am sitting there in the front of that taxi with the overwhelming urge to cry, my chance of getting to France now lost; no idea what to do next. Already I had taken the kindness of strangers to the limit.

I swallowed my proud and made a call to an old friend from the taxi, asking for help … it seemed so wrong that after one year of being away I am ringing them again asking for help, putting my dramatic problems on their doorstep – not the way I wanted to go back … not the way I planned it at all. He offers me a place to stay immediately, so I head in the direction of the place I called home for the first time in a year.

I turn up looking like a Romanian Gypsy, eyes as dull as coal, face bare and hair scrapped back. I feel ugly, I feel useless, I feel old. We sitting at a café drinking coffee and catching up, then back at his house all of a sudden the room is full of people, my tiredness and my rusty (and never that hot) Spanish making it impossible for me to keep up. I am giving 2 kisses and saying hello and after that I fade quietly back to the sofa. It’s funny but that’s when I first saw Mario – he is from Chile he rents the upstairs of my friends house – I remember being introduced but I don’t remember registering him.

The next day, after precious sleep I spend the day with the 2 boys my friend and Mario, we sit drinking small beers outside, after the previous week of not knowing if I was coming or going having two people concerned if I was eating enough felt overwhelming, the kindness of one old friend and a stranger both looking after me was all encompassing.

That night we friend has to go to work, Mario is taking me out with his friends, we are heading onto one of the strips, on the back of scooters … remembering the life and the freedom that I loved so much once upon a time, before the moss begun to grow under my feet.

I don’t remember who kissed who, I don’t remember where it happened or why. We partied until the sun come up, I remember leaving the bike at a club and us walking back to the apartment, I remember laughing constantly and I remember falling asleep entwined with Mario. For the rest of the week I moved upstairs, for the rest of the week he become my 24/7 companion. My friend, far from being annoyed, seemed delighted, the 3 of us spent the days together … eating, talking, laughing. Of a night I visited old friends with Mario in tow, or made new ones as he took me to his haunts. I watched them dance salsa and try to make me join in.

We made love … a lot. We talked just as much, in broken languages, told our stories, laughed about things that seem to transcend cultures and times. By the time it was time for the airspace to reopen I was left wishing that the threatened brother of the volcano would erupt and leave me safe in this moment. But all too soon, the flight was booked and it was time to come home.

The Almost Baby

2 04 2010

Years ago, almost 7 in fact, there was nearly a baby.

Sometimes I wonder how my body conceived, not only did I take my birth control regular as clockwork, I also abused my body with a constant supply of illegal drugs and my closest friend the bottle, but mother nature has a funny way of working and I managed to fall pregnant.

The father – God… the father – was (sadly still is…) my itch, my itch that cannot be scratched, the person of my nightmares, the person of my dreams, the one who holds the power to bring my world crashing down and then raise me to the heights of heaven in a one minute conversation. I hated him, I hate him, I was obsessed by him, I am obsessed by him. He is, to put it crudely, my very own non-curable STD.

He has been my endless infatuation … he has never been my love. I have been his constant whipping girl … I have never been his love.

But the baby … the baby was different, it was pure, it didn’t know that it had been conceived by two of the most egotistical, fucked up beings that it would ever have the misfortune to know.

I found out (I am told) that the baby existed a bit later then women normally do, as the realisation dawned on so did the peace, I remember feeling tired, so tired all the time, and I remember feeling I had a secret that I didn’t want to share, I wanted to keep it all for myself.

Until the blackness arrived … until the blackness of what I really was started running through my veins like heroin, until I started looking in the mirror and seeing the outline of a bump and looking around me and seeing how my life really was. The genes, which created me, the genes of the people who destroyed me, were running through me into this new life form. How could I – the hated girl with the black eyes and paranoid-fuelled temper – pretend to myself that I was capable of being a parent any better then the ones I had had myself? Would it have been possible for me, the girl whose only sense of directions points the wrong way, the girl who could outrun the fastest cheetah to not run away from that baby … to not destroy that baby.

I didn’t have the kindness … I didn’t have the wickedness … to try …

He was meant to come with me the day they took the baby away from my body, in the end he didn’t bother, I remember his words …I should be there …I remember thinking what am I doing. I went alone.

There were protesters outside I was too numb to take in what they were saying, it seemed ironic to me at the time that most of them were men. I sat and waited for my name to be called in a waiting room full of couples, all ages, some looking tearful others so certain. I nearly got up to leave six times in ten minutes.

Your not supposed to see the scan they tell you to turn your head away but my eyes fixated on the screen, I needed to see the baby, I needed something to crucify myself with.

I cried when I left that day, sitting in my car in the carpark protesters still in sight, my body feeling empty, my evilness all consuming, I cried like someone who wanted to shed every tear that could possibly exist.

Sometimes I wonder who I was crying for … sometimes I wonder for whom I am still crying for.

No longer…

10 02 2010

forgotten, just unwanted. Always unwanted.

Even my words do not want to find me anymore.