Heritage And Itchy Eyes

This is a blog several days in the making. There is so much more rage and sadness inside and I could go for days without dying but it is consuming to feel this way. I am grateful that Wayne and Rachel have offered me their couch, then Amber has offered her brother's room, then the ski camp and Ben's spare room. How much longer?


On days like today, there is a rage that builds up inside you when everything seems to be wrong. People are rewarded when they have digressed or done something that is right in basics but wrong when aligned to standard. The fire burns behind your eyes, making them itch and burn until you break. You turn on an innocent pen which would not write and suddenly there are two pieces of sharp blue plastic flying towards the dresser, all your vehemence and depression expressed in the violent arc. The motion ceases with a clear and crisp collision, all your anger suddenly gone and your eyes itching to cry.

So you do but you want to stop and you know that you can’t. All you want is to be somewhere else. In her arms being rocked to sleep like the last five years never happened. You said a prayer for her whilst you were out today but you couldn’t cry then. There were strangers watching. You waited until this moment, hidden away in your mind and under your blankets, when everything hit you and you wanted to scream from the pain. You can’t scream though. On the other side of those doors is your life and no matter how much you hurt, you cannot let them come in to console you. They do such a poor job of it.

What you want to do is stop crying and stop being angry. You want to go sit in another bedroom and ask your father if he’s here long and if he’ll change things for you. You want privacy and a room where you can hurt all day if you want. You want Sarah to leave. You want all those people who are not family to go away for the night because this is your mother’s birthday and they don’t belong here. Not now. They don’t belong in your grief. You want to go back into that bedroom and curl back up on the bed, wishing you’d done better at the competitions today so you’d feel like you were worthy of an opinion and feelings. You would not yell at your father but you would show him that you are crying and tell him that you want him to fix it.

You can’t even go to her grave tonight. He lost his licence so you have the burden of deciding whether he risks it. It is too much of a burden for you. You are already so far under. Those waves that everyone listens to as they sleep rise far higher than anyone would imagine. You are so sure of being crushed by the weight of the water before you drown. What will it be: death by punctured lung or death by asphyxiation?

You were going to see a play this night but you knew you would be tired from your morning. You regret it but it doesn’t matter. You can always go see a different one. You always do. What frustrates you is that there is so little to do now. All day, it was your mother’s birthday and that was no problem. It caused no drama. You were busy but you paused to take moments for her when you could. You even crossed yourself with the pentagram and prayed. You were not religious. There were no folded palms or fervently closed eyes. You were just praying. Maybe even just talking, having one of those one-sided conversations you are so good at. Now it looks to you like the night will be endless, dragging on and stealing your hopes of sleep. This isn’t just because you have awful room mates who ruin things for you. You are hurting tonight and it has been a long time since you could hurt like this. Eventually you might cry yourself to sleep but it will be a long night.

Some nights you curl up and would rather die before going to sleep but right now that ache in your heart is a nothing that ties you down. No one can die with such a hole in their heart. You cannot die in love. That is why there are failures to attest, a white and a red bracelet to tell you never to be so weak. Tonight you are that weakness that you swore never to be but the ache in your heart keeps you alive. No one who loves may die. Your mother died but there was no love in that death. It was metal and branches. You were angry and violent inside but you loved. It was love for what you used to have that caused it and love for your little family, the ones who have all abandoned you since, that brought you home.

You don’t know who to turn to. Who else has lost someone like you have? More importantly, who can you ask about it? There are bridges which still smoulder and you wish that you could raise them from their ashes but “It’s Complicated”. You are so confused and your head pounds all the time. The effort of seeing straight, of first thoughts and second sights nearly kills you. The throbbing of your skull cripples you. This is the life you have to look forward to. You are never satisfied but it cannot change.

So you become that person in the cemetery at night. You’re the one who opens the gates when it’s dark because you’re at a public cemetery. The public should feel comfortable coming in. I digress. The gates are open and the headlights are bright behind your back. You don’t recognise where you are but it is ok because you know what to look for. The dusty red pot stands out, stark-white under the moon. You talk to your dead mother under the ground because it is her birthday. You’re crying again and you still can’t stop but it is better now that your eyes no longer itch and burn.

All you took were daffodils. You couldn’t find carnations even though you knew they were her favourite flowers. So you took her Cancer Council Daffodils. Your mother was forever supporting the devastating and surely lost cases. She would rather die than refuse someone help. This taught you to value others but it also made you a young woman who does not want to spread her love thin. You are an extrovert by nature and you love people but you are no longer the social butterfly you once were. You love to avoid people but quickly adapt when you are forced into the presence of others. You could never be shy.

Every day you want to claim your home back but you know you can’t. Everyone is equal here but some people are more equal than others. Even you know that. You actually found the courage to speak up to your father but it was of no use. He didn’t see the point you were making and took something entirely different away. Even when he listens to you, he doesn’t hear what you tell him. It will always be one more thing you struggle to forgive him for.

Merry Meet

Merry may we meet
Merry may we part
Merry may we meet again

Merry Meet
Merry Part
Merry Meet Again

Merry Meet

That is all.

August 21

It's Mum's birthday soon. God, sometimes everything just starts rushing at me and I don't notice.
We went past the accident site on the way to Lake Mountain for Outdoor Ed (skiing) and Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) came on the radio. Then Bacon was talking about car accidents and how people have their necks crushed so I vomited outside my classroom. Oh, then there's a lack of sleep on top of that. Fuck, everything just keeps coming to beat me down.
They're waves with no break, just a massive trough that I can walk along before being crushed by the crest.

Dialogue With The Depression

Hell-o Amy. How have you
Been; Devastated. Perhaps
You should begin; It is not
Too hard to smile, I’m sure;
But you aren’t me so how
Would you know; I am your
Depression. Don’t forget
That; How could I? You follow
Me everywhere and I always
See you; Remember to be
Polite when we meet; I always
Am and greet you. Good
Evening, good afternoon; I
Know you don’t like me; Of
Course I don’t! My life is
HELL and I owe that to you;
At least I am thanked; It is
NOT a compliment; Say what
You mean; I want to cry; See
I understand you much more
Now I know what you want;
Are you sarcastic; Never
But I am sardonic; You know
They are the same, you
Infuriating imbecile; I love so
Much to hurt you; I can tell,
You watch me bleed out; Still
I am ever polite about it. It is
Why you must show the same
Courtesy; ‘Inside I am bleeding.
Sir, Good evening, good afternoon.’
; Always.