Crying 25/10/2011
I’ve always been a firm believer in the cathartic affect of crying. It acts as a time out, giving you an outlet for the overflowing emotions and space to slowly let them flow back in again. Best of all, it usually takes them a couple of hours to once more breach the walls and bring back the flood of tears. Today there will be a lot of crying. But for now I’m ok. Shattered, exhausted and terrified, but ok. I know we’ll get there, wherever there is and probably be all the better for it, but that’s no great comfort at the moment. I also know that while I feel ok at the moment, later tonight or tomorrow morning it’s going to hit me all over again, with twice the strength of the original impact and that is possibly even harder to cope with. The knowledge of imminent crisis is never nice.
Sam 16/4/2007
We spend a few minutes chatting. I offer to collect some food from the buffet; it is quite a walk and Sam is not all he once was. There is a suggestion of cheese sandwiches, perhaps a few sticks of chicken. I glace at Cecelia and she nods. Wandering over I speak to Iain as I choose. “What do you think: Some Satay perhaps? Would a stick of hedgehog be too difficult to manage, d’you think? His hands are rather shaky.”
The man beside me looks on bemused as I turn to him for confirmation. Somehow, he is not the younger brother I envisioned as standing with me shoulder to shoulder in adversity. Iain steps from his shadow. “Sorry, What?”
‘Never mind|“ I mutter, chastened by embarrassment. I talk to myself, in an effort to legitimise my perceived greed, this is after all the third groaning plate I have collected from these assorted of trestle tables. ”Some cake, and perhaps a few grapes. That would be nice. He might like that.“
I sit with Sam and brightly announce ”I’ve brought you some lunch. What would you like to start with? How about a sandwich, or this piece of chicken Satay?“
”I’m not taken with this wine, I’m sorry. I don’t favour this wine“
His voice comes slowly, as he looks around for someone to help him out.
”How about some fruit juice; would you like some orange with your wine?“
”No, I don’t favour this wine at all.“ He looks around helpessly, his eyes trying to focus on a friendly face to remove the offending glass. As we reach out to take it, his gaze alters, falters and he looks to us. ”My…. Wine?“
”I’ve brought you some lunch Sam, how about a nice sandwich?“
Cecilia gives me an encouraging smile, so I continue.
”Oh, that would be lovely. When I was, I use used to, I carry these, this…“ He takes a bite and is carried away in taste. A piece of cheese makes a slow decent from sandwich to lap, balancing precariously on a button for a moment before making it’s slow tumbling fall until it reaches a final resting place near the high waist of his red braced trousers.
We’re halfway through the plate now, from a small caramel shortbread diversion through to a satay skewer via a stick from the cheese and grape hedgehog. He enjoys every mouthful, and we laugh together as I rescue an errant crumb from certain death; we tease the chicken from the skewer as he watches in interest, eager to taste the next flavour, for every one is new and challenging. We switch between courses, countries, continents even with every bite: must sweet follow savoury, dry follow moist and sour compliment salty?
Sam tires now and turns to me in confusion. I smile encouragingly.
”Shall I pull the last piece of chicken down to then end for you? It’s caught at the top and you’ll never be able to bite it off from there.“
”Oh, you’re ever so kind“ he murmers, almost to himself. He takes the stick in his hand and teases off the last morsel before his hand gently falls to his side, the stick resting on the edge of the plate a hand has been supporting throughtout this meal. With I start I relise the errant hand is indeed my own: inaction and discomfort have removed the familiar aches, pains and tension of being human: I am wholey cought up in the care of another. Ever the perfect gentleman, I tease Sam lightly as we finish the meal. ”Ah, so that’s why they call this finger food, look at your hands!“ He smiles indulgently, but I can tell his eyes are far, far away, in a time I cannot reach, or even see. He takes the proffered napkin from my hands but shows no resistance when I deftly remove a few crumbs from each finger. He delicately pats his cheeks and chin and together we hide the remaining signs of his recent meal. ”Oh, we missed a spot Sam!“ we laugh together as I catch the last errant piece of cheese and pickle and trap in in our napkin. ”Oh yes, that piece, the, it, yes, thank you“
Sam smiles and talks about the sandwich ”I like this, these, this is quite, do you, finish, I can’t eat, want this bit…“ He trails off as an Auntie descents and bears him away, trilling… ”Oooh, Sam, it lovely to see you, How are you? I do hope they are taking care of you in that little home you are in….“ They pass through the door after a minor bump against the frame, Sams feet trailing the floor between his footrests, which she forgot to put down.
The nurse gives me an understanding smile and rises to attend her change.
Later, Sam is being risen on the lift back to his ambulance. I step over and profer my hand. ”It was lovely to meet you, always the perfect gentleman!“ We all laugh as Sam willingly takes my proffered hand and says ”Always, lovely, you, pretty girls“ and kisses the hand, rising towards my elbow. Cecelia tucks his arms back into the wheelchair and the driver carefully wheels him into the ambulance. Another guest stumbles out the door, his black tie slightly askew and apologises for his sunhat ”Not very sombre I’m afraid, but got to watch the old melanoma, especially with this pate.“
At this point, Sam notices us and gives a bomber classic thumbs up. We smile as he is driven away and more guests depart, muttering consolationary phrases.
Calorie counting. 9/8/2006
I’ve consumed 7 calories of food and 110 of alcohol today. Wierd. 7 calories! What the fuck is wrong with me!
Aniversary 17/7/2006
In about 12 hours, I will have been here for 24 years. Something about this date makes me want to hurt myself. I cannot use a sharp knife, common sense dictates that. Instead I cry and hold my old blunt knife to my wrists in the hope that tears and memories will do what steel cannot. I lie to myself. Nothing hurts like I hurt myself. I wish it did. I will not take that knife to my arms, even though I know it will work. I am stuck here crying into my paring knife wishing an answer. I can’t cry enough to explain this, I wish someone could. I just want to be normal.
My first car… 11/4/2006
Recently we bouht our first car. Or, rather two. We found a lovely Porsche 944 on ebay and decided to buy it. We liked it so much we bought a better one and plan on selling the first. I love it, but I’m gutted I can’t afford the insurance. Partly because I simply don’t earn enough, and partly because as an under 25, with no experience, performance car insurance is extortionate. On the plus side, I’m only just learning to drive, so I won’t even be able to drive it for a while, but everything is going well and I hope I can pass this summer.
In other news, I’m applying for a new job, which sounds really interesting. I don’t have the experience in this area, which is print organsiation, ordering from suppliers and managing production, but, I’ve done so much in restaurants, arranging orders, organising functions, that sort of thing. Surely if I can organise a bitchy womans 40th for her husband, and a grumpy chefs food for aforementioned event, I can contact suppliers and get prices. It’s also similar to what I do here in Lava, swopping suppliers, contacting for quotes, that sort of thing. I think I’m organised enough and what I don’t know about print or design, Tony can teach me. We have a houseful of design books!
(F) She saw the rustle of his cloak, felt the ringing thud. She span, glimpsed him standing over her, watching as she sunk down through the layers of floor beneath her. The falling gradually subsided and a voice cried ‘What now?’ (N) golem… waiting sand…what is death?
Beer and pizza… 17/2/2006
Today we went for beer and tapas, the beer and pizza were yesterday. I’ve been so busy this week, going to the gym and seeing friends, it’s been nice to make time to see my boy. I’ve almost missed him.
A long awaited update. 19/12/2005
I feel terrible, I never update and it’s not because I don’t want to, but because what I want to write seems so hard to frame once I sit here to do so.
So, recent thinks in my life. Band practice has been more fun than expected, our gig is on Thursday finally, so that should be it over. I cannot wait. Spend tonight making badges for the merch stall, a slow but ultimately worthwhile process. I’ve got pins and needles in my feel from sitting here, with my legs crossed to hold the laptop up.
Tomorrow is my day off and I’m going to watch a friends son’s Nativity play. I’m not quite sure why, but it seems a reasonable use of my day, I doubt I’d much else if I didn’t, then we are going shopping and for dinner. I wish everything I’d ordered for Christmas was here, but no such luck.
Party. 6/10/2005
Bad wine, worse art. If you know me, I guess you are invited. My work, 6.30.
from earlier… 14/3/2005
I’m doing that awful thing of copying and pasting from another journal, but I want my thoughts here.
Outside, it’s raining.The rain falls as I will my tears to do the same. But I cannot. I’m afraid to let go, afraid I won’t be able to stop. I stepped outside and felt the cold crash against my cheek. I turned and took a deep breath from the biting wind. It chilled all my body; it’s warmth coarsing though me.
I want to not feel this pain. I want to let it out. But I cannot cry. My eyes well up with tears, but I keep blinking them away. If I let them out, how do I know nothing else will follow? I want to tear holes in my veins and watch my pain and hurt ebb away, to pulse from my body. But I cannot. I wish I could talk about it, but I cannot. I want to make it go, but I cannot.
Somewhere in me, I can express how I feel. Somewhere deep inside me, I tell the truth. But aloud? I cannot.
I lie to myself and all around me. Stop feeling this pain? I cannot.
Maybe now is the time to stop lying to myself. To admit the truth. To be honest, I don’t know where to start. I spoke to someone today. They saw my arms. For the first time, someone was horrified. He saw the scars and knew them for what they are. No-one has ever reacted like that before. Just because they are not visible at a glance, it does not mean they are not there.Perhaps the scars within me hurt more though. They are not visible. I can feel the pressure building up again and I am still scared to cry.But this time, I am scared that I will stop crying. For I stop, but the hurt doesn’t. It hasn’t gone away, it hasn’t left me. How do I let this pain out?
I take a knife, a bottle, a piece of glass and I carve more shapes into my flesh. I open my veins and tear out my soul. I tear at myself, screaming. I throw back my head and arch my back away from the pain, for it hurts. Of course it hurts. But does it hurt enough? Does it hurt more than I am hurting? What will it achieve? It will let the pain out, but create more, opening old scars and making more.
So I cannot.
I must cry and hope the tears do what I cannot.
stuff. 12/3/2005
I got a new job, I don’t work nights and I’m reasonably happy. This job does however have a downside, but I don’t really feel like discussing it, so we won’t. Suffice to say, it’s all a bit wierd.
In related news, I killed my mobile today, so I’m not especially impressed. This has not been a good year for technology and I.
Had a couple of story outlines recently. A stairwell, the noises within and something else which escapes my mind right now.
I’ve always wanted to resent a story with all it’s related sensations, but I’ve never known how. It struck me today that plays could be a way. They can incorporate movements, sound, sight as well as other things i can’t remember. So yes, plays. Maybe. If I can be bothered. Don’t think I can though.
Work traumas. 4/2/2005
I’ve been having trouble in work recently. The short version is that I don’t get paid enough for my responsibilities, and I cannot get a raise. Recently, the boss started saying he would help me out more, but I don’t want that, I want the money. So I’ve decided to leave, after he lied to me about the wages of a colleague. I’ve never quit a job before, not like this. I’ve left to go to uni, left to work full time elsewhere, et.c., but I’ve never quit because someone was an asshole and I was sick of working for them. I enjoyed my job until very recently, so thats partly why I want to leave, I’m no longer enjoying it and would rather leave that do it badly.
But also, the money I’m on is low, I could earn the same in a shop or call centre, so why do I do this job with the awkward hours and stressful situation now? Its realising that that made me decide to go. I like the fact that I’m doing a job I’m good at, in control of and can show I’m doing well. But now it’s not enough.
Walking through beauty 26/1/2005
I walked home today through the park. The ground was dry, the sun was shining and the whole world felt beautiful. I looked at my home, caught in the sunlight and felt glad I live there.
Over the river a small flock of seagulls took flight, wheeling from one side to another and high over the cars.
time 14/1/2005
to write something, I feel
I was at a party last weekend. We invited Franz Ferdinand. They didn’t come. But, for half an hour, we could live in hope. And squeal everytime time the doorbell rang. It was enjoyable, I’ve not been out for ages, seen these people for a very long time. That night, I was reminded that I have friends.
This post is brought to you by the wonders of punctuation. Next time, the semi colon and perhaps a hyphen. But only if you are very, very good.
This… 4/1/2005
is a test post, to prove I can do it all on my very own. We shall see…