Thursday, 30 January 2014

Mixed Herbs.

I met up with a beautiful woman recently. Met her fourteen years ago. She stood in the street and asked me how I was. Before I had a chance to answer she said,

"No, actually .... how are you really?"

So I told her all the things people usually keep private from each other.

I can't sleep. My heart aches. I'm angry. It feels like I've been fucked up my entire life - I'm just one big loser. I cannot stand myself. "I could've saved my brother and nobody can ever tell me otherwise."

We sat on a park bench as I told her how it felt when I was in the nuthouse twice last year after being diagnosed with bi-polar. That meetings are saving my arse right now because MAN could I use about a case of Coronas, some expensive whiskey, and a carton of Styvos right now. And blow. And hookers. And absolutely everything possible to take me as far away from myself as I can.

I need to talk to my grandmother. I don't believe in the afterlife anymore. I can lie in bed all day and eat chocolate. Sometimes I do. School's back and it's just me in the house again and it's relieving because I don't have to "perform" for anybody .... don't have to be that smiling mother and supportive wife. All that stuff about life goals and being the Best! Person! You! Can Be! .... seems BULLSHIT to me right now. If I cook dinner and make ok school lunches for the boys and manage to make the bed before Dave gets home, then I'm doing damn well enough. My mind screams, constantly. Universe keeps sending me feathers but fuck you, Universe. Fuck everything. Once I start crying there's just instant wail, which means I'm walking around with wail in me all the time. I'm grateful to anybody who has shared and expressed their grief to me. Thank you. I know I'm not alone and people must have been through worse than this but my god.

I do not know if I can "get through" this. Truth.

My friend didn't say a word. Just hugged me as I cried.

Can you believe that when he told me he was going to kill himself, then begged me to understand and accept it and do certain things for him .... I agreed? At the time it was hard to hear but I promised him I would do what needs to be done, that he could trust me with his final wishes. That's how much I loved him. He knew I would do anything for him. He KNEW I loved him. It wasn't enough.

At the back of my mind I thought, well, if he's talking so much about suicide, maybe it means he won't go through with it.


I should have driven down and sat on his doorstep until he let me in. What the fuck kind of sister lets her brother kill himself? And now it appears to be tearing me apart. His Ikea plates and bowls keep chipping, like he's telling me to fuck the crockery off and let him go. His t-shirt smells half of him, half of his BO. Still cannot wash it. I use his cooking oil, his egg flip, and his mixed herbs. His bones ashes are back on my bedside table. I kiss them a lot. Feels like I'm kissing him, something tangible of him.

Back in the morgue his face was slowly defrosting but I kissed it anyway. Worst kiss ever.

So there you have it - I hate everything, life has no meaning, and I'm sinking. I have no goals or dreams or yearnings for anything. Just getting through each day as they come. It's been three and a half months since he died, since I got that phone call and slid down into the grass in the backyard in shock.

Fuck time, fuck death, and fuck life.

I'm incredibly sorry for such a blurty blogpost but there it is. Hopefully if I just write it and publish it will help me let some stuff go.

How on earth does anyone get through this bullshit life?

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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