... Those who knew the storm
Sitting here this evening, I found myself with the urge to write. A real sense of ideas and thoughts that had to be expressed. Of course, now I sit at the keyboard they are lost in a flurry of tweeting and tiredness, stomped upon by the high heel of procrastination.
I found myself thinking of going to see R after he died, and how ridiculous that seems now. Not ridiculous in an amusing way, of course, but surreal, otherwordly. It happened to someone else, I am sure, for I barely remember now how that sad, lost, train wreck of a girl who stood looking at this pale imitation of someone she once knew really felt.
I recall looking at his hands, reaching to touch them and recoiling, thinking them made of wax. It felt as though I had stepped into Mme Tussaud's studio and found a half-finished work laid there. I recall my Dad, so brave, so hurt watching me go in and not being able to stand with me. I recall placing cards and flowers from the children and myself with R, laying them carefully in his coffin, and wondering why I couldn't bring myself to touch him. I remember realising that his nose was broken. Of all the injuries, I worried about his poor broken nose.
I recall noticing how the lining of the coffin had been arranged to frame and cushion his head, and how strangely, that comforted me. Mostly I recall the poor funeral director's face when I emerged from the room and said 'He's not there' to my Dad. I am sure he thought I was reporting bodysnatchers. It certainly made the fear, gloom and misery dissipate when I quickly said 'I mean he's there, but... not there' to stop the poor man panicking.
It was three years, seven months and a lifetime ago. I wonder sometimes at who I was, and who I am, and realise that while at the time I felt unchanged and constantly myself (if dazed and confused), I am a wholly different person now.
I know that time changes people; with the children getting older and more independent I am a different parent now than back then for one thing. But I believe I am also a different thinker, that I feel things in a new way, and with a different awareness.
I'm a better person, or at least hope I am. I'm stronger and less likely to take things lying down. I believe that we all have a voice, and absolutely must make them heard. (And DO vote Labour, won't you? There's a love.)
Mostly, I feel differently; experiencing emotion and certainly love in a new, stronger way. While this newfound emotional awareness has helped me enormously, it has also brought me to days like yesterday when I wanted to howl and cry roughly every thirty seconds or so for no discernible reason other than I occasionally 'sicken of the calm', as the smart Mrs Parker might have sort-of put it. It used to be around this point that I'd make a crack about gin/ cake or some other emotional suppressant, but since shaking off a few negative never-really-were-friends, I've even stopped doing that. Shaking foul-mouthed wisecracks out of your sleeve on demand can be exhausting.
We both know that I'll never give up that particular habit, but it might be nicer for everyone if I were able to rein it in a little. So... lend a girl (who's trying to neutralise the acid on her tongue a little) a hand next time we're together, would you?
This, as a wise lady told me on Twitter tonight, is cathartic writing. And you know, I do believe she's right.
I found myself thinking of going to see R after he died, and how ridiculous that seems now. Not ridiculous in an amusing way, of course, but surreal, otherwordly. It happened to someone else, I am sure, for I barely remember now how that sad, lost, train wreck of a girl who stood looking at this pale imitation of someone she once knew really felt.
I recall looking at his hands, reaching to touch them and recoiling, thinking them made of wax. It felt as though I had stepped into Mme Tussaud's studio and found a half-finished work laid there. I recall my Dad, so brave, so hurt watching me go in and not being able to stand with me. I recall placing cards and flowers from the children and myself with R, laying them carefully in his coffin, and wondering why I couldn't bring myself to touch him. I remember realising that his nose was broken. Of all the injuries, I worried about his poor broken nose.
I recall noticing how the lining of the coffin had been arranged to frame and cushion his head, and how strangely, that comforted me. Mostly I recall the poor funeral director's face when I emerged from the room and said 'He's not there' to my Dad. I am sure he thought I was reporting bodysnatchers. It certainly made the fear, gloom and misery dissipate when I quickly said 'I mean he's there, but... not there' to stop the poor man panicking.
It was three years, seven months and a lifetime ago. I wonder sometimes at who I was, and who I am, and realise that while at the time I felt unchanged and constantly myself (if dazed and confused), I am a wholly different person now.
I know that time changes people; with the children getting older and more independent I am a different parent now than back then for one thing. But I believe I am also a different thinker, that I feel things in a new way, and with a different awareness.
I'm a better person, or at least hope I am. I'm stronger and less likely to take things lying down. I believe that we all have a voice, and absolutely must make them heard. (And DO vote Labour, won't you? There's a love.)
Mostly, I feel differently; experiencing emotion and certainly love in a new, stronger way. While this newfound emotional awareness has helped me enormously, it has also brought me to days like yesterday when I wanted to howl and cry roughly every thirty seconds or so for no discernible reason other than I occasionally 'sicken of the calm', as the smart Mrs Parker might have sort-of put it. It used to be around this point that I'd make a crack about gin/ cake or some other emotional suppressant, but since shaking off a few negative never-really-were-friends, I've even stopped doing that. Shaking foul-mouthed wisecracks out of your sleeve on demand can be exhausting.
We both know that I'll never give up that particular habit, but it might be nicer for everyone if I were able to rein it in a little. So... lend a girl (who's trying to neutralise the acid on her tongue a little) a hand next time we're together, would you?
This, as a wise lady told me on Twitter tonight, is cathartic writing. And you know, I do believe she's right.