"I want to go home."
"Don't let them confuse you."
R&G Are Dead by Tom Stoppard.
So, being home isn't all it's cracked up to be. The why is a little hard to explain and might well leave me sounding like an over-sensitive lunatic, but that's the way it is. (All I can say in my defense is I'm not being Hamlet or Ophelia, and I've known a lot of people in similar situations to play one or both roles to the hilt {some of my neurons certainly want to.}) In short, I'm coping pretty well thank you, but that doesn't mean I like it.
I'm waiting for my mother to die. Or at least, be freed from zombie undeath, or however my neurons choose to view it on that particular day.
My father has cirrhosis of the liver, and ascites as a side effect. This is a pretty big 'side effect' - 50% of people who have it don't live out 2years. On top of that, a CT scan showed that all three arteries (is it three? I think it is, could be wrong) of his heart are furred up with goo and therefore likely to cause issues of doom whenever the fuck they feel like causing issues of doom. Wheeeeeeee. Yes, my father has changed his diet, his drinking habits and his exercise. But at his age such things tend to manage rather than reverse a problem (as he himself keeps telling me.)
For the unaware, my father fell in love with a lady called Sally who lives in the house across the way. This happened in January or there abouts, and she also fell in love with him. Both of them are (in CA parlance,) retarded for each other. The one slight hiccup in this match is the fact that Sally is only about 47, whereas my father is 74.
When my father told me about all of this, I was pleased for him. I was pleased he had something meekle in his world, someone around to care about/for him, someone to chat with him and tell him when he was being an idiot. (I really hope she does that - I'll have strong words with her if she doesn't...)
I didn't realise how much my neurons would bristle when they heard him call her 'darling' or give her a kiss... Why? Not because I don't like her, not because I'm not happy for them, not even because it's an affair (although that's a shoddy point all things considered) - not for any of those reasons. The thing my neurons choke on.... is it's so fucking unfair. And that's not my father's or Sally's fault - that's all down to the Universe, or Fate, or Shit Happens or whatever you want to call it.
I wish my mother wasn't a zombie. I wish my father could buy her flowers and new shiny over-priced necklaces and call her darling and kiss her when he thought no one was looking. They've both done the debt/work/kids hard-slog bit of marriage in spades - this should be their reward. Even if they still have to work, this is when they care about themselves, go on holiday, or to the theatre - anywhere - and remember why they married each other in the first place: because they loved each other and it was meekle.
Life has been both bountiful and exceptionally bastard to both of my parents in many different ways. And I know the universe is unfair; it's just a constant exchange of energy across all planes: it tallies, it works, but that doesn't make it fair - just neat.
As a side effect of being away for so long - of the way circumstances have changed, I do not feel part of the Oast. Before, I was a haphazard resident. Now, I'm a guest, just like all the other grovs. And I'm not a resident in Shamblyland any longer either. My flatmates are kind enough to keep some of my furniture there and allow me to gatecrash when I visit, which is very very meekle. But it's not my room, not my place.
I don't really know where my room is. Our room in Lady BlueJay's house is more homely than the room in Capo Beach ever was, but I think paint, the goats, chickens and Cptn Flint may be to blame for that. By this point, I grant, it does just sound like I'm pointlessly finding fault with shit. Perhaps I am - probably guilty as charged.
In the end all I can say is...
Slow maybe/maybe-not death watches fucking suck.
The idea I might have to do this again fucking sucks in a way I can't articulate without bloodloss.
The fact the universe has hideously short-changed my mother sucks leprous donkeys in hell.
The fact I find it hard to be happy visiting the UK is both a pain in the arse for me and very mean on K who is still bouncy like a 6year old when it comes to all things UK and LONDON...
It's late. I'm bitching because it's all very stupid and I can't change a damn bit of it. That's really the problem.
R&G Are Dead by Tom Stoppard.
So, being home isn't all it's cracked up to be. The why is a little hard to explain and might well leave me sounding like an over-sensitive lunatic, but that's the way it is. (All I can say in my defense is I'm not being Hamlet or Ophelia, and I've known a lot of people in similar situations to play one or both roles to the hilt {some of my neurons certainly want to.}) In short, I'm coping pretty well thank you, but that doesn't mean I like it.
I'm waiting for my mother to die. Or at least, be freed from zombie undeath, or however my neurons choose to view it on that particular day.
My father has cirrhosis of the liver, and ascites as a side effect. This is a pretty big 'side effect' - 50% of people who have it don't live out 2years. On top of that, a CT scan showed that all three arteries (is it three? I think it is, could be wrong) of his heart are furred up with goo and therefore likely to cause issues of doom whenever the fuck they feel like causing issues of doom. Wheeeeeeee. Yes, my father has changed his diet, his drinking habits and his exercise. But at his age such things tend to manage rather than reverse a problem (as he himself keeps telling me.)
For the unaware, my father fell in love with a lady called Sally who lives in the house across the way. This happened in January or there abouts, and she also fell in love with him. Both of them are (in CA parlance,) retarded for each other. The one slight hiccup in this match is the fact that Sally is only about 47, whereas my father is 74.
When my father told me about all of this, I was pleased for him. I was pleased he had something meekle in his world, someone around to care about/for him, someone to chat with him and tell him when he was being an idiot. (I really hope she does that - I'll have strong words with her if she doesn't...)
I didn't realise how much my neurons would bristle when they heard him call her 'darling' or give her a kiss... Why? Not because I don't like her, not because I'm not happy for them, not even because it's an affair (although that's a shoddy point all things considered) - not for any of those reasons. The thing my neurons choke on.... is it's so fucking unfair. And that's not my father's or Sally's fault - that's all down to the Universe, or Fate, or Shit Happens or whatever you want to call it.
I wish my mother wasn't a zombie. I wish my father could buy her flowers and new shiny over-priced necklaces and call her darling and kiss her when he thought no one was looking. They've both done the debt/work/kids hard-slog bit of marriage in spades - this should be their reward. Even if they still have to work, this is when they care about themselves, go on holiday, or to the theatre - anywhere - and remember why they married each other in the first place: because they loved each other and it was meekle.
Life has been both bountiful and exceptionally bastard to both of my parents in many different ways. And I know the universe is unfair; it's just a constant exchange of energy across all planes: it tallies, it works, but that doesn't make it fair - just neat.
As a side effect of being away for so long - of the way circumstances have changed, I do not feel part of the Oast. Before, I was a haphazard resident. Now, I'm a guest, just like all the other grovs. And I'm not a resident in Shamblyland any longer either. My flatmates are kind enough to keep some of my furniture there and allow me to gatecrash when I visit, which is very very meekle. But it's not my room, not my place.
I don't really know where my room is. Our room in Lady BlueJay's house is more homely than the room in Capo Beach ever was, but I think paint, the goats, chickens and Cptn Flint may be to blame for that. By this point, I grant, it does just sound like I'm pointlessly finding fault with shit. Perhaps I am - probably guilty as charged.
In the end all I can say is...
Slow maybe/maybe-not death watches fucking suck.
The idea I might have to do this again fucking sucks in a way I can't articulate without bloodloss.
The fact the universe has hideously short-changed my mother sucks leprous donkeys in hell.
The fact I find it hard to be happy visiting the UK is both a pain in the arse for me and very mean on K who is still bouncy like a 6year old when it comes to all things UK and LONDON...
It's late. I'm bitching because it's all very stupid and I can't change a damn bit of it. That's really the problem.