Patagonia

Saw this last night ~ a beautiful beautiful story set in Wales and Argentina.  Amidst all the crap out there that is scaring and upsetting me, sitting down to watch this film was like being taken to a safe and magical place.  Apart from being gorgeously filmed and filled with wonderful music, it restores my faith in life. 

stones in my stomach

Lately my blogging has been cryptic and not entirely honest.  There are things I haven't been saying.  Things I am still stunned to find myself living through.  I've been wanting to hang on to some semblance of normality, so I've continued to write small stones (or tried to), but I've been finding it hard to notice things, to really see them. It’s because I’ve been finding it hard to stop and be. There is upheaval, turbulence. There are stones in my stomach.

The last few stones I’ve written haven’t felt quite like small stones. They’ve felt like I’ve been viewing the world through a filter, one I’ve deliberately placed over my eyes, to keep me from the force of the way things are. Maybe it’s because it’s necessary. But it makes the writing of small stones…wrenching. Because it makes me aware of this filter, this deliberate keeping of the world at bay, and yet, I don’t want to not try.  The same could be said of my blog posts here.

If you've been reading my small stones blog, you may have noticed that I didn’t write a stone for Thursday night. I told myself it was because it had been a busy day (it had), because I’d been out all day and then in the evening (I had), because so much had happened (it had) and it was hard to put it into words (it is) and that I was still too stunned to articulate everything that had happened (perhaps I still am).

I did notice something though, after coming out of the theatre on Thursday night. After my very first Chekhov experience (The Cherry Orchard), against the night sky, a tree with vivid red-orange berries, so bright against evening green leaves they seemed to throb. And yet, I didn’t write it as a stone. I still don’t know the name of those berries, I thought. And isn't the image a little cliched?

Then, on the tube home, I watched a boy with brown skin ask a girl with brown curls who was rolling a cigarette if she’d ever used a rolling machine. She smiled, lit up, a spark in her eyes. Her fingers rolling effortlessly on the rocking train, she said, “Here’s a tip. Don’t use so much baccy.” Then licked the edge, smoothed it down and tucked it under a curl behind her ear, the boy with the brown skin smiling, shaking his head in admiration. Then they both stood and left the train through different doors. But I didn’t write it as a stone.

I had a squished California Hand Roll from Wasabi in my handbag. I was worried it was going to stain my programme of The Cherry Orchard. I was wondering whether I should eat the roll first then wash my hair when I got home. And I remembered I still had to do my embroidery. Maybe that’s why I didn’t write a stone. Then I remembered I'm going into hospital on Monday to have a wisdom tooth out and that I haven't yet checked what they mean by "nil by mouth" from Sunday night.  Can I still drink water?  Maybe that's why I didn't write a stone.  And yet, I went to bed at 1am with Chekhov’s stories. (And I can’t even begin to articulate the effect his writing is having on me.) And then, the next morning, I got up, lived another day as if stepping on tremors, then wrote that ”stone” about Abney Park Cemetary, the one that was trying to be picturesque and ”poetic” but left so much unsaid.

So I tried again, even though I can't even begin to say it all.  I've been dreading putting it into words, but life moves on regardless of how we feel. 

I've written this on my small stones blog, but I need to say it here too. ~

Last night was Jake’s first night at “Daddy’s house”. Paul picked him up, we waved goodbye through the open window, blew kisses at each other, pulled funny faces. I watched his back, astride Paul’s shoulders, in his Thomas blue t-shirt, twist round for one last wave. Then I closed the window, ate noodle soup, went to the theatre.

This morning was my first for picking my son up from his Dad’s. I woke up alone, drank half a cup of tea, didn’t check train times, but arrived, stepping over rubble, trying to find the right door. How ordinary things can be, how quiet the whirr of our failures, how invisible the rips and tears, how relentless the workings of the physical world. We still have to eat, sleep, get up in the morning, get trains on time, wait for buses, cross busy roads, knock on unfamiliar doors, deal with our bowels and walk on, occasionally remembering to unfurl the fist in our stomachs, to keep the palms soft, to breathe, stay awake, alive, open.

18.8.10 ~ Handle with care (650 word diary)

At the end of my session, my counsellor said, “Make sure you do something nice for yourself today.” It’s the first time she’s said it and it might give you some clue as to how things went.

She’s really good. Very good. Even with my knowledge of how important this process is to me, even with my relative trust in her, I still go in with my defences up and every time she gently knocks them down, it surprises me. That she sees me. And I cry. Sometimes I cry very hard. And I leave thinking – what more can there be? And there’s always more. I cried very very hard today. Then I had to go pick Jake up from nursery. I always feel like I have to take time to compose myself before I do, but really, I shouldn’t worry, because as soon as I see him, he takes me to another place.


Today, he ran up the High Street, going in and out of shops that had their doors open and pressing his face up against the window pane and making faces. I tried to tell him to stop but it’s hard to be convincing when you’re laughing so much. Then we went into my the Portugese restaurant and I ordered myself some cod fishcakes to go. Their cod fishcakes are divine. The best I’ve ever tasted. This was treat number one for me. While we waited for them, Jake and I shared a smoothie as he bounced up and down on my lap, grinning like a cheeky monkey. Then we went into Sainsbury’s where I bought grapes, sausages, and cakes. A slice of New York Cheesecake, a lemon cupcake and a chocolate cupcake. Doctor’s orders!! Then we went to the playground and sang our own versions of Row Row Row your boat before I persuaded him it was time to go home because I was knackered.

None of us slept very well last night. Jake kept waking up and crying and the air was just spiky. And I still have my headache. I felt raw and needed a rest. He came happily. I put Show Me, Show Me on for him while I went to sort out the bathroom rug that had come out of the wash sopping wet despite several spins. I wrung as much water out as I could but knew I had to dry it on the line outside. Jake saw me going down the stairs to the garden and I asked him to stay put. Those stairs are scary even for me. So I asked him to stay.

I got to the bottom, opened the door and within seconds, I heard him scream. I turned and saw him fall. I saw him topple and hit several steps. His back was to me and he landed on his bum and stopped. I screamed his name and ran towards him. His fall had been stopped by a cardboard box near the bottom of the stairs. If it hadn’t been there and he’d fallen all the way to the bottom, he would have hit concrete.

He was fine. He was shocked, crying and shaking, but otherwise fine. I held him as he cried and told him it was okay but also never to do that again. I’m not sure who was more shaken, him or me. After, we sat on the sofa together, eating biscuits, holding each other. And then he fell asleep in my arms.

All I want to do now is sleep for a few days. Sleep and eat cake. My heart’s been ripped out of my chest a few times too many today. And yet. And yet. I notice that I’m feeling a little less numb than yesterday. Just a little bit.

I have to go now. Jake is calling me to sit down and blow bubbles with him into his water cup.

The truth bruises

* This post is long and contains swearing.  If you don't like that kind of thing, please don't read on. *

~

I said I wanted to tell the truth so I’m not going to shy away from it now. I did think about not posting this, but it feels important. Telling the truth, not hiding it or glossing it over or pretending it never happened, feels important.


I had a total insane meltdown today. I hate it when I have these moments. The only thing I’m grateful for is that it doesn’t happen more often. Right now, I don’t want to explain, rationalise, justify or analyse. Right now, I just need to say that I got so angry and frustrated that I screamed, shouted, swore, threw shoes, an open water bottle and my glasses. All in front of Jake. But that wasn’t enough, so I slapped myself in the face, hard, three times. It wasn’t enough so I did it three more times. That still wasn’t enough so I grabbed one of the wooden rails from Jake’s train set and smashed it four times on the bony part of my foot. That was enough. That made me calm the fuck down like a bucket of ice down my throat. And then it made me wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

It started in the middle of Jake’s tantrum. Almost every week he has a tantrum when I bring him home from the playground. Sometimes, I handle it fine. I let him scream, I carry him upstairs, I just let him be till he calms down. Sometimes I walk him around the neighbourhood in his pram till he falls asleep. That is if I’m not too hungry / tired / hot, or if he isn’t already screaming to begin with. Sometimes I bribe him. Icecream or Wotsits and promises of Mr Tumble. Other times, well. Other times it just gets out of hand.

He’d been at nursery all morning and playing in the hot sun for two hours so he was tired – really tired. So was I. But it was clearly more than tiredness. When his tantrum started, I tried my best to stay quiet and calm. Then he started screaming at every little thing I did.

I took my shoes off and he screamed, grabbing the shoes and wanting me to put them back on. When I didn’t, he grabbed them and threw them down the stairs. So I walked away. I took a sip of water from a bottle and put it on the table. He screamed at me to give him the water bottle, so I did.  He screamed at me to open it, but I didn’t want to because I knew he’d spill it. So I said no. He continued to scream. I continued to say no. It eventually ended up with me screaming no because he wasn’t having it. Then he threw the bottle on the carpet and the top came off and half of the water poured out. I picked up a cloth to mop it up and he screamed about that too. He threw himself on the cloth and picked it up and held it to his chest. Then he grabbed the open water bottle and tried to drink from it but he was so furious that he was shaking and he spilled it all over himself. I knew that if I tried to change him, he’d have a fit. So I picked up the water bottle, and you guessed it, he screamed again. So I threw the damn thing across the floor till all the water came out.

Then I threw a pair of shoes down the stairs cos by this point I’d had enough and I was screaming that I’d had enough, that I was sick of going through this every week and if he didn’t stop, I would never take him out again. Wonderful logic that he, of course, didn’t understand. He simply continued to scream and cry. Then I screamed to try and drown out his screaming but it didn’t work. So I stopped and threw my glasses on the table and rubbed my eyes. Screaming “No!” and sobbing, Jake ran to the table, grabbed my glasses and tried to put them back on my face. His little hands were shaking, he was sobbing so hard. I looked at him standing there, eyes red, tears down his cheeks, soaking wet, holding a damp cloth to his chest. I desperately wanted it all to stop so I could just cuddle him. Maybe that’s what I should have done. But instead, I told him I was going to change him and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

I changed him anyway. I picked him up and put him on the mat and he struggled and I got his wet clothes off as best as I could. While I changed his nappy he kicked and sobbed great heaving sobs and screamed and screamed and screamed.

It was at this point that I slapped myself. I wanted so much to break something, to do something drastic, smash a window, throw myself out a window, something big to make it all stop. I couldn’t do those things so I slapped myself. It wasn’t enough. I slapped myself again and said out loud, though I’m not sure to whom, “Is this what you want?!” All I could think was what a worthless human being I was, an awful mother to be doing this in front of Jake, fucked up and my worst nightmare – just like my own mother. My raging, out of control mother who was angry during most of my childhood. A mother I grew up being wary of, afraid of, desperately wanting to escape from. When I became a mother myself, I did become more sympathetic to her, but I still, desperately don’t want to be her.

We both calmed down eventually. He started signing frantically for Mr Tumble so I put Something Special on. Within a few moments, it was like it never happened - at least for him. I’m still in shock. He began talking about what was going on in the programme, looking at me, smiling. I want to hope that he’ll forget this. But it will be stored somewhere. The physicality of the emotion, the anger, the fear. His body will remember it even if his mind doesn’t. It all gets stored up, like rings in a tree trunk. My best hope is that the good moments outweigh the bad ones. That he’ll grow up trusting that we are more good than bad. That is something I might be able to manage.

After a while, he let me put him in my lap and we watched TV together. I knew that I needed to get him down for his nap, but I also knew I couldn’t push it or it could happen all over again. So we stayed where we were a little while longer.