October 31, 2006
Girl was often very sad. Girl was very lost. Girl felt the world spin around her and couldn't keep her eyes or her head focussed. Girl wondered if anyone could understand what that was like.
There was, also, Boy.
Boy was a globetrotting happy man. Boy was intimidating at work. Boy was assertive, respected, and strong.
Boy had the bluest eyes that Girl had ever seen.
Girl was always hyper-conscious of Boy at every work meeting there was.
Boy remembers every detail of the first time he met Girl. He thought she was Irish. He was wrong.
Boy and Girl became friends.
Good friends.
And then they had to attend a massive conference in Bangkok.
Boy and Girl flew out with many others. It was much work. The days would be spent in long conferences working out the telecom world. The evenings were spent eating and drinking too much Singha Beer. Many nights were late as everyone gathered round the bar.
The last night of the event Boy sent Girl a text asking her to join the party. Girl was tired. Girl wanted room service and a bath. But Girl liked Boy. So Girl threw on a little yellow sundress and went downstairs. Everyone was laughing and drinking. A glass of wine found its way into her hand. Someone put a lei of orchids around Girl's neck.
Girl loves orchids.
Boy and Girl and many others laughed and drank. Then someone suggested that everyone go to the Backpacking District and keep drinking. Boy and Girl piled into one of many taxis taking everyone away. Everyone was in a great mood, and slightly tipsy. Boy and Girl laughed and told stories about events during the conference.
When Boy and Girl arrived to the Backpacking District, they got out of the cab. There was much traffic, much happening. People were everywhere.
Boy reached out to take Girl's hand and help her across the street.
He took her hand.
And for one moment, Girl's chaotic world stopped spinning. Every living thing held its breath and Girl felt every nerve ending in her body vibrate, just a bit. Girl thought that if only Boy would always hold her hand, always, then the world would be a livable place.
Boy did, eventually, have to let go.
But by the time he did, Girl's whole world had changed.
Many things continued to change in Girl's world. She moved countries. She lost a job, she gained a job. She lost a child, she gained stepkids. She lost, found, lost, and found herself again.
Many things changed in Boy's life, too. He moved countries. He lost a job, he gained a job. He lost custody, he gained hope. He lost, found, lost and found himself again.
And Boy and Girl have each other.
And Boy and Girl have a little dog and two angry cats.
And Boy and Girl have a house in the countryside.
And Boy and Girl have the greatest life that Girl could ever possibly have lived.
Boy and Girl's adventures are far from over. Some times are good, some times are bad. But the night that the world stopped spinning on a hot and steamy Thai night is the one Girl will treasure, forever.
That night was Halloween night, years and years ago.
I love you babe.
Happy anniverseary.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
11:03 AM
| Comments (25)
| Add Comment
Post contains 566 words, total size 4 kb.
October 30, 2006
Last year we had a Halloween party with all of Angus' extended family, too.
This has also become a norm.
Angus asked me a few days ago if I'd mind having everyone over. At that point, I was on my 6th Tums of the day, I couldn't feel my eyelids, and my head hurt. "Babe," I said slowly. "I really, really don't want everyone to come over. I'd really like a quiet day."
So naturally everyone came over-I think I'm only asked to get a general gauge of my thoughts, not because it bears any weight on the decision.
And so it was that first thing Sunday morning it started. The cooking, the cleaning, the decorating. Someone once told Angus that they love how they come over and everything seems ready made, like it was no effort at all. This has become his mantra-everything must look effortless, as though we magically opened the over door and voila! Roast beef and Yorkshire Puddings just happen to be in there! Abracadabra, have some roast turkey!
I'm here to say: Complete lie, people. Want to talk work? Let's talk work.
So first thing yesterday I was cooking up soup. Then pumpkin pie. Then mashed potatoes. This, while trying to clean and help Melissa, who I'd made frosted ghost sugar cookies with last year and who wanted to do them again. And it includes cooking up an entire porcine for breakfast so I very nicely smelled of sausages all morning. Angus had the massive hunk of beef lined up and a parsnip dish he'd started the night before. It was a war in the kitchen, the dishwasher will shortly be awarded the Medal of Honor.
By lunchtime I felt fried (not unlike the sausages, I guess).
Angus came up to me. "You've got some food on your neck."
I swabbed my neck with a dish cloth. "Gone?"
"No it's still there. OhÂ…it's...where did you get that love bite from?"
Oh. My. God.
I whirled around to look in the mirror. "Dude! You gave me a hickey! What is this, high school?"
SoÂ…do you ever have those evenings where you wake up to find you're having sex? Like, you're asleep but not really? We do that from time to time and find that, in the middle of the night, we're at each other. Last night was such a night. He didn't even remember the whole thing, I only remembered parts. I absolutely enjoyed it, but finding a massive love bite on the neck hours before his Mum was due to arrive was a little bitÂ…stressful. Funny. Stressful.
We traded roles and Angus took over the kitchen while I ran an errand with Jeff, who was rewarded with a Simpson's Comic Book (it always pays to go to the shop with Helen). When I came back it was finishing touches time-decorations, table settings, everything.
I was already tired and no one had even arrived yet.
Then we heard the news-Angus' other nieces were coming.
Christ.
****Warning-A Non-Parent About To Pass On Unsolicited Opinions About Children****
The Monsters are one of Angus' brothers children, Ida and Erica. Ida is the same age as Jeff, and she can be terribly sweet if you get her alone. Erica is 4, and she's absolutely out of control. Their parents have that touchy-feely approach to parenting-instead of scolding or punishing, you get "How do you think that makes me feel?" Because really-when you have a 4 year-old, that always works.
The result is a child who screams, gets what she wants, hits, shouts, and demands. Maybe it's a function of age-the only other 4 year-old I know is Angus' other niece, a tiny little perfect child whose parents are quite strict. I don't know what the answer is, maybe she'll grow out of it, but Angus and I both think Erica's pretty badly behaved most of the time. Truthfully she too can be very sweet when she wants to be-sometimes she's delightful to be around. The problem is, simply, sometimes she isn't. The proof usually comes in the wake of her behavior. Last night saw one of my Halloween decorations get broken in half, I heard: "I WANT A DRINK OF WATER!" no less than three times, Gorby was swung at a number of times (luckily she's a lightweight and he's fast-he didn't notice her swinging, although I firmly asked her not to do this a number of times. She totally listened. Totally.) and the shrieking at the table about how disgusting our carrots were could be heard several towns over.
In short, had I known she was coming I would have taken some of my herbal tranquilizers.
(I lie. Since my ulcer went off about two hours before they came over, I was popping Tums and herbal tranquilzers anyway. Had I known she'd be there, I simply would have doubled the dosage).
At dinner, Angus' mother was re-counting a story she'd heard of two sisters that live in the same town that don't speak to each other. "Two sisters!" She said, looking directly at me. "Isn't that the most awful thing you've ever heard, Helen?"
Oh fuck.
Well, might as well get it out there.
"Actually," I say slowly. "My sister and I don't speak either."
She looked mortified. "You don't?"
I shook my head. "No, we don't speak. I don't think we ever will do again."
She firmed her lips. "Well. Don't you come in and spread that amongst my boys, will you."
I sighed from somewhere deep, deep down inside. "No, I won't." I reply. I do solemnly promise to keep my pestilence within me. I come with a whole range of infectious diseases but I'll be sure to spread one that doesn't break up a family. I'm not sure why I'm such a horror anyway-I know that Angus' ex doesn't speak to her sister, and one of Angus' sisters-in-law doesn't speak to her family back home either.
So maybe I'm already spreading my pestilence.
The icing on the cake is that one of Angus' sisters-in-law is very pregnant. She got knocked up around the time that our first IVF cycle together failed. It pains me a lot to be around her and I fight to keep a big smile on my face. She's a lovely woman and I really like her, it's just a bit hard to be around her right now. She's due in January with their first son together. I'm happy for them, but I can't help being outrageously jealous, too.
I am probably making the evening sound like a lot of work (it was!) but it was also good fun, too. I like a household full of people enjoying themselves. His family can be great, and although I am maybe not part of the family, I'm not the one wearing the big red letter "A" anymore, either. I genuinely like his entire family and have great conversations with most of them. His brothers are a good laugh and I do like his two sisters-in-law. I am decidedly conscious of the fact that I am "the other woman", and more on that tomorrow, but no one pushes that on me. We're hosting Christmas here, and while I know it will be completely exhausting, a large part of it will be fantastic as well.
We had fireworks later in the evening as it's always fun to blow up your money. The kids had sparklers (under strict supervision) and the grown-up kids lit off expensive packs of fireworks (Gorby listened to classical music in the study during this. Hopefully, it wasn't Wagner.)
When everyone left the party, we flopped down on the couch. I couldn't believe how tired I was, I felt as though I'd been running a marathon. All of us went to bed by 10:00, we just couldnÂ’t hack it. My hickey curled up in front of Angus and we fell to sleep within seconds.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:44 AM
| Comments (8)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1390 words, total size 8 kb.
October 26, 2006
This is early, but I feel this way right now and I haven't been feeling myself lately, I've been quietly there.
Last night I made us dinner. It took a long time but the ritual in it, the basics of getting back to normal...that felt so amazing. When I found the recipe for mushroom and Stilton galette I thought of you instantly and printed it out on the spot. Between conference calls I got it ready and the sheer satisfaction I got out of not only making you dinner for a change, but in the normalcy of the normal, made my evening complete.
I know things are hard right now. They're hard for me, I think they're hard for you. Work has us down. Babies have us down. Being down has us down.
I wanted to thank you for your encouragement and love on the picture taking. It's something so small and silly, but it became one of the things keeping me grounded. I am not great at it, but I try, and the fun I am having in keeping it going means something to me. That you let me know which photos you like, and why, means that you keep supporting me.
Thank you, my lovely.
I think you were right-I have been quiet. It's not that I don't want to have heart to hearts, I've just been feeling like I hadn't any heart left. Not inside, not hiding, not even in the crummy white waxy take-a-away box hiding in the back of the fridge. I thought my heart had been broken.
Turns out it was just a bad sprain.
I am not a liar.
And through pumpkins, through the dog, through that sparkle you get in your eyes when you love me, I'm there.
This note is early, I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. Things have been hard, we have been stressed. Phones ring off the hook and there are still some things to discuss which may go bump in the night.
But there is life.
There is mushroom and Stilton galette, after all.
And there is what we have.
Sometimes, I don't think you deserve me.
Sometimes, it's the other way around.
I love you.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
12:39 PM
| Comments (5)
| Add Comment
Post contains 378 words, total size 2 kb.
October 24, 2006
We are talking.
We always talk.
I look at him. “I wonder what point I could have been saved,” I say slowly.
“What do you mean?”
”I was always pretty disturbed. I was always different, always wrong. I wonder at what point you could’ve reached into who I was and plucked me out, a healthy person, before I went so wrong.”
“Think about it for a minute. What’s the first image that comes to mind?”
And like the swirling film montage that shows someone thinking about something, my mind pushed downward with its ankles and hurls itself up into my past. I solidly land on a little girl with light brown hair. She is looking up at someone and everything around her throbs with a white hot light. The little girl is wearing a blue shirt. There is a window to her left. She has a small white barrette clipping the sides of her hair back. She is 6 years old, I know that.
She is me.
And I am the adult me, standing in the doorway, watching her. And as I look up in my memory, with a shock so forceful I nearly throw up right there, I see a little me in another doorway, watching noncommittally.
That, too, is me.
And I had stumbled on the first time I ever disassociated.
I donÂ’t understand whatÂ’s going on and I donÂ’t know how it is I can see two of a younger me, while the older me also stands idly by, but then the mind is a strange thing. I cannot recall a single moment about this event, I have no idea whatÂ’s going on as everything is covered by a white hot blinding light. I just watched the little girl, frozen in my memory.
“Run!” I want to scream at her. “Run! Get back in yourself, don’t check out of this situation, it’ll become the one thing that damages you the most. Run! Run away! RUN!”
But I donÂ’t. And I look up at my therapist and I am shaking like a lunatic. I am nauseous and am reasonably confident IÂ’m going to throw up. I feel hot all over and my head has exploded with a migraine on the right hand side. He circles me cautiously, like a tiger that could take his head off. He tells me this is huge. He tells me that I have to come back this week, and twice next week, as we have a breakthrough towards getting me out the other side. My psyche defeats him at every turn, this time, something happened.
I walk back to the Tube and am sick.
And that night I dream of violence so pure and unadulterated I want to unhinge my cranium and scrub my brain clean.
The next night I dream of violence again, violence tinged with things that I remember. Things that I remember, but which I had forgotten about. In every dream I am the adult me dealing with younger me situations, and the violenceÂ…My God, I had forgotten about the violence.
How could I forget that?
Things are started to come back. The connect the dots game of my mind has started. I am absolutely committed to continuing this, but bedtime is an exhausting exercise in itself. I never feel rested anymore.
And the truth is, I havenÂ’t disassociated in a while. ItÂ’s been a few months and IÂ’ve been truly grounded inside of me. Sometimes, I want to escape-IÂ’d love to escape. I rail at the fates for making me be present during the worst period of my life.
Things are coming back, and they hurt a lot, but thereÂ’s a little girl frozen in time and she has all the answers.
In the meantime, some of my true behavior is popping up, and it is surprising me.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:53 PM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 725 words, total size 4 kb.
October 23, 2006
Just like that, I got excited about something other than photography. I thought about something and I wasn't automatically exhausted doing it. I felt the need to do something for the first time since the beginning of September.
Yesterday one of Angus' best friends was over to help us drain and fill the radiators-central heating time of year is upon us and a test showed that the last occupant was maybe not so good at keeping the radiators in shape. It was a long, horrible messy day for them (I simply kept them fed-salmon, tomato and basil soup for lunch, pumpkin muffins for a snack) and at the end of the day, they'd done it and the house is nice and toasty now.
Sitting at the dining room table with his mate, we talked at length. He's a good guy who has always been kind to me, even when it wasn't politically correct to do so. He's had a hard time of it lately, and he talked to me quietly about the therapist he's seeing. I talked about the therapist I'm seeing. He was quite surprised that I am in therapy, but considering the house was in generally not great shape, I don't know why he thought that. He said (overlooking the dust behind the radiators and the unfinished projects all over the house) that he'd never have thought I was depressed, I always seem so happy.
I carved a pumpkin then, and made them hot tea.
Walking Gorby in the cold rainy October fog this morning, I thought about the house. I thought about the house....and I felt energy. I thought about the drawings we're assembling to present to an architect for our extensions (the extensions, they are vast) and I had ideas. I had ideas...and this was a first for a long time.
When we got inside, Angus and I started talking about the ideas. I took a shower and we got dressed and we went out, and the whole time, we talked about ideas. I got excited.
We drove to a shopping centre. We'd both had enough of the living room. The living room is one of the last rooms to be addressed, as work has been ongoing elsewhere. The living room had two problems:
1) Nothing matched the walls.
2) Nothing matched anything else.
I'd had enough of being depressed about it.
I got £500 in vouchers from work for John Lewis, a nice up-market shop. We took those vouchers and went to the furniture department, where we bounced around on sofas, trying to pick out the best ones. In the end, we decided on a range we liked (which looks nicer in person than it does in the pics). We needed to measure up the living room so we couldn't buy them on the spot. We asked the frigid salesman about availability and he confirmed they had some, but not many. Could we ring them with the voucher numbers?, we asked. The frigid man bristled and said No, sir, no shop accepts vouchers over the phone or over the web.
So we went home, measured up the living room, and then used the vouchers (and Visa) over the web to buy the couches.
They should arrive soon, and I'm ecstatic.
We also arranged to put one piece of our furniture on ebay-Angus' grandmother left him her sideboard, which he's not that fond of. It's hopefully going to a good home now. We had a 1940's table in bad shape that sat in one corner of the living room-that went, too. The TV is getting moved to another side of the living room and our new couches arrive soon.
Soon.
Then I tackled the house, and we both went on a cleaning frenzy.
And for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling chipper.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can think about things.
And for the first time in a long time, I went to bed without sleeping tablets.
My fog is not all gone, but it's definitely lifting. Maybe all I needed was to bounce around with some retail therapy. Maybe it's because I just got so sick of the living room. Maybe it's because I got so sick of feeling so awful.
Maybe, it was just time that I needed.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:08 AM
| Comments (9)
| Add Comment
Post contains 761 words, total size 4 kb.
October 20, 2006
Seen here yawning roaring, Dogzilla strikes fear in the hearts of man.
Every day, we wonder-who can save us from this threat? Who can rescue us? Who will defeat the mighty monster, so that we may harvest our grain in peace again?
Mostly, we wonder-will Gorby's friends make fun of him if they see him dressed like this? And will the RSPCA come take him back when they find out we've been putting a Halloween costume on him?
Tolerant dog, that's all I have to say.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:56 AM
| Comments (14)
| Add Comment
Post contains 107 words, total size 1 kb.
October 19, 2006
“You seem depressed. I’m concerned.”
“Me? No, I’m very happy. I’m having a great time, I love Scotland.”
Later: “I meant depressed in general. Seeing you happy here only highlights how unhappy you are at home. Your interests have changed, which tells me something’s wrong. You don’t talk about the house renovations. You don’t care about the garden. Your blogs sit neglected amongst the weeds.”
(And itÂ’s true, they do. IÂ’ve been neglecting you. IÂ’ve been cheating on you with Apathy, whose kisses make my knees weak and make me forget what IÂ’d wanted to tell you.)
And the usual accompaniments follow from me: Maybe I am, but this too shall pass. I love you very much. ItÂ’s not you, itÂ’s me. I am, but we know why I am. They sound trite, but I mean them whole-heartedly-he is my rock.
Back in the Big Smoke, I curl up on the couch which has become the second home for by burgeoning Id and Ego (the two of them got my Superego drunk and left it in the alley behind the Irish pub. Those crazy Freudian kids.) He doesnÂ’t mind that I take my boots off, and even kindly admires the chipping nail polish on my toes, one more thing I havenÂ’t done that needs doing. I tell him that everything makes me feel tired. I donÂ’t have the energy, or the interest. The house is a wreck, mostly because every day is a London Day for both of us lately, we work into the night and by the time weÂ’re done we donÂ’t care if we havenÂ’t folded laundry since 1992, we just want 10 minutes on the couch then the sweet haven of bed. I havenÂ’t been cooking and I havenÂ’t painted my toenails and my closet is threatening a military junta if I donÂ’t organize it.
IÂ’m busy in the backseat of a 1954 Chevy with Apathy.
In every day there are 24 hours. In those hours, 1440 minutes. Worse, there are 86,400 seconds in a day. 86,400 seconds, and each one of them marching up and down my face like little Pixar ants. In every one of those 86,400 seconds I am waiting for that second to pass and get me to the next one, in case that oneÂ’s better. That one might be better, you never know, that might be the one that blows the fog off.
“I hate depression,” I tell him.
“If I tell you that it’s not depression, it’s grief….then what’s your response?”
Fuck you, thatÂ’s my response. Fuck you and your fucking grief.
“Grief’s left. Grief overstayed his welcome, and he took the fucking TV Guide, the good one, the one that summarized all the shows and rated them with little TVs. The more TVs, the better the show, and I need that kind of visual approval system. Grief’s a shit.”
Grief is so boring I can't believe it.
There are good things in life. Angus and his almost always glad to see me when I get home from work. The dog, the dog, the dog (weÂ’ll lay on the floor and try to see what to watch on TV tonight, Buddy. I promise. We did it last night, and you fell asleep with your head on my arm and you snored and I loved you so much it hurt.) Amazingly, the Flickr 365 Days project occupies my head and gets me thinking, makes me look forward to something-and this pic got chosen as that latest 365 Days icon, which, ok-itÂ’s no Nobel Peace Prize, but it made me feel good. Lloyd (our former roommate) and I see a movie most Tuesday nights. Sometimes the movies are good and sometimes theyÂ’re not. It doesnÂ’t matter, we always have a laugh, eat popcorn, and enjoy going to the films. Tuesday night it was The Departed, and I get blown away by the acting while the actors are busy blowing each other away.
ItÂ’s Fall, my favorite time of year. ItÂ’s approaching Halloween, my favorite holiday. IÂ’ve broken out the sweaters and boots, my favorite clothes. I take comfort in these little things, and have them see me through some 1,000 seconds. Other seconds are marked by sleeping tablets, vacant staring and, on the weekends, alcohol (we were drinking too much, and thus drinking is restricted to weekends only.)
ItÂ’s not so dire. I am getting better, itÂ’s just slow. The blog suffers, and for that IÂ’m sorry. I send you virtual Target socks as an apology.
Today, London.
Tonight, IÂ’ll cook dinner. IÂ’ll paint my toenails. Hope to get to the grocery store, but work is hell and I have approximately 30 free minutes between conference calls today. Beyond that, donÂ’t push. Baby steps, after all. Baby steps.
-H.
PS-I've joined the lovely April's new Flickr group called What do you want? You can ask me there for three things you'd like to see of me or my life, and I'll be as accommodating as possible. You can post a request on my picture, or, alternately, you can leave it in the comments here.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:11 AM
| Comments (5)
| Add Comment
Post contains 894 words, total size 5 kb.
October 17, 2006
I had one such moment in Scotland.
The dinner the first night was a posh affair. All of us dressed up in our finery, the air scented with whiskey, men lined up in white jackets who, upon us entering the room, already knew our names. A drink and canapés somehow wound up in our hands, served on a delicate white napkin.
I felt apprehensive about the evening, as I feel apprehensive about all things people. People make me nervous, as though somehow theyÂ’ll just asses me and realize that IÂ’m an imposter, IÂ’m not really alive. I always worry IÂ’ll say the wrong thing, look the wrong way, be the wrong person. I also felt nervous being around the older people because (I'm going to be honest here) old people make me nervous. I worry I will break them, or (worse) wind up being one of Those Old Ladies in a home. You know the ones-the ones no one comes to visit, and no one notices when they die. One of Those.
The couples were all married (some of them for over 50 years) and all much older than I. To the last, they were all retired. Two couples were Scottish, two couples were English. Then there was Angus and I, the only divorcees in the room (me, twice. The shame of it.) We were the unmarrieds, the young, the still working.
One of the women strode up to me. “Do I know you?”
Clutching my drink tighter, I smiled. “I don’t think so,” I chirped. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Ah,” she said, taking me in. “I think it’s because you’re beautiful, I know many beautiful people.” I blinked and before I could speak, she walked away. She didn't come up to me again for the rest of the evening, and I felt like thanking her for saying something strangely nice to me, anyway.
Another woman came up to me before dinner, smiling. With short grey hair and a fabulous slick of burgundy lipstick, she introduced herself as Susan in her thick Glaswegian accent. Her husband David sat in a chair nearby, two canes needed to help him walk. He had a strong patrician profile and blue eyes that screamed of intelligence. A retired solicitor, he was a whiskey fan awaiting the second of a desperately needed hip transplant.
And Susan and I got on thick as thieves.
The couples mixed up at the dinner table, and I was sat between Susan and a retired chemical engineer. The chemical engineer, named Stan, was one of the wittiest men IÂ’ve met in a long time. We talked about everything-GM crops, the environment, technology. He was great company.
When Stan and I werenÂ’t having a gab fest, Susan and I talked. Susan had recently retired herself. She had spent her life raising their children and when they left home she dedicated her life to helping her local hospital. She spent over 30 years being a tea lady, which is someone that runs a tiny cafeteria (their hospital was too small for a full-sized cafeteria) and donates the profits to charity.
Over the years, she tells me, sheÂ’s seen everyone and everything. Once Billy Connelly came in and they talked a long time. If someone had lost a friend or loved one, theyÂ’d get their tea for free, as well as her shoulder to cry on. If someone had a celebration, they got a piece of cake. She didnÂ’t do it for the money, she did it for the people.
But her charity was not without notice. The Queen personally awarded her an MBE (Member of the British Empire) a few years ago for her contributions, for although Susan saved the souls of many and caffenated the veins of men and women, her tea stand awarded the hospital with over £1.6 million in donations. She seems embarrassed, as though it wasn’t enough. I am in awe of a person like her, a person with a heart big enough to love all people and give them a cup of tea as well.
But itÂ’s what Susan tells me that reaches into me and takes hold.
I want, more than anything, to be made of more than just chicken wire at that moment.
The next morning we all have breakfast together. David sits next to me and we talk. Although he is in pain from his hips, his mind is crystal clear. He sends us in stitches with his tales and he knows his whiskies, as he regales us with many stories from various drink ups in distilleries. As we all say our goodbyes, he hugs me. “Don’t ever put your hair up again,” he says in his strong Glasgow accent. “Your hair looked fine last night, but it’s meant to hang down. And don’t ever cut it.”
I smile. “I won’t,” I promise him. And for the rest of my stay in Scotland, the hair did stay down.
And Susan-Susan also hugged me and reminded me of what weÂ’d talked about last night.
“Helen,” Susan smiled. “You seem to travel a lot.”
“Oh yes, we do,” I replied. “We both love to travel.”
“I think that’s so wonderful.” She glanced across the table at David, who was deep in conversation. “We used to spend our lives traveling. We’ve been everywhere-Africa, Australia, South America, the States…We’ve done so much, even lived overseas. And now, as we get older, we can look back on where we’ve been and what we’ve done with no regrets.”
She looks at me. “That’s what it’s about, you know. It’s about living with no regrets. Life is an adventure, Helen. It’s about taking chances that you didn’t know you could take. It’s about seeing what you can and going where you can. You’ll make mistakes, but mistakes lead you to new roads. Adventures lead you to where you need to be.”
I stare at her, my wineglass in my hand.
“Are you where you need to be?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. I think I am. I may be. I think of my own adventures-sunsets in New Zealand, sky diving, the lights over Stockholm, the blue domes of Santorini, the feel of Balinese sand and the calm of Belize waters. Broken hearts in Texas, Stockholm, fulfillment in England. My adventures do keep me going. My adventures, they sometimes make my life better.
“Someday you will settle somewhere and live your life out calmly. But for now, say yes to chances and adventure. You’ll not regret it,” Susan says. "Regret makes us old. Life...life is about adventures. Live them as wildly as you can, and you will die having truly lived."
And sheÂ’s right.
It is about saying yes. It's so utterly fucking cliché, but she was right. I'm not there yet, that life is not my life, but she...she was beautiful in ways I could never pinpoint. I fuck up constantly. I regret it now, too-the youth that was Helen never used to, she'd shrug and say regret was too much hassle. The people I loved and lost, the people I hurt or who hurt me, the sheer staggering embarrassment I constantly felt in giving a piece of me to someone who doesn't deserve it, well those are mistakes that I chain up and swear Never Again. Life right now certainly is not great, but maybe I need to quit pushing it away, and accept it's part of the adventure (hopefully not of the reality series variety).
But this goes against what Susan's advising, and there's something in Susan that screams exhiliaration to me.
The Tea Lady From Glasgow was the embodiment of loving life without regret, of giving your heart without fear. Life was a great adventure, a path she walked on with her husband, whose amble was once unmarked by pain. Stories are written about her type of character, and they always involve the brave winning, the victor vanquishing, the redemption of karma being more than just a 5% coupon off a box of Hot Pockets.
My hero is a Tea Lady From Glasgow.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
03:05 PM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1419 words, total size 8 kb.
October 16, 2006
I love the Highlands.
The Highlands, where it goes from moon-like tundra to forest to sea in the space of a hill. Both Angus and I would happily purchase a home there and live life out, were it convenient for his kids to visit, convenient for our jobs, convenient for us putting on our “we’re finally getting away from it all” hats.
Until then, we settle for visits.
We left Tuesday night, making our way to Euston Station in London to catch the Caledonian Sleeper, departing Euston at 2115, arriving in Aberdeen at 745. We had two sleeping berths in our own cabin, all for a stately £19 per person. We slept with the rocking motion of the train.
I got to be on top.
When we got there it was a McDonald’s breakfast (we are Egg McMuffin fans, and we are not ashamed about that.) Then we made our way to the airport to get our rental car, and we started off for Inverness. Past Inverness we drove to our first stop-the Glenmorangie House, part of the Glenmorangie Distillery (and before you make the same mistake I do, it’s pronounced “Glen-MORANGE-y”). The place was set north of Tain, with a view to kill for. The weather was blustery and wild, but we checked in to our hotel.
It was luxury all around, and the driver (!!) drove us to the Distillery for a tour. We joined a group comprised of two other English couples and an American couple. The American couple tried my every last fucking nerve, as they made constant derisory comments-when they found out the Distillery had been bought 18 months ago by Louis Vuitton, they made disparaging comments (“Oh man, now we can’t buy the whiskey. As you know, America and France are no longer friends. We don’t even call them 'French Fries' anymore, they’re 'America Fries'.” Our Scottish hostess looked startled, and I wanted to smack them. You’re in SCOTLAND now, man. Keep up.)
We bought a bottle of Cellar 13 whiskey, which is apparently only available at the distillery.
This is ironic, mostly because we donÂ’t drink whiskey, either of us. I donÂ’t mind it, but sometimes it makes my shin bones leap out of my legs, so I try to take it easy with the stuff. I do have to say though, IÂ’ve always taken my whiskey neat, but Glenmorangie insisted that whiskey should have at least one drop of water in it to release the aromas and you know? Somehow, it does taste better.
Thirsty?
We took a walk. It was blustery.
But the hotel loaned us Wellington boots (which he wouldn't wear) and mackintoshes (which we did).
Then a nap.
That night we joined the 8 other guests of the hotel for dinner-it was a “dressing up” dinner do, and I went for it, 1920’s style.
We all sat around a large table together, and I was the youngest person there (besides Angus) by about 30 years. I was surprised at what a fantastic evening I had-the company was stellar, we got on brilliantly.
The next morning we all breakfasted together, then left (but not after getting another free bottle of whiskey. I wasnÂ’t aware that part of our stock from Sweden included an additional 6 bottles of AngusÂ’ whiskey. We have a lot of whiskey now, and weÂ’re not big drinkers of the stuff.)
We drove. We went right the way up the northwest curve of Scotland. We circled and swooped and laughed, and we saw many great and wonderous landscapes.
And of course a castle or two.
That night we stayed in a quiet little inlet on the coast of a place called Shieldaig. We slept with the sound of the Loch in our bedroom, the feel of good Scottish cooking in our stomachs. We slept with this view.
The next day we packed up and drove to the Isle of Skye. A small island flung into the sea, it is incredibly beautiful. We are lunch in our kind of place-a small family restaurant called Creeler’s with tacky décor but food so amazing that I am sure it’s one of the best lunches I’ve ever had. We met a local there.
We walked along Kyle of Lochalsh for a while, then drove up past many mountains, castles, and alongside Loch Ness to our hotel in Inverness.
Before we got there, we were in a traffic jam.
We took it easy that night, eating in the hotel and going to bed early.
The next day we started off slowly-breakfast, then a walk through Inverness, where I bought a dress the color of claret to wear to my friendÂ’s wedding. We got in the car and went to the Falls of Shin in the north, where we watched salmon leap and fight to go upstream.
We were happy.
We had a sunset that kept us speechless.
We had a big dinner and much wine, before falling asleep wound around each other.
The next day we took a long scenic route from Inverness to Aberdeen, where weÂ’d catch a flight home. On the way, we were serenaded by a rainbow of fruit flavors.
We got back after midnight last night, and weÂ’re today both exhausted and stressed outÂ…already.
-H.
PS-I'll have more pics of Scotland on Flickr, hopefully tomorrow. For now-stress!
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
02:01 PM
| Comments (17)
| Add Comment
Post contains 962 words, total size 7 kb.
October 10, 2006
See you Monday.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:20 AM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 45 words, total size 1 kb.
October 06, 2006
Tonight Melissa and Jeff arrive for the weekend. We haven't seen them in a while (since Wales, since pregnancy) and it will be nice to have the house full of the rambunctious noise that accompanies children. Gorby, in particular, will be blissed out-these kids have a place in his heart and when they leave, he gets a bit depressed. It's always nice seeing them, especially for Angus-he misses them terribly. He calls them "My babies", which sometimes I hurt from because my own babies can't seem to make it outside of my uterus.
Melissa and I have been getting along very, very well. She's getting to be a moody teenager, but she has up moments that are good fun. When she was last here we spent lots of time talking about films, movie stars, makeup, and clothes when she was last here. It's all not heavy stuff, but it doesn't have to be. She borrows my makeup and nail polish. She looks through my clothes. None of this I mind. When she was last here if she noticed me heaving in the bathroom often, she didn't comment on it (and the minds of children are wonderous things, and maybe it didn't even warrant a thought.)
So a week or two ago on a warm sunny Sunday Angus popped his head into the study, looking perplexed.
"Melissa's on the phone," he said, holding the handset like the witness to a crime. "And...she wants to talk to you," he said, slightly dazed.
I felt my eyebrows raise. This was not in the script, this is not how things are done. "She wants to talk to me?" I ask stupidly. "Why?" I ask, upping the stupid notch even further.
He shrugs in the "eyeano" manner.
I take the handset like it's a ticking object. "Hello?"
"Hi Helen," comes Melissa's voice, which has a strong English accent to it.
"What's up, man?" I ask.
"Nothing much. I'm watching TV with International Erin," she replies. Melissa goes to an English-speaking school in Sweden. Erin is her closest friend who, she proudly pointed out, spelt her name the international way and not the Swedish way. Nickname ensued, hence Erin is now International Erin. International Erin and Melissa will even be coming to visit us for a long weekend in February, where International Erin will flex her English muscle.
"Good. Anything good on?" I reply. I look at my feet and wonder when the other shoe is coming down.
"Not really," Melissa replies, and goes on to describe the film.
We then talk about Converse, as when we go to the States I'd planned to buy a pair for myself, and she wants a pair, too, only not as barnsligt (Swedish for "childish") as mine. Our conversations tend to be peppered with English and Swedish. Melissa thinks my toys and-in particular-my choices in Target socks are, in her opinion, "pinsam" (which means "embarrassing" in Swedish).
Pinsam is uttered from her 14 year-old lips a lot.
It's hard being a teen.
We talk further about jackets-I have a coat she nicks every time she comes here in cold weather. She states she wants a coat just like that for Christmas. And jeans. And shoes. And maybe we should go shopping the next time she's here?
I wonder what's happening here.
I don't tell her that Angus will take her shopping while Jeff and I go to the films-Jeff is the only one that wants to see Pixar and animated movies with me (we saw Over the Hedge together, screaming with laughter like idiots. It became, in his words, "The best movie I ever saw." I love that.)
So then I tell Melissa to go watch her movie.
"No wait, Helen!" she says quickly. "I wanted to tell you something!"
"Go on, babe," I reply.
"Um. OK. I....I met this boy."
Holy shit.
Melissa wants to talk to me about a boy.
Oh my fucking god.
I felt so honored you'd think I'd won the Nobel prize or something.
"Cool," I say calmly. "What's he like?"
"He's an American!" she says excitedly.
"Really?" I ask, smiling.
"Yeah, and guess where he's from!" she says happily.
"Lemme guess....he's from Texas?" I say.
"Yes! He's from Fort Worth!"
"Well. Now quality people are from Dallas, but we'll accept Fort Worth, too."
"Oh, Helll-ennnnnnnn,," she replies, with that "rolling the eyes" feeling injected into the words.
"What's he like? Is he cute?" I ask.
"Mm-hmmm," she affirms. "Tall."
"Good, tall is good. We like tall boys."
And so it goes. She tells me about him. She laughs and talks about details until International Erin calls her back to the TV, at which point Melissa gives me the kid version of saying goodbye, known as "IgottagobutI'lltellyoumorelaterokbye."
I hang up, and grin.
I tell Angus about the conversation and swear him to secrecy. Melissa hadn't told him about the boy. Turns out, Melissa hasn't told anyone about the boy.
Except me.
She told me.
Melissa wanted to speak to me because she wanted to tell me about a boy. Melissa wanted to speak to me because she thought I would be one person she could talk about it too. Mostly? Melissa wanted to speak to me.
I can't even begin to describe how happy that phone call made me.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:51 AM
| Comments (23)
| Add Comment
Post contains 980 words, total size 6 kb.
October 05, 2006
I'm also surprised at how I look.
Really surprised.
I'm not an oil painting, but people likely won't go running, screaming in the streets to get away from me:
- On the train.
- Dicking around with Gorby (which has become my favorite shot of me, despite everything that's wrong with me, because, dammit, I just look happy there and I don't do happy lately.)
- And me, as Lola.
I see these photos and I think (like yesterday) I'm not beautiful, but why do I hate myself so much? There's loads of imperfections and most of the time I cringe at what I see, but in general, it's not all bad there.
I'm not good at taking photos but I never expected to see some of the things I have been seeing. Mostly? I never expected to enjoy being a part of the expedition.
Thank you, Pants. I'm having fun. And I needed that.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:53 AM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 238 words, total size 2 kb.
October 04, 2006
This was why Kiki dreaded having girls: she knew she wouldn't be able to protect them from self-disgust.
BAM! Right in the stomach. A line of work that was not only truth, but a truth that no one I've ever read has taken the stance of publicly uttering. The simple statement reflects a lifetime of self-conscious image issues, battles with anorexia and bulemia (which I now understood is really bulemia-vomiting isn't the definition of bulemia, it's the purging that defines the illness. Forgive me, Father, for I have eaten.) And I look around at all the women I know and we all do it-we're all so stock-shocked with our bodies, constantly whittling away at them. The Zadie Smith quote makes me realize that we think: "She is a woman, therefore she will have self-disgust." No more "Thinking, therefore I am. " Now our thinking seems to come from the depth of a mirror.
I wonder, sometimes, what it is that has made us (as women) hate ourselves so much.
And I don't think it's just with our desire to make ourselves Calista Flockhart thin, either. We seem to have gone from being worth nothing (can't own property, can't vote, can't defend yourself when it's "Time to Beat the Grown-Ups" time) to having all that and a bag of white birth control pills, to where we are now-some kind of "want my cake but not eat it" stage-we want to be equal, we just can't treat ourselves any better than we think we deserve.
Consider Koren Zailckas-from her book Smashed-Growing Up a Drunk Girl, she talks about the perception of date-rape amongst the women that have had a few too many:
Or consider [site name removed]'¦.these sites show photos of girls slamming back glasses of whiskey, right alongside nasty close-ups of the sex acts that we're led to believe came afterward. Visitors are reminded, "Kelly was dead drunk and I don't think she realized what was going on. But one thing is for sure, she sure enjoyed herself!"
And the tragic part is, we can't even allow ourselves to feel sorry for girls like Kelly...if we say that Kelly, who is clattering beneath some man in the live feed of a hidden camera, exists as a passive object for the gaze and enjoyment of men at their laptops (one that intrigues us, then grosses us out, then makes us feel superior), she is already guilty'¦Once we write her off as an "easy drunk girl" (porn-site speak) we can feel comfortable that her punishment fits her crime.
Koren's angle is that women, to some extent, "had it coming". We get drunk therefore we get taken advantage of. I can't tell you how depressed that makes me.
We lose control, we get used.
We are women, therefore we are disgusted with ourselves and in turn engage in situations that may make the self-hatred worse.
It's a fun ride.
I'm not going about the deep feminist anger here, I've already done that. I'm not talking about bashing the male dictates or what society has forced upon us-to some extent, it's not about equality and fair pay (although yes, I am fucked off about that, too).
Being a woman today should be easier. It's true we still get a lot of shit-I remember 5 years ago work wouldn't let me go to a customer visit in Asia as "I was a woman" (they're right, you know. It's true-I am, indeed, a woman.) As the manager of an engineering team I get a lot of grief-when management have a go at me, I let them know it's not ok. When a member of my team says something stupid, I let them know it's not acceptable (2 days ago one of the guys on my team made the comment that a failed 4-hour phone test was "a woman's issue". I made him apologize. He did.)
But that's the working world. In the private lives of women we make things harder for ourselves. There is guilt simply because we carry our organs around on the inside, as opposed to them being hung in a nicely sewn handbag around groin level. We seem to feel apologetic, we seem to feel, somehow, less. We are a mess of contradictions-we can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, but never let you forget you're a man...but dammit we just realized that frying up bacon is a messy business and we don't actually want to do it. We may have the rights to exit the Titanic first but we don't seem to be able to meet someone's gaze when we say that our occupation is "Stay at home mom", which has to be the hardest fucking job I've ever heard of and one that commands respect.
So the question is...who broke us? Men? Society? Cosmopolitan Magazine? Ouselves? Are we even broken, or simply being too hard on ourselves? Why are we being too hard on ourselves? Why are we constantly relegating ourselves to a status we wouldn't allow men to relegate us to?
Maybe, in the tradition of Japanese business culture, it's better to not question who fucked up but to just fix it.
I don't know how to fix this. I would give anything to spare future generations of women from the issues that we face, to truly find that perfect embodiment: You are a woman and that is good. I don't know if we should cuddle our daughters and tell them how fucking great they look all the time or not. I read recently that parents actually are encouraged to not comment on their daughters' weight/appearance now, but to highlight other positives instead, so as not to fixate on appearances: You are so clever, you're fantastic at football, you're the best violinist I've ever known. That seems like a good starting point, but then again you get an insecure little train wreck like me and I'd just be thinking: Why do they never tell me that I'm pretty?
I don't know if women as a whole should throw out their magazines and their makeup and simply say: Fuckit. I may have an extra pound or two. My eyebrows may disappear without eyebrow pencil. I will never walk a catwalk in Milan but goddamn it, I have so many great qualities. But I know that I myself won't leave the house without lipgloss and there's no way I'll ever be happy with my body and I think I'm riddled with character faults, so my glass house just got blitzed by a hail of stones.
We can't win.
Mostly because we never let ourselves.
Koren Zailckas has a suggestion:
Rather than turning our dissatisfaction inward, allowing ourselves to be thwarted by gender stereotypes and the burdens to achieve feeble feminine goals like thinness, rather than allowing our frustrations to be wasted and to waste away inside of us, I think we should use them as ammunition against the world we were borne of'¦By the same token, I think it's time we allow ourselves to experience real anger as women. And I don't mean that passive-aggressive dance that we've employed for too many years. It's not real anger if it is implied or a few degrees removed, if it takes the form of whispering, or cold shoulders, or silent treatment. Real anger is what popular culture would have us be afraid of, based on the fact that it is not courteous, elegant or feminine.
I'm with her on the "not turning the dissatisfaction inward" piece. As far as the anger? Well, frankly, I'm tired of being angry. Angry has come at the wrong time, I'm all angered out. I also don't really care if I'm considered feminine or not-I suspect my penchant for pajamas and fuzzy socks will deprive me of that title anyway (and that would mean that I consider anger "unfeminine", which I don't. Anger is, in my world, simply human.)
But what does make me angry is Zadie Smith's quote, that girls would grow up to have self-disgust. It makes me angry because it is too bold. It makes me angry because it is unfair. It makes me angry because it is bitter and anti-women.
But above all, it makes me angry because I agree with it.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:51 AM
| Comments (9)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1445 words, total size 8 kb.
October 03, 2006
Truly arrived.
The sun is warm during the day but the undercurrent is cool and crisp. The radiators kick on during the night. Angus and I wake up in the morning curled against one another. The trees are changing and beginning to dump their leaves.
The mornings are brisk with chill and murky with English fog.
Each morning when we walk the dog, we understand why England is known for its haunting mystery and howling moors.
So it's Autumn here. Sweaters are being pulled out of lavender-lined boxes in our house (thank God, it'll be 6 more months before I need to think about slimming down for bathing suit season). No longer do we lounge about in drawstring shorts, now the evenings are pajama pants and sweatshirts. I have exclaimed in girly delight over my boots (my boots!) which I haven't worn yet, but any day now....
October is my favorite month. I love the fact that Fall lands on your doorstep like the Yellow Pages being delivered. The air changes overnight and fills with moisture so that mornings shine your shoes with damp.
Mumin comes in from a Summer spent outdoors, and she and Maggie curl up together for a winter of companionship.
Mostly, I love Halloween.
I didn't always love Halloween.
Halloween used to be a date I didn't like because it was the birthday of someone I hated very much (holidays, like names, get ruined. Although I have recovered from my Halloween dislike I still can't stand the name "Michelle".)
Halloween is great fun in our house. From 1 October I'm all about the pumpkin carving. Pumpkin seeds and pumpkin foods pockmark the home for 31 days-pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, pumpkin ravioli. Ironically, I don't like pumpkin pie but I absolutely love the smell of it, and as pumpkin pie is supposed to be one of the most erotic scents for men then, well...let the games begin!
So I'm big on the pumpkin carving. And Pumpkin Carving 2006 has already been kicked off here.
Although Gorby wasn't sure about it at first.
They soon became buds.
Naturally, Halloween is when I dust off my ridiculous head gear as well (this year, I'm into the bats).
Someday maybe I'll grow up.
For now, I love Fall, and I love Halloween.
In our house, we all do.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:22 AM
| Comments (16)
| Add Comment
Post contains 409 words, total size 3 kb.
October 01, 2006
I have been on the phone for nearly half an hour, something I am not often prone to doing.
I am draped across the arms of my chair in the study, and on the other end of the phone, an ocean away, is my father.
My dad and I have had a tumultuous relationship for most of our lives. For the first 7 years of my life, my father was my hero, my idol. My Air Force pilot father would come home from TDY (always referred to in our home as "a trip") and sleep for a day, and then I would sneak in to the bedroom to tell him that Foghorn Leghorn was on TV, would he like to come watch it with me? I remember him being away more often than being there-once there was a Father-Daughter Picnic at the school. I looked forward to it like nothing else, I couldn't wait. The day of the picnic loomed...and my father chose to take an optional trip instead.
The day of the picnic, a friend called to say her father would be happy to take me, too.
I declined-even at the age of 6, pity wasn't something I could live with.
When my parents busted up when I was 7, I was bereft. I was gutted beyond gutted. Looking back with my therapist, this is where some of my extreme borderline personality behavior started-although I had definite symptoms and signs of it even from an early age, this period only exacerbated it. And it's not just a case of "my parents divorced, I'm so screwed up" the likes of which Oprah gifted the world with. This was something more-we went from having stability to having sweet fuck all. We moved to a farming community in Iowa. We had no money, at all. My mother tried her damndest, despite our differences I do know that she really tried, but there was little she could do with an infant and a 7 year-old in the middle of nowhere.
This? This was poor, the likes of which I never want to see again, ever.
I didn't know it then, but my father had left us for someone else.
When my parents got back together, it was war. Not between them, but between my father and I. You couldn't get us in a space together and not have an argument. We were both stubborn, insensitive, and hurt. Looking back, I reckon it wasn't pleasant for the rest of the family, but at that age, I just didn't care. Life was hard-my parents couldn't decide if they should be together or not, so we bounced in and out of the house many times before the decision was to stick together.
My parents finally split when I was 14-this time, fidelity was questioned on the other side of the family (my family, we are not good at fidelity. This has included myself, and I'm not proud of myself for that.) My mother is still with the man she loved then. My father is still with the woman he met shortly after. Both of my parents, I think, made the right decision-their lives are better and richer with the people they have today. They're happier, and that's all that matters.
My relationship with my father continued to be difficult, though. My teens saw the two of us not speaking at all for many years. We couldn't connect, and all around us were stinking, poisoned wells. He's always been a moody bastard, a competitive freak, someone good at doling out the negative and treating me like what I was-just a girl. I, in turn, took him as too proud, untouchable, and as such I made myself about as unlovable as I could do.
The breakthrough for my father and I finally came when I tried to kill myself nearly 4 years ago. I broke down and told him so much that I never had before-I'm a little bit crazy, I'm infertile, I'm an unknown entity even to myself. My father broke down and became a friend to me.
And so it has been for the past 4 years. My father, my friend. Someone I have started to rely on, someone that has become important to me. I have spent my life so profoundly fucked up that I've been incapable of normal relationships, I can't be myself if I was standing in a 360 degree mirror, and yet...my dad has stood by me.
My therapist has started pointing out massive issues that we are dealing with. One of them is the subconscious attitude I have to protecting and forgiving my father. Ironically, it's not even subconscious-I forgive my father all the time. I don't hold grudges against him, mostly because in many ways I know why he does what he does.
Caring, sometimes, hurts too much. I know this, too. I can count on one hand the number of times my father and I have seen each other in the past ten years.
But now, I'm going to start needing more hands.
My father's visit was incredible. He has changed so much I don't recognize him-he's not moody and impatient. He's not competitive. He's full of hugs and kindness, words of support and love. It threw me at first-what was happening? What should I guard myself against? What will go wrong?
In the end the answer was perfect-nothing.
I had told him beforehand about the miscarriage, which is the only reason why I've blogged about it-he knows, and I'm sure he's told what we refer to as The Texas Clan (my family, it's like Mafia) so I figured blogging about it was ok, too. I told him about i, and then Angus intervened and ran as intermediary-he had the dialogue with my dad and told him that Helen? Not so good at talking about her feelings. That I was inconsolable, depressed, and not doing well. That seeing him would help m, but only if he understood that I couldn't talk about the miscarriage.
Walking across Waterloo Bridge, my dad hugs me. "I just want to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened," he says quietly.
I wave my hands in a flurry. "No talking about it," I say hastily.
"I know," he says, and hugs me again.
When we stop hugging I smile. "I'm not good at the talking, Dad. It's part of why I'm in therapy."
That day my father, my stepmother Karen, and her mother Nabu had shown up at Gatwick. They brought a massive suitcase stuffed with presents for us-expensive watches, gifts, and above all, fantastic food.
The American version of it:
And the Japanese version of it:
We love of the Japanese food in our house.
My family had Saturday and Sunday to themselves, which they used seeing London. My father called me many times a day to check in on me and say hello. Then that Monday they came to ours, where my family fell head over heels in love with Gorby-especially my dad, who saw it as his personal mission to be the one who always walked the dog.
The first night we sat outside beside the outdoor fireplace. We drank loads of white wine and my father and I talked. He reminisced about the past and I teased him about how he used to make me come out of my room to change the channel.
"You're right, I did that," my dad said. "And you know what? That was not right. I'm really sorry about that."
I sat there in shock.
My family is not known for apologizing, which is part of the reason why I do it so fucking much.
My father went on to apologize for many other things-for the fact my crib was in the closet when I was a kid. For the divorce. For being absent. My father apologized and the second he did the faults went *poof* and simply melted into the Autumn air.
No one in my family has ever apologized to me, ever.
And he wasn't the only to apologize during that visit. I apologized to Karen for how she was treated when she joined the family. We were awful to her, and as a stepmom myself I can only imagine the hell she faced. Karen and I got to know each other and, even more so, I saw how she and my father cared for each other.
It was amazing. She takes care of him and loves him and he, in turn, smiles just looking at her. I don't ever remember my father being so content. They tell me of all the things they do together and they recount it with great happiness-they run marathons. They join bike races, they go for long hikes. Mostly they're just happy, and I am happy for them.
We went to Windsor together. Nabu is the grandmother my own father's mother could never be-she is kind, gentle, and caring. She is without question the nicest person I have ever met. My dad and I joked that she is sweeter than his own mother-my father is bitter about his mother, who isn't the best of people.
"We can't choose our parents, Dad," I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"That we cannot," he replied, looking at the castle.
And at the end of the visit, I realized that I had truly gained a family. Karen, Nabu and my father are so important to me. We are all seeing each other when Angus and I go stay with them for a few days in December. My family have promised to come here once a year and I believe them.
September 2006 was the worst month of my entire life, but that month, I also gained a family.
I got to know and respect Karen. Karen has already sent me a care package with funky Target socks, including a pair that has become my new most favorite pair of socks, ever. Karen, who sent me an email telling me how great it was to see us and you know? It was great to see her, too.
Nabu, whom we met in Hawaii, continues to be an amazing creature. Angus and I (and Angus' kids, who met her) just adore her. We think of her as Grandma Nabu, and genuinely care about her.
And more than that, I got my dad back. My dad, who I speak to all the time now. Who I email and who emails me. My dad, whom I speak to as a daughter.
I cry just thinking about it.
I love you, Dad. And I always will.
We can't choose our parents, but I'd choose you every time, Dad.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:23 PM
| Comments (17)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1814 words, total size 10 kb.
47 queries taking 0.1481 seconds, 319 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.
