Nothing changes. Nothing has changed that I can see today.
I am so angry. I am so angry. I have no will to fight. No untapped reservoir. Just a bleak outrage and despair. I cannot heal from that place – but I do not know what else to do. I cannot organise one more thing. I cannot bear one more loss or shock. I cannot get myself out the front door. Nor make a plan nor sell a car.
I am wild with rage at the turn my life has taken and at the series of losses since Iz went.
“Can’t take a trick”.
I don’t want to talk to or listen to anyone but the children. And even that desire is diminishing.
I do not have the resources to do the things I need to do if I am to come pout of here where I am walking dead.
I appear to be ” stuck ” as they say in popular grieving mythology. So fucking what – says I. This is the ugliest, most shoddy time. Me and Job have a lot in common at the moment and I am pissed off.
I am done in.
I never ever dreamed of something like this happening to me. Never. And then I thought there would be help and people to talk to. Idiot, Lynne. There isn’t. Nightmares haunt me of the whole bloody times and Goddam all the official straight world fuckers who do NOTHING of any use at all.
Cleaning one hour a fortnight. For Gods sake. This is how mad I got as a young woman and now I am that angry again and so horribly lost. Nowhere to go to. Noone who wants me – up until this week.
Maybe I’ll come good and maybe I won’t. But Tonight and today I am a shattered woman.
Long time ago, I walked slowly up the stairs of a big white house at the end of Hastings Parade in North Bondi – my last resort. Nothing at all left except a chance at a bed there in a halfway house. I think I said ” My luggage is following “. But I didn’t have any luggage. Or my children or anything at all. And a grey haired woman welcome me and then I was HOME. Safe and wanted and loved.
NOW – its 29 years later give or take a few months and again – I am done. Much weaker this time. Haunted by horrors that noone wants to hear about. Lying naked for weeks. Soiling the bed and being needled and tossed like a carcass. Told I would need a catheter. That I might never walk properly. Told all manner of body blow things.
And then the Girls taking all the things we loved together.
This might pass during the night and it might not. All I know is that sitting here now – I am in the Horrors. Beaten.
All alone here – day after day – and all my tools seem to have failed me in this Village of the Dead.