A day came to pass, almost 6 years ago, when I wore a white dress and walked into a church. I was so deliriously happy, he thought I was drunk. Hair un-brushed, make-up thick and dark. I’d raise a glass in celebration that we made it from then till now. I would. Ignoring the irony of my iron deficiency. Dismissing the preference I have for salty over sweet. Sourly sad to see it in retrospect, that this years gift could have been the one I needed the most.
The best 16 years of my life. I can say that without any hesitation whatsoever. Because the ones that came before then were childhood years. And no-one should prefer the dumb-fuckery of childhood over the conscious agony of adulthood. I wasn’t always happy in that time. Of course I wasn’t. But I was perpetually enamoured: In love, right till the very last minute. If only I could let go lightly, after holding on so tightly. If only the pull of that deep down river didn’t drag me from the slow meander of the stream we both shared. If only the Mayans hadn’t predicted the fall of a masculine power. If only my father hadn’t died just at the time when I’d foolishly begged for a sign. I might have kept on keeping on, might not have lost so many of my precious few marbles. Might still be happily immersed in the cooking and the kooky of our weird u-brain togetherness. Should I hate the Mayans for the turning of this tide and whipping it into a fucking frenzy, for taking the 3 main men from my life? Or do I hate myself for always wanting a life less ordinary? If I’m anything like my father, I’ll shirk off the responsibility and dance alone from the outskirts, stoned and smiling. If I’m anything like my mother, I’ll bury my pain in the TV and declare at will how I never cared anyway. Never did mind about the little things: or some other La Femme Nikita-ing.
The sweet sadness of the memories I have of my holy trinity of men, will be enough to flicker all the lights. Enough to sharpen much of my prose. Enough to give me the edge that they simultaneously love and hate. What starts as something you adore, becomes so easily something you despise. And when I decided to choose my friends based on hatred, I didn’t realise how right I was. At least this way around they can only grow in your estimations. At least this way around, what you finish with is love.
The iron in my blood is sparse. Used up all my strength birthing the only baby I’m likely to bare. Spilling freely, soaking deeply into the white sheets, down my legs, into the fabric of my dress. If I’d known how precious it was, how vital to my wellbeing it would be, I’d have bottled it at source and drank it. I’d never have discarded it with such a look of disgust, crammed into millions of those bin bags. And when I hear that song, ‘so show me family and all the blood that I will bleed’ it takes me back to that moment, and I lip shrug a smile to myself so fucking tormented and sad that in a six month span I sowed a seed and knew the sensations of life beneath the sinew of someone we can only assume is me, to the sudden crashing realisation that death too finds it way to the foetus and the place where only birth should reside. And I cried so hard for the emptiness I had in my arms as the other women on the ward slept soundly that night. I cried so fucking hard so many times after that, that how could I not resent it with a vehemence that is almost violent when someone tells me how much I must love the dark?
So I slid down the snake, just when I was so close to success. Big fucking deal. I can start again can’t I? I can pick this shit up and sling it at someone else’s fan. Send someone else insane with the incessant shimmering of my soul. Set someone else awash with the whimsical whoring of my heart. Maybe they’ll never ask for more than just me. Maybe I’ll find another way to hurt them instead. Maybe this ‘me’ that I’m constantly referring to, is actually big enough to plug up someone else’s hole. Maybe in a few years from now (when it would have been the anniversary of tin or typex or tampax) maybe then it wont feel so fucking full on. I’ll learn the lesson the long way and laugh at my own lunacy. I’ll be able to pass him in the street without doubling over in pain. I’ll be able to just ‘like’ him instead of loving the steady stuttering shit out of him. And maybe after we shake hands and exchanged a few of our inappropriate jokes (just to prove we haven’t conformed beyond repair), maybe then we’ll see the opportunity that arose from all this devastation and at last I’ll be able to walk away from him, instead of always the other way around.