And although I’m not one, I still feel I can speak about it because I am in love with one. And she’s so quickly and fluently become my everything. When I look into her eyes, it gives me faith in the crooked tragedy of the path that lead me here. The way she lets me in. Lets me see who she is, her insecurities and her strengths. She lays bare for me and I don’t just mean in a slutty way.
Emotionally intelligent, we get each other. And in this way I see how same sex relationships make sense. She tells me daily how she’d happily forgo happiness with me if she could go back and undo the holes: make it so Dylan had lived. I fall in love with her harder every time she says it because her selflessness is beauty and love in it’s human form. And my heart breaks a little too because my feelings are split. Of course I would want my baby back, I can’t deny the strength of that, but the pain comes from knowing it would mean I would never be with her, in this new life. And how can I wish for the undoing of the one thing that’s saved me? How can I remove her from the equation now I have grown to love her? The paradox is too great and the result of which makes me a shithead which ever way I choose.
I want it to be perfect for her, although I know it isn’t. Living in the shadow of what came before, it’s not easy. His photo’s are down but his footprints are everywhere. But she accepts it with grace and dignity and love. Living with my mum, you think she’d complain of the lack of privacy once in a while. But she doesn’t. She’s gentle and loving and treats my mother like her own. Showing interest in the things she talks about, doing DIY and making her coffee the way she likes it. And she makes her laugh: the biggest gift anyone could ever give me is hearing my mum laugh. When the three of us are together, it’s amazing how much we laugh. Constantly cackling wildly and honestly, seeing my mum’s face contorted and stretched in the most uncontrollably delicious way, sides splitting with laugher, I melt and smile and breath. Because I’m lucky to have this. Truly. And when I think of a day when my mum might not be here and it makes me love her harder in the now: the only definite there is.
She gave me back the love I once had for my home. She makes me want to be there. To stop running and to rebuild from the mess that was left behind. It’s befitting I finally ended up in a relationship with a woman, given my love of womanhood. It makes sense with who I am now and who I have been. There’s no dilemma despite the lack of definition. Together, we make sense.
It’s been a while. But I’ve been unable to write. Mainly because I can’t speak. Not just about ‘it’ but about anything. A list of subjects I’m both desperate and terrified to speak about. So I sit, stunned, swelling with an impotent rage that comes out in ways I neither expected nor wanted. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep at night.
I yearned for someone to reach in and touch the shitty bits. Drag them out and question them, for someone to be ‘silver linings playbook’ blunt with me. To be poked out of my silence by someone hard enough to handle the words. For a spell I enjoyed the privacy, till the dark started to kick out and bully me. Till it started to dominate me and take hold of what little courage I had left. And if you want to know the truth, I cant even enjoy a meal out without going a little Liam Neeson: checking for exits, assessing the people around, keeping sharp and aware of danger. As though I have even the slightest strength against the barrage of brutality that threatens me. (And if I start bouncing oranges from my forearm to my palm like a right geeze, you’ll know why).
The true words of a friend and the patience of a lover come to me at a time when I most need them. The words start pouring out, stillbirths and feeling bereft, same shit different day. The memory of my mum and dad talking and laughing in the next room cripples my guts and forces me over in mind but not in body. In body I stand staring hard, thinking the tears away with tricks of colour and other purposeful incantations. I tell her I can’t have a child to fill a child shaped hole. She says I can and I should, or else I’ll be running forever. And at last I see what I did. I ran like a mad bitch from the site of all that pain and rebuilt my life again. But the ghosts follow and they’ll find you in the end. It’s got to the point where I find comfort in the lights flickering and the random slamming of objects.
I’m full of contradictions and not displeased about it. I have a social media clear out so no one will know my history but feel my steel of character is missing without the past holding me up in the present. And while the newbies at work talk about the pains of childbirth, I want to yell of it’s beauty and how it was the truest thing I’ve ever done. The rawest thing I’ve ever had to physically do. When I was at one with the rhythms of the universe, of sadness and elation and deep rooted maternal love. Birthing life tears their hole: birthing death scars my soul. But people don’t want to know the truth. Especially if it’s dark. Scrap that, they want to know in the sublime solace of TV and viewer. Where they can observe truths without the responsibility of facing the speaker, the sufferer and giving them a response.
Am I obsessed with spaces in my essence where loss tore the fabric of me, or am I charmed by the holes that gradually disintegrate us, helping the light shine through?