Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Stop The Cavalry

For the first time in days, the house is quiet. I relish the stillness. From my make-shift desk at the kitchen table, I can hear the hustle and bustle of life from the open front door.

Cars start, voices talk, cats wander in and out and I breathe it all in deeply. The continuing streak of sunshine feels like the fruits of a gamble; it's unexpected and temporary, but everyone is determined to ring out the valuable rays to the last drop.

In the shop earlier, an Avicii song was playing, mirroring much of what I've felt since Sunday. Family quarrels are bitter things. From birth, we're taught that families are there to protect you. They will love you unconditionally, they'll be the only ones there when your life falls to pieces. Nobody ever tells you that they also have the power to cause the deepest hurts, to leave the most splitting scars.

To get into the ins and outs of my family fight would be boring. It's like hearing someone else talk about the epic adventure of a dream they had last night or the recollection of a visit to the dentist. The "He said, She said" of a scenario is only of interest to the characters involved. So I will not mechanically recount how a relationship of mine was fractured, before being smashed, over the last few days.

I will however stick to my self-appointed mandate of honesty. Sunday was spent in a quiet state of shock. I lost myself in tasks and reading. Yesterday was a bit more active.

Emotions have the strangest ways of transpiring. I personally didn't realise how angry I was until, in a temper, I broke my bookshelf when attempting to move it. It now looks like this.

If anyone should ask, I'm going to pass it off as nouveau design.

I can be quite reckless when it comes to my emotions; I have a tendency to stow them away until the hull is ripped open. So it was with some surprise that I found myself displaying an immediate chain reaction of anger, confusion, and hurt. In the morning I cried, in the afternoon I raged.

As you can imagine, by the time night fell, I was exhausted. I barely made conversation with a friend on the phone; finding myself not only unable to speak about what had happened, but unable to form words at all. And today? Today I feel more philosophical about it all.

I'm looking at things with a clinical detachment as a means of preservation. The fears and anxieties I felt now my family consists of my Mum and I have quietened. Upon reflection, I'm able to see that what I mourned for recently, I did not lose that recently. It happened some time ago. All that happened over the last few days was being forced to see the writing on the wall. Or email, if you want to be accurate.

I'll never cease to be grateful that I am not alone in this world, my army of friends being an ever-constant support. But there are some things you must do alone in this world. It can be terrifying to be in a situation where this is the case, to know the buck stops with you and you must rise to the occasion because there is no other choice.

You worry how you will manage. You speculate about how you will take care of yourself and your loved ones. You question if you will be enough. You attempt to peer into the future so that you may be better prepared for the inevitable challenges.

But doing so is futile. It's an exhaustion of energy that's pointless. You cannot stop the rain by opening a hundred umbrellas.

Sometimes all you can do is take comfort in that you championed as hard as you could, square your shoulders against the wind and take the hand that's offered - even if it's your own.

Mucho Love,

Vicky xoxo  

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