I would like to give you a romanicised reason for not having written for months. That I struggle to process the ongoing intense thoughts that cloud my mind or that inspiration appears and dissolves quicker than the time I take to unmuddle my thoughts, or that 2016 has finally broken my heart. But reader the truth is, I’m finally happy. Purely speaking I haven’t felt the need to speak out about struggle. As that is when I write with most passion.
I feel a healing process I’ve been craving for years. It brings with it inner peace, social freedom and simple happiness. Every soul I know has suffered from this horrendous year in one way or another. My story consisted of self destruction, threat of loss and eventually, thankfully.. self care. I also fell in love with another and myself again. He mirrors my self frustration in terms of success and is driven and beautiful in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. With undying passion behind his eyes.
Deep wounds eventually stop stinging as they become dark red, rising scars. The healing process proves to be ongoing as the risen ugly marks snag on clothes and unconscious itching nails catch the skin causing recurring sharp pains. Like itching a mole you had forgotten was there, because it belongs to you. It reminds me of the disgust I feel towards this year and the delight of what it’s end has taught me, and the relief to be given another fresh January.
When people throughout the year commented on our situation I could have screamed. I’d be snappy, aggressive, dismissive and protective of Noah. By having to prove myself as a Mother, without being allowed to be a Mother seemed a ludicrous idea and I was left defeated. I felt I had failed him. These people cared yet I wanted to shake them. ‘Oh really? You think it’s been hard? That my child has been pulled between two countries every weekend? That every inch of my privacy has been destroyed and a full four months of my sons life has been stolen from me? His Mother? No pal, it isn’t fucking fair.’
Today the light sends anxiety through my veins and I dare not look at my diary. I know this feeling is false, it’s a build up of stress, nerves and six months of hell about to reach a climax, the expectation of a final relief. Recently the reason for my survival and everything that is beautiful in the world was to be ripped straight from my breast. People could recognise my soul rotting and the spark in my eyes fading. When you loose that, everything you stand for is irrelevant. The perfect wrecking ball is nutured for nine months in my womb is my only reason to continue.
Today we went to Hebden. We stood by the stone bridge and allowed the ducks and pigeons to surround us, nipping bread from our palms. They fly up to perch on our arms and Noah shrieks with delight as the colour on their necks shine and alter in the bright winter sun. The first few days in the year with not a cloud in sight, and the beautiful promises of positivity for a better 2017 ahead.
These ongoing unfortunate situations nearly took my life. The everyday had become a task I was no longer capable of undertaking. I was untouchable, and I had become venomous. I would return early mornings as a euphoric wreck. I would take pleasure in unhappiness eventually passing out, hoping when the sun rose, the light would shine into my soul through the gaps in my skin to save me. Whatever I blamed that I needed saving from. Or maybe I believed the dribbling colour was the worst of me escaping. But it’s impossible to keep secrets, people notice the lack of glitter in your eyes.
Today I rested, watched and battled my thoughts. Recently my body told me I was pregnant and it was wrong. I was disappointed and relieved at the way I’d let myself down. I was convinced. But all it has done is remind me of what is important. Noah and happiness. That’s all.
Mother. Lover. Happy.