Day 163
Steve has been hogging the computer again and I have been feeling like shit. I shan't go into details - suffice to say that you know things are crap when you get undressed at night, and are not the least bit surprised to realise that all day you have been wearing a bra stained with guinea-pig pee. (that was Tuesday).
Last night was book group, and we had read Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie, which covered pretty much all the tragedies of the last century, from the bombing of Nagasaki to the twin towers on 9/11. Heavy stuff, (but good, good book).
Found myself in the position of telling everybody about how my sister was killed, with the emphasis on how I felt about the people who did it. It seemed very relevant, somehow, though thankfully we didn't dwell on it - that would have ruined the evening and taken away the point of our meeting.
I know some people find it very difficult to hear about these things, unless it is distant, removed, impersonal - an item on the ten o,clock news or in the newspaper. They can discuss murders, rapes, kidnappings, tortures, paedophiles, and terrorist attacks with compassion, intelligence, and a will to make the world a better place.
But when it is close to home, has happened to somebody they know, they go quiet, look away, fumble their words and avoid the subject. Not so my book group. Lovely, kind, intelligent women, all of them so I felt able to say what came up for me, in a safe and empowering environment.
My experience with others has often been that they see me as wrong for telling the truth about it, for bringing it up even if directly asked. I have felt pressured to keep it private, to varnish over the facts or perhaps go so far as to almost deny them, as if somehow, I should be ashamed that this happened to me and my family. I don't understand this at all.
Then there are those at the other end of the spectrum who feel I should wear the tragedy like a badge that defines me, marks me out, describes who I have become. I remember one man, a friend I thought, getting terribly upset that I wasn't distraught and crying when I talked about it, as if "the woman whose sister was murdered" is all the identity I had.
Of course I cried - for years in fact - but not every time I thought about my sister. There was a lot more to her, to her life, to my memories of her, than just that one moment of her death. Her life is what counted ultimately, her life, nothing else.
I feel sorrow and compassion for people who get stuck in a place of trauma and grief, who find themselves unable to move out of that in their own good time, and become again more than just the victim of the circumstance. Those people who carry themselves through life as 'the rape victim' or 'cancer survivor' or the one 'recovering from abuse'.
It's not who they are, it's what was done to them, which will have affected who they are, of course, but doesn't extinguish the rest of their humanity. In the book, Burnt Shadows, the woman from Nagasaki flees to Delhi, unable to bear being someone whose personality has been reduced to a label -'Hibakusha', an explosion-affected person.
For a time other people's clear discomfort made me hold back from talking about it - I have no wish to deliberately cause pain - but eventually my need to be congruent with who I am, to tell my story simply and accurately, to hide nothing that was of importance to me, especially my sister and all that came with that, overtook my hesitancy. I don't know precisely when it happened but it did.
I'm happy with who I have become through all the ups and downs of my life, the big tragedies and the bigger joys. I see no need to hide any of it anymore. I continue to learn every day, becoming more real to myself, more in integrity with my heart. I choose not to apologise if others think I should do it another way, they are entitled to their opinion, it just isn't for me.
For me, today, I just want to keep moving forward, building My New Life. I don't want the labels of 'person with CFS' or anything else restricting what I envision as my future. So what if it doesn't happen over night, that I still have really shitty weeks where I get nothing done in the day and can't sleep at night? It doesn't matter. Right now I have one friend who wants to teach a self-esteem course with me and another who wants to write a book with me, so I must be doing something right.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Houses, homes, and hearts
Day 144
I'm back!
I've been away staying with my lovely friend Tylea in Poole. When I first got to know her she was living with a man who didn't see her, he just walked around an image he had of her that didn't take into account her needs or her true self. Wanting to love and be loved, as all of us do, she let him. Then she got breast cancer.
This shook things up, making her really visible, with definite needs, and so the man saw her through what he could of it and then he left. My mate Ty is nothing if not a fighter, and so, although her heart was broken into pieces, her sense of herself as an attractive and desirable woman all shot to hell, and her financial position now very precarious, she got up and got going, tough little cookie that she is.
Two house moves and three men later, she has beaten the cancer, lost six stone in weight, sorted her finances, found her true self, and forged a new life, unafraid, and extremely unapologetic. And now there is a new man in her life - a gentle soul called Paul, who I got to meet for the first time on Thursday.
He is 73 and she is 65, and they are not hanging around because they are, as Paul says, in the departure lounge now. He knows that he is only really happy when he is with her, that he misses her dreadfully when apart, that sleeping alone has lost all of it's comfort, that things are worth so much more when shared with her.
She feels the same. She talks about him all the time, filling the hours that they are apart with his presence by proxy. And as for their sex-life, well, "too much information Tylea", is all I'm gonna say, (apart from "I'm jealous").
They both own bungalows and love animals, especially chickens, (well, somebody has to). The question this week is who moves in with who? His bungalow is darker and smaller but has a paddock for the animals. Hers is lighter and brighter and, they both agree, more homely, but only has a small garden, so where will Molly the goat live?
And as for taste differences - well! She wears mini-skirts and he has a natty collection of Val Doonican jumpers, so it could be intersting to see what they do.
He lives in the house he shared with his wife for twenty odd years and it is full to the brim (and I mean the brim) with antiques and knick-knacks that represent their life together. There is not one inch of wall that does not have an armoire, sideboard, display cabinet or occasional table against it, tenderly displaying all their collections, beautifully polished and cared for, and reflecting the shine of the horse brasses and plates that decorate the walls.
Her house is minimal and modernish, with pastel walls, a few African figurine sculptures, and leather sofas. She has given permission for three chairs (two of them child-sized) to enter her house from his, but I doubt much else will get through.
When I met Steve, I lived exclusively with furniture that was handed down or found on the street or in skips, and I liked it that way. My stuff was interesting to me, unique, faded and patched and not too precious, pre-loved, as it is now termed. It had history and character. It was also junk, which is what Steve saw when he looked at it.
He took me shopping at MFI. I was actually embarrassed and hoped nobody I knew would see me going inside. Instinctively I felt that I wouldn't see any thing I liked and I was right. Twenty-two years later, and we have got the art of compromise down pretty well pat. I now shop at Ikea and other perfectly normal shops besides those with a charity emblazoned above the door. Steve trawls around car-boot sales with me, happily stumping up the money for loads of knick-knacks that he sees no point in at all, but which make a house a home for me.
Neither of us has the home we would create if left to our own devices, but we have the home that we have built together, and in many ways, that is much more important. I still sometimes get cravings for things with peeling paint, and he is still drawn to 'clean lines' and chrome fittings, but we meet somewhere slightly to the left of the middle (the left being my taste), so every body is happy most of the time.
After all, a home is not the paint colours and carpets, it's the comfortable silences and the back rubs, the post Sunday lunch snoozes and the pets that greet you at the door, the little signs that those you love come here because there's nowhere else they'd rather be.
You make your bed and then you lie in it - it doesn't matter what the bed-linen is like, only who you lie there with. I look forward to seeing how Tylea and Paul negotiate their new living arrangements in the future. I'm fairly certain they will meet somewhere to the left of centre (the left being Tylea's taste) and they will be very, very happy.
I'm going now to make my bed (which I haven't done yet), and to stroke the cat, and know that all is well with the world. Cheerio!
I'm back!
I've been away staying with my lovely friend Tylea in Poole. When I first got to know her she was living with a man who didn't see her, he just walked around an image he had of her that didn't take into account her needs or her true self. Wanting to love and be loved, as all of us do, she let him. Then she got breast cancer.
This shook things up, making her really visible, with definite needs, and so the man saw her through what he could of it and then he left. My mate Ty is nothing if not a fighter, and so, although her heart was broken into pieces, her sense of herself as an attractive and desirable woman all shot to hell, and her financial position now very precarious, she got up and got going, tough little cookie that she is.
Two house moves and three men later, she has beaten the cancer, lost six stone in weight, sorted her finances, found her true self, and forged a new life, unafraid, and extremely unapologetic. And now there is a new man in her life - a gentle soul called Paul, who I got to meet for the first time on Thursday.
He is 73 and she is 65, and they are not hanging around because they are, as Paul says, in the departure lounge now. He knows that he is only really happy when he is with her, that he misses her dreadfully when apart, that sleeping alone has lost all of it's comfort, that things are worth so much more when shared with her.
She feels the same. She talks about him all the time, filling the hours that they are apart with his presence by proxy. And as for their sex-life, well, "too much information Tylea", is all I'm gonna say, (apart from "I'm jealous").
They both own bungalows and love animals, especially chickens, (well, somebody has to). The question this week is who moves in with who? His bungalow is darker and smaller but has a paddock for the animals. Hers is lighter and brighter and, they both agree, more homely, but only has a small garden, so where will Molly the goat live?
And as for taste differences - well! She wears mini-skirts and he has a natty collection of Val Doonican jumpers, so it could be intersting to see what they do.
He lives in the house he shared with his wife for twenty odd years and it is full to the brim (and I mean the brim) with antiques and knick-knacks that represent their life together. There is not one inch of wall that does not have an armoire, sideboard, display cabinet or occasional table against it, tenderly displaying all their collections, beautifully polished and cared for, and reflecting the shine of the horse brasses and plates that decorate the walls.
Her house is minimal and modernish, with pastel walls, a few African figurine sculptures, and leather sofas. She has given permission for three chairs (two of them child-sized) to enter her house from his, but I doubt much else will get through.
When I met Steve, I lived exclusively with furniture that was handed down or found on the street or in skips, and I liked it that way. My stuff was interesting to me, unique, faded and patched and not too precious, pre-loved, as it is now termed. It had history and character. It was also junk, which is what Steve saw when he looked at it.
He took me shopping at MFI. I was actually embarrassed and hoped nobody I knew would see me going inside. Instinctively I felt that I wouldn't see any thing I liked and I was right. Twenty-two years later, and we have got the art of compromise down pretty well pat. I now shop at Ikea and other perfectly normal shops besides those with a charity emblazoned above the door. Steve trawls around car-boot sales with me, happily stumping up the money for loads of knick-knacks that he sees no point in at all, but which make a house a home for me.
Neither of us has the home we would create if left to our own devices, but we have the home that we have built together, and in many ways, that is much more important. I still sometimes get cravings for things with peeling paint, and he is still drawn to 'clean lines' and chrome fittings, but we meet somewhere slightly to the left of the middle (the left being my taste), so every body is happy most of the time.
After all, a home is not the paint colours and carpets, it's the comfortable silences and the back rubs, the post Sunday lunch snoozes and the pets that greet you at the door, the little signs that those you love come here because there's nowhere else they'd rather be.
You make your bed and then you lie in it - it doesn't matter what the bed-linen is like, only who you lie there with. I look forward to seeing how Tylea and Paul negotiate their new living arrangements in the future. I'm fairly certain they will meet somewhere to the left of centre (the left being Tylea's taste) and they will be very, very happy.
I'm going now to make my bed (which I haven't done yet), and to stroke the cat, and know that all is well with the world. Cheerio!
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