*REPOST pour ma Gandmere and for feeling helpless*
For she’s a jolly good fella… For she’s…. a she is..
not even a fella
She’s 83 today.
Big deal, right?
what is so special about her lying in a state care home in a periwinkle neglige?
She is someone I dread going to see -every single week.
I won’t stop going – even when every at every visit, I have to protect every orifice from catching the decay lingering in the air. The food smells like an institution – a broth of flavoured purgatory.
This is not the final destination- I will take the unknown every time.
Staring death in the face – eye to eye.
She fights with every breath.
‘Tu veux du jus?’ says, I – mentally fumbling about for something to fill the time. I pour her a glass of watered-down juice.
she grunts and moans in feral tones – I assume she means oui.
Usually, I am really comfortable at free flowing . This doesn’t flow so well. I’m in the thick of it. It’s a plot,alright. I’m standing too close to it to fill it with flowery words. but I have to get this out of my head.
My head shouts:
Over and over arrows laced with commands to make me revolt or dissolve.
I’m not so sure anymore.
I’ve got no other vices.
Thought about having a drink, taking more valium than I should but the outcome is always the same.
So, I sit here trying to process my thoughts. Align my feelings – they are like every kind of liquorice all sorts, except for the actual plain ones. The ones I look for when I want a taste of Life.
You don’t always get what you want. Well, you may have a winning streak for a while but you don’t know where you are truly going to end up, do you?
Sure. we have goals – Do you know with absolute certainty that no obstacle will come in the way and prevent that from happening?
Hey, Don’t stop the fight. We need more of you.
I’m not here to put you on a downer.
Tripwire, I fall into the firing line. A spray of bullets rains through me. Visualise it on a time-lapse sequence. Don’t call me a hero. I am a coward.
I see her fight.
83 years old.
She can’t remember,
she can’t even walk.
The rings she has been put through. It’s not evil it’s truly wicked.
She is so divine if only I could make her all fine.
Skin flawless. A wooden doll. so tiny. She has so much fire.
Burn in hell, Weak? they said.
She had it easy. (Life.) She didn’t for the fucking record.
Stop the record!
Now I can take the needle and jab any mother fucker in the eye, who dares to judge her with their hypocritical, artificial, over consumed minds.
It’s like like the song – easy like a Sunday morning.
We all get at least one of those days – some have a more fortunate hand.
When will this be over?
When is she going to die?
Another person, I love and could have done more for.
No regrets! the little sparrow bursts out a melody enough to make me weep.
Here I am bawling – feverishly knitting a blanket infused with Tsunami waves, suffocating myself, wallowing- staring at her – All I want to do is start hollering.
If I do I know I will get collared. One apprehension is enough for one day.
I get to be alone with her.
She sucks up at least half a beaker of juice.
I love you, gran’
Her eyes glisten – a meadow dew-effect. We connected.
She knew I knew she knew I knew.
It’s that befuddling.
I couldn’t hear the radio, I couldn’t see the lampshade glow. All that energy directed me to focus on her mouth.
she came out with the most grateful and graceful,
THANK YOU – I have ever heard. English is not even her native language,
to me – her own granddaughter.
Thanking me for giving her some juice. Seeing her an hour a week. It’s all sluice.
Drink up your purified juice. Punishment does not lie.
I ran out of that place- discombobulated.
Sometimes, I feel nothing. Other times, I am a gibbering wreck but I always have to collect and that is why I am a respected member of the poker face club.
I have my own Ma who needs me. My daughter.
I’ve made some crazy bets.
A lifetime of betting and I see only now, how important it is that I need to take care of myself.
There is a struggle – warfare -conflict within me.
Not thin enough to be hospitalised but thin enough to warrant concern. I still get appraising looks for this form I inhabit in now.
It awakens the Furies inside me. No, you need to accept me for who I am. Whatever shape I transform into.
I need you to. I need me to.
She is about 5 stone. She eats a lot – can’t put on weight. What a fucking paradox.
I restrict. I know I am putting on weight. I deliberately don’t do cardio exercise anymore.
I do walk a lot -like them L.A. girls. Power walk my way up ‘panic attack ‘hill and finally dwindle down into a corner. Shallow breathing. It’s better than hyperventilating and heaving.
Something to do with birth.
I have everything I need to get obliterated- fuck I could OD – I’ve always been the ultimate elusive escapist of life.
I had to talk to myself.
Me? Talking sense to myself.
So it was my Gran’s birthday today.
She is still clinging on to life. She is not hanging out with her fellow homies in the lounge downstairs making cupcakes or doing puzzles – listening to Polly-the ultimate nutcracker, sitting in her favourite chair and swearing. Put her hands down her pants to feel something. Nobody else cares.
I can’t swallow. These are not the most sprightly of places to visit.
How much longer has she got?
How much longer do we all get?
I wake up every morning to life- I stare at the innocence in the eyes – it’s reflected back to me in my daughter’s eyes.
Still, I have moments when I contemplate dicing with my own life. gambling it, frittering it away.
To have this kind of raw, exposed insight. To know better – is self-flagellation.
To sit with a belly full of food and a head and heart full of thoughts and emotions
and wonder …
I’ve done that far too much.
Escapology trick 101.
I wonder why I won’t accept my lot.
Am I the only one?
I’m not convinced. I’m sceptical like that.
I mean sure I’m special but c’ mon……..
I have issues- being a narcissist is not one of them – unless I am having I look like shit – no one liked my selfie post today.
Then it’s all about me mimicking others emotions to get what I want.
I’m not overly whimsical with this post.
On a lighter note me and my husband ( bless him) we fucked so hard yesterday.
We had a round two because I wanted my pleasure.
So I fucked him good and proper. I role-played, Gepetto, in retrospect.
I wasn’t bothered about his needs. For once.
It’s actually a kind of breakthrough for someone like me.
My Nose is not growing.
I could say so much but I may embarrass him. Oh, hang on. I do that all the time. That’s why he married me. I am truly one of a kind and so is he.
A perfect match.
Ladies, you know how when you have been fucked ( I’m not talking about making love and a bit of slap and tickle) I mean when you wake up the morning after?
Cliche phrase alert!
‘John Wayne’ has come out as a woman. It’s all good but its the after-effects of pedalling on a bike, cards t t ticking in the wind, bells tinkering the first time – all that bruising.
Serious bicycle abuse.
My Man- is hurting today. I’m laughing. I’m evil.
Don’t worry he enjoyed it. He keeps making sure I don’t forget it. 😀
Of course, I was on top.
My ride – my rules.
So I’m gonna leave it there – I think I’ve covered some pretty big themes.
Sex, Life, Death, Abuse.
Feeling vulnerable now. Do you mind if I put my armour of skin back on?
If you made it this far – fucking well done. Not patronising you. I promise.
Not my usual style of writing.
Life is short – make it sweet. Stay on top of the game for as long as you can.
These are my words.
* Inspired by my Life, Dementia, thoughts*