The ever after

In this place where love once lived
a dried up festered dream remains.
Golden rust of autumnal woods,
meandering paths of possibilities
waiting for us to walk down them
with love songs on our lips;
Now lost are the ways, harsh and tangled.

Loving once only to watch it die
not in a glorious poetic moment
but putrefy, with age and resentment
in a cheap terraced house of no note,
magnolia, with unfinished edges.

There is a child.
His pure hymnal laughter
shatters the mortuary air.
Another child grows
oblivious in my warm tomb;
astounding that cadaver like
I can grow a perfect life.

That mother was a patchwork quilt,
threadbare patches screaming apart,
she never held it all together.
And then this mother
cracking face and bleeding eyes
barren goddess to a child.

Can a child grow without dreams?

(July 2013)

The other reality

Night brings on other realities
of a languid woman of lusty hues,
spreading her limbs apart in desire,
and him. Dark eyes and dark hair
beautiful and clear and burning.
He could desire me, admire me,
snake his arms around my waist
kiss my neck to envious eyes.
He could, and I would let him,
now, when my limbs are liquid,
my man and my child locked
away in another reality.
I could even let this woman look
into his dark eyes and fall.
But I know, through my stupor,
that if she were to look over his shoulder,
the dreamy mist would give way
to ugly black dying shapes.
Why should this lust fuelled night vision
have anything more than the inglorious end
of the other reality of day?

(From early 2011)

A difficult Saturday's journey

I found myself fleeing last Saturday. Fleeing from my home and from my own inability to be unflinching and steady. My depression had been building all day, with Malcolm's exhaustion not lifting, Seth rejecting and challenging me, and having to attend a most tedious, middle-class-aspirational gathering where I felt isolated and out of place. By the time I served up dinner, I was barely managing to hold in my tears and failing totally to engage my son’s toddler energies. When we somehow approached bathtime and it looked as if my overtired son’s violent, screaming, physical protestations would cause him to hurt himself in the bath, Malcolm forced himself out of bed and came to my aid, to try and calm Seth down. Seth rushed into his arms like an oppressed being and something in that action snapped my tenuous restraint. I screamed in despair and frustration and rushed out of the room. I had a brief glimpse of Seth’s face as I passed him. There was nothing there but a fearless, uninformed child’s shock, but I imagined much else growing there, over the years to come. I’ve read that this is typical of people who suffer from anxiety – an inability to deal with the limited present and an insistence on imagining a threatening future based on the frightened spectre of past events. I glimpsed things in my son’s face that weren’t there and I was repulsed. So I ran and kept running until I was in the car and drove away, running still.

It’s difficult to describe what I felt while I drove for the first hour. Great waves of earth shaking sobs racked my body. My mind flailed around desperately, looking for refuge. Family, friends – no I couldn’t turn to them, couldn’t let them see me this way.  I thought of the church I take Seth to on Sundays, because I could go and sit in that familiar place and be broken there, and relative strangers would comfort me. Strangers who in their Christian duty would never turn me away, who hadn’t already tired of nursing me, whom I hadn’t bled dry of empathy. Then this vision rapidly turned rank –strangers who would pity me, tell me words that I knew would heal nothing, and then ever more after that, on smiling and sunny days when I would be winning inside, these strangers would come to me, place concerned hands on my arm, pity in their eyes and ask me how I was feeling. They would make my darkness laugh at me, at how helpless I had been. No, I could not turn to these kindly strangers.

St Mary’s appealed next. I have always been able to … well, nod to God there, at the very least. I’ve never been very good at listening to God, but I’ve been able to talk to God, a little bit, at St Mary's. People have worshipped at that place since the 11^th century and I have felt their piety flowing through time towards me, I have felt the distant pulsing of their living faith in the air. I have imagined St Mary’s existing in a different dimension in space, somewhere where the world stills and God holds your hand. You have to step out into that space, leave your world behind and enter God’s world. I have always liked walking into St Mary’s through the narrow, overhung path, through the ancient cemetery, approaching the building from an angle on the side. It’s like seeing the building through a portal and needing to chase it, quietly, meditatively, fixedly, as I walk towards it. Old, old Time rests among the graves. When I get to the door, the building straightens out in front of me, and as I open the ancient door into the church I give up the unwitting struggles I put up against God on most days.

So when my soul was floundering, I wanted to take refuge in St Mary’s. And then this vision too, was cast aside by my breaking mind. I saw myself alone on a dark night in an old, abandoned cemetery instead, where there was no God, no grace. It was as if I had stepped through that portal like countless times before, only to find that my space with God had moved coordinates and I was trapped in an imitation of it, dark and lonely.

So I kept fleeing, my foot firmly down on the pedal. The road signs told me I was heading to Canterbury. The word ‘Canterbury’ gave me a sliver of hope. Why? I didn’t know. But relieved at the idea of having a destination, I kept driving, fleeing to somewhere now, and not just from.

By the time I reached Canterbury, I knew why I’d headed there. Canterbury was the place of promise, of new beginnings, of new love for me. I bought myself a new life in Canterbury years ago. I was running to that promise, to remind me of all the way I had come.

I was now a little less frantic but I was still fleeing. I had no desire to stop anywhere or see anyone, so I kept driving and soon found myself headed back towards London. ‘London’ on the road signs brought on a little twinge of the old anxiety. The bright lights and busy streets of London have always excited me. But I felt old that night and excitement seemed like a thing for the young, I felt drained at the thought of it.

I drove on, managing to calm my soul into a kind of stupor, like when an intemperate animal has been shot with a tranquilising dart. A fallen, unwilling, winded heap of a soul. When I feel this much edge to my depression, I try to achieve an utterly numb state, a state where no sensory information is allowed to register, no thought is allowed to take root, where everything around becomes white space, until I can get myself into bed and seek oblivion in exhausted sleep. Afterwards, I try to deal with the guilt, shame and fear in a rationalised, systematic fashion which would make any therapist proud. But first, the numbness must be brought in, to stop the internal laceration.

So I forced myself into that state of numbness while I drove. I didn’t dwell on the stream of headlights and backlights flowing through the rolling landscape ahead, red on my side and yellow on the facing side. These things normally give me pleasure and I like feeling the motion of the lights. But that night I didn’t let the faintest pleasure in, or the insanity might have forced its way back in. I drove in that white space, trying to see, hear, feel, think nothing until I got home to bed.

After a while, something tiny, like a little germ wriggling its intrepid way through, did force its way into my conscious mind. The ticking of the indicators as I changed lanes. It was indiscernible background noise at first, but it grew clearer and very real, like the insistent rhythm of a beating heart under a suppressing hand on the chest. With each tick, into the white space came a drop of peace – not pleasure, just peace. (Kind of like my friend Kalyani’s pictures that I like very much – drops of vivid blue mixing and swirling frame by frame in a bowl of water.) The ticking walked in on my numb consciousness, politely and sympathetically, speaking in soft tones, until my mind turned to hear and listen.

It told me to remember all those long drives I had shared with Malcolm. He would talk with wonder of Roman engineering that gave us some of the roads we still drive on. He would tell me his fantastical stories, how wizards fought for power and precocious children changed the destiny of worlds. And always, I would fall asleep, his voice wrapped around me like silk and dreaming of slow dances and warm sunlight creeping in on resolutely dark corners. It told me to remember the true nature of the love that awaited me, patiently, in my home.

When I got home that night, a few hours later, I saw Malcolm at the window, waiting for me. I walked in and sat on the couch. He brought me a glass of wine, said not a word and drew me into his arms. Later, we watched some pretentious post modernist twaddle on TV and laughed together. I had stopped fleeing, at least for this night.

A tale of love, healing and a curse

At the age of 33 my husband was diagnosed with ME/CFS. There is apparently no cure, just ‘managing the condition’. I watch my geriatric young husband stumble through his days in a fog of exhaustion and confusion. Every failed attempt at raising a limp arm or formulating a weak thought burns a welt on my consciousness.

Alternately, I rage at the universe, pray fervently and sometimes beg, curl up into a ball of defeat, turn up my chin defiantly and cope.

In my secret reckonings with God I ask why, if he is the loving father that I believe him to be, would our lives be tossed around in a mighty sea in such a careless way. And always the answer comes back: 'ask yourself what you have done, ask that hungry, all-consuming darkness in you what it has done to your love'.

(PS: Thought of e e cummings’ ‘anyone lived in a pretty how town’ today.)

Once upon an indifferent time,

there was a damsel much damaged.

She sat by the wayside and dreamt of a prince

who would kiss her withered lips.

One evening of brew and kindling touch,

the promised prince arrived on a dream.

After much singing and dancing around trees

the damsel and the prince were wedded in bliss.

There followed the interminable middle,

as happy as tale endings are.

Many moons waked and sunsets dawned,

they lived the fairy part of the tale.

The prince couldn’t stop the falling in love

and he fell into magical healing powers.

The damsel’s deadened damaged selves

grew animated languorously.

Many more moons and sunsets passed.

‘Til once, under a suitably stormy sky,

the damsel stared at a terrible truth:

the prince was slowly crumbling away.

The random curse of a careless witch:

at the highest of his helpless falling his

spirit would leave him, and take with it

all his love and youthful years.

On that fateful stormy night

the damsel’s hungry distress rose

and cried out for love’s sustenance,

while the prince crumbled like paper in flames.

Thus was the dismal denouement:

the prince became as dust in the air;

the damsel was left for all her days

with fragments only half alive.