This is the last time I am typing this paragraph. I have offered burnt offerings to the gods of my forefathers hoping that just this once, I write half a page. Writing is supposed to be meteoric for me but lately it has been a constant skid in the mud and a painful drag on earthen floor. As earthen as my grandma’s hut.
I have been an average female who has refused to let go of what defined her when she was still starting in her career. I have refused to move on. Moving on is a sexy idea. What with feminists preaching self-love and the internet saying how cool it is to be a new person. New mindset and if you please, a new wardrobe. Unfortunately, what I lack in flexibility I cannot even compensate in fashion. I am as old as a cat. Why a cat? I think cats don’t have nine lives. They are just old.
I finally received the complete judgment of the judge who laid a final verdict on my marriage. She wrote in such exaggerated legal jargon that I wondered if that was my story summarized in a few words. The words cut through the blackest of spaces. And I am very black to be fair.
As much as possible, I am supposed to be happy and relieved. Happy or relieved.Both.However there is an unceasing gnaw of ache in my spirit. I keep going back in my mind to days I spent as a happily married girl-or what I imagined was happy. I especially keep rewinding the month of August before I walked down the aisle in September. Sometimes the voices in my head suggest time travel.
I recall days the choir of lassies invaded my privacy and candidly reminded me that I was a means to some end. I ignored them and labelled them envious. In positively glowing ways exactly as I would have loved to see them in hell at that time.
All signs indicated that getting married to my then fiancé was a terrible idea. For starters, he was yet to make peace with his demons. Talking of which, you can’t escape your demons. I enrolled mine in a circus and we are having the time of our life. They are the eye of the fire in my life. I stare at it and no, it won’t blink.
There is a certain shame one feels when they realize that the castle they built was made of eggshells. There is an undeniable loss when one realizes every dream they had was actually a dream. I have been wanting to scream and shout at the son of my former mother in law. I swear I had a few wonderfully crafted things to tell him. Words that cut across me like a network of dry riverbeds. I wanted to talk to him on a bright dawn just before the sun slit through the curtains.
It was the suggestion of the Demon-In-Chief in my head to remind him that he was the first tree in my forest yet he burnt it.The Deputy Demon said he burnt it down because it was never his forest.It was my uncanny ability to make terrible decisions. I had to choose whether to wallow in the cesspit of pity or learn the lesson and hope to make more creative mistakes in future.
I have not stopped to preach to myself that I will be alright someday. I have not lied to the girl in me that someday it won’t hurt. I know that it will hurt. Especially when I look at the judgment and the Decree from the court. There is abusive marriage and there is something about seeing the details on paper.
I asked my lawyer if he was sure that that was my story. He sadly reminded me the day I went to make an Initial statement. You see, divorce must be factual. You must be able to prove to the law that you have grounds for it.That was when I hated my life a little bit. Do not get me wrong, I am grand. However I can be a wee bit daft too.
I typed the exact things that had been happening in my otherwise perfect home and I broke down staring at the screen. As the cursor left space after space after every diabolic atrocity nobody should do to another human being; especially a human being they walked with down the aisle, my heart ripped open. Small rivulets of thirsty blood spilled out. Small tributaries of anguish welled up and overflowed in the form of tears. Unhappy tears that dripped drop after drop on the desk of my solicitor. I asked for a lawyer, not a therapist. It seemed like I needed both.
So with the inevitable sheet of pain lying idly on my desk, I had to choose.
I made the choice to embrace that part of my story. To stare at it and wink sometimes. To hug it to my warm bosom and then throw it off a cliff. There is no prison greater as the one in one’s mind. The moment we break the chains and set sail towards Island Freedom, no gates of captivity can contain us.
It pays to be at perfect harmony with the ghosts of one’s mistakes. The heart may be fragile and coated with a thin layer of hurt but it is all we have sometimes. Much as I hated looking at the full judgment, I had to surrender myself to the emotions it brings.
I decided to give in to the pain and brokenness this particular writing would bring me.To dive into the darkness emanating from a strike of the pen and a dropping of the gavel. To actually take a walk into the bottom pit. It is only by going dark can one see the rays of light. When we hit the rock bottom of desperation, anxiety and foreboding, we can see so many pathways to the top.
I have become good at feeling bad. I have allowed negativity to latch and suck onto my soul like a baby unquenched at the mother’s breast. That is how I am able to walk into positivity. Not because I believed in myself but because I did not. I do not win at self-motivation and maybe that is what someone wants to hear. That they are perfectly fine feeling terrible. That they are perfectly dandy even if hours and hours of psychotherapy have not helped to ease the pain.
That it was not meant to work like some pixie dust. It was meant to be grilling and as long as they are putting in the work, we shall all be alright. Probably not fully but we will not sit and stare at our wounds forever.
Getting out of bed and doing something other than count the number of tiles in the room, going to work and actually loving it, waking up to meet some much needed friends and going out in the bright sunshine or wintry night; these have become my absolute tiny victories. I have found solace in the written word. It is funny how it leaves me when it is out there. It is hellishly liberating.
Words are the sauce with which to serve a perfectly ruined lunch.