tendays

 

No, I’m not coping.  I am not coping at all.  I drink too much, I sleep too little, I bury myself in teaching, offering to do extra work, putting myself out to help make life easier for others.  I skip lunch break to differentiate work.  I can’t sit in the staff room and not shout out, not cry and tear at my hair and bite the flesh on the insides of my wrists.  I want to be held up, to be asked what can be done for me, to be handed a tissue and held, just held. 

I told someone today “I’m a single mother of three boys, their hearts are broken and It’s my fault”
“You’re doing brilliantly now though,”  She said  “How many years have you lived apart?”

I’m fed up of coping.  I wanted to pull her hair, to scream, to roll on the floor and never ever ever get up ~ less than two weeks, ten days really.  I say nothing.

 I checked my bank balance today.  I didn’t buy rice.  I didn’t buy apples.  I didn’t buy butter.  I went home, chatting to my boys about the height of the river, and the flocking starlings and who gets the money we spend in charity shops.  We waved to the fire-engine and I smiled and smiled and smiled.

I am roasting a chicken in the oven, slices of lemon pushed between the breast.flesh and the skin, piercings of rosemary sprigs.  He is coming for dinner.
Daddy is coming for dinner, I tell them cheerfully, deceptive spangles glinting fraudently from my words.  Do you know what they say, do you know?  So many guesses as I tear out my eyes each night, leave them rolling about the floor like tipped solitaire, gathering fluff.

Oh, says one    Oh dear, says another   When is he going again, asks the last.

so for all my doubts, I know I am not alone.  Even with this second.dwelling ache, the near~nausea of each breath, even with the genuine urge to break myself with things, just to see how it feels, even with all this, they, tiny toed, feel it too and I am growing slowly.  I am Harry Potter, when he got the bones removed from his arm and had to regrow them.  It hurts, but it has to hurt to grow.  I am cooking roast chicken, I still make brilliant roast potatoes, I am smiling, falsely, but still not destroyed.

Even just ten days ago, i truly believed I would die from a broken heart.  Yeah, my heart is broken, but my determination is only slightly cracked and my spirit is as tough as old boots.  I will speak my mind.  I will speak out for what I feel is right, and if I have no money I can smile and remember that the frost didn’t touch the carrots still hiding in the soil.  Carrot soup is lovely.  I have flour and yeast and a little fat.  I have warm water.  Freshly baked bread and carrot soup.  A bowl of summer, and it’s free.

I am scared.

He will be here in an hour and I am shaking.

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~ by Beeskiffle on January 30, 2008.

11 Responses to “tendays”

  1. No, you’re not alone. Never. Too much of what I have to say can’t be said to the world darling – or can it? I don’t know anymore. I’ll be back. You’re not alone… I made you many promises and I stand by everyone. I promise you that this will get easier and I promise you that you are not alone and I promise you that the only way to cope is to be kind to yourself. Please, you have taken my advice before so take that piece of advice too. Be kind to yourself. I’ll be back. xxx (delete this if you want – I just wanted you to know I was here)

  2. And Im going to write you a long mail… I can’t do it here. I’m not as brave as you. xxx

  3. Simply brilliant writing. Mounting intensity, feeling of loss of control and then easing back into hope, never once losing control over the language. The subject matter is difficult and intense but the writing is simply perfect, communicating the emotion, conjuring the events and the thoughts and feelings that go with them with particular subtle detail. So real and so alive,

  4. Amazing writing, beyond brilliant, you have a rare and wonderful gift.

    I’m sorry about the situation…..

  5. Amazing writing, far beyond brilliant, you have such a gift.

    I’m sorry about the situation.

  6. thank you

  7. “Daddy is coming for dinner, I tell them cheerfully, deceptive spangles glinting fraudently from my words. Do you know what they say, do you know? So many guesses as I tear out my eyes each night, leave them rolling about the floor like tipped solitaire, gathering fluff.

    Oh, says one Oh dear, says another When is he going again, asks the last.

    so for all my doubts, I know I am not alone. Even with this second.dwelling ache, the near~nausea of each breath, even with the genuine urge to break myself with things, just to see how it feels, even with all this, they, tiny toed, feel it too and I am growing slowly.” – very moving passage; the fear, as a mother of sons, that they would prefer their father/blame you for his absence is what I got from this, although I could be wrong.

    You really allowed us to live this with you, Ebby. Thanks. Sorry to know that you’re having a shit time.
    Some of this is a pleasant read, such as the last paragraph (prior to those final lines), and:
    “I went home, chatting to my boys about the height of the river, and the flocking starlings and who gets the money we spend in charity shops. We waved to the fire-engine and I smiled and smiled and smiled.” [with the knowledge of the situation that you’ve provided us, the reader knows that this cheerfulness requires a lot of effort from the narrator, that she puts up a brave front for her boys, which endears her to us further].

    Great write Ebby, with lots of attention to detail and images.

    p.s.
    “and blatent rudeness” (blatant)
    “sleep to little” (too?)

    [does the above tell you who this is…from the Cafe?]
    [in a non-sinister, non-stalker way lol]

  8. Claire….
    hello my friend, no one leaves reviews like yours and no one else corrects my mistakes. it is lovely to see you here. thank you very much for reading me xxx

  9. Hello… I saw at Poetman’s site that you received his Award, so that motivated me to mosey over and check it out. You should know that I’m old, cranky and not easily pleased, so trust me when I tell you that I agree with the others… your ability to construct your prose in such a fashion as to make it seamless with your emotions is a gift. To merely offer platitudes with no real understanding of your situation would be superficial, so I’ll merely wish you well and tell you that I will return.

  10. Hello, Beeskiffle,I have been where you are, a single mother, with no money, and often not enough food, trying so desperatly hard to keep it all together…and how it is just such an effort to keep on going sometimes……i dont want to pretend that i know what you are personally going through, but I know what the death of a dream feels like.
    Please Take care and some kindness to yourself,

  11. Breathtaking.

    Simply breathtaking.

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