As slowly slips my In lieu of care post from my ‘recent posts’, the list for which I could’ve changed the settings to show less than the 5 it shows but I won’t / refuse / shan’t, I’m finding pleasure in witnessing its descent into the past — it has a little way to go to drop from my first page, but even that will eventually occur — and I’m finding it all very symbolic, cathartic, and a load of other equally pleasurable words.
Slowly but surely, time is doing its thing — consigning things to the past.
What I dislike the most about the events described within that post is the fact that I was silenced — I wasn’t silent, I had an awful lot to say but I couldn’t find a way to say it all effectively, and I’m sure my fellow writers out there will agree that that is a fate much worse than writers block. At least with a block you’re stumped with a blank page and with no thoughts forward, whereas I had pages of broken sentences and a glut of messy thoughts — I had thousands upon thousands of words that just ran and ran to nowhere.
I will admit that I obsessed on my grievance statement — its wording was most important to me, as was its form — but once written, uttered, and dismissed, I still found myself silenced but not silent; I was still unable to say anything coherently.
And then that post itself — it was ‘in writing’ for months, never once being more than just litter clogging up my mind and desktop, but then came the promised P45 and out came the words, and I now realise that I probably should’ve waited before I berated myself for being unable to form a sentence.
I just didn’t have anything else to write, and I love to write. I love the very act of typing and I love how the words read back to me, how they look on the screen and paper, and I love most of all being able to say to myself that I’m done, that I wrote that. I love the pride I feel when I’m satisfied. Writing kills my time — those days I have nothing much to do, I write them away, not one of them wasted. Writing is me and the very first part of me, everything else about me is second.
I lost me, and that is how I feel.
I dislike the fact that happened.
One day my dislike will turn to indifference, and on that day those events described will be nothing more than an unwilling lesson in life well learnt — my gran and my cousin will be free to celebrate in my heart and mind, because you know what? They bloody well deserve to — they did not deserve the treatment described.
My loathing of that hook that was had on them will wither away — that anger and pain, those tears and that damn silence that wasn’t silent but ineffective noise will get harder to recall — and as slips In lieu of care from my recent posts, I see that that day is on the way.
I’m not so naïve to think it is really that easy, but hell, it can’t get any harder.
Currently, I’m trying to write a post that looks back on my years working in a funeral home — it’s been such a pleasure, such an honour, and I’ve met so many fantastic people — but at the moment it is proving a little too difficult to write. I have a lot of beginnings, a lot of middles, and an ending I can’t seem to shake.
I hate that, I really do — I hate how I can’t articulate just how amazing it has been to have helped the bereaved; and I hate how those years were so worthless and pointless — it wasn’t that way, it’s just how I’ve been made to feel, and I hate the fact that this valuelessness is still ringing true in me.
One day, though. One day soon — I’m just going to keep on writing and searching for a way to make my words coherent, and I know when they do finally make sense they’ll do justice to the part of me that was the second of me, and which made all the rest of me third.