Headfuck

My house appears to be ever so slightly, haunted

by Veronica on July 9, 2011

in Headfuck

When my grandmother was dying, she saw fairies dancing in the painting hung at the foot of her bed. She saw a little brown dog curled up on the couch and a few days before she went into hospital, she insisted that there was a cat inside her house, despite her cat being outside.

People were very quick to say that she was hallucinating because of the medication and I’m not going to say that they’re wrong. I’m also not going to say that what Nan saw didn’t exist.

A few weeks after her death, while we were cleaning out her house, I saw the ghost cat too. I nearly tripped over it in fact, and dodged, because I saw a cat, which then ran under the table. A cat that didn’t exist, except that it looked like a cat my grandmother had owned previously. An hour later, I saw the same cat/ghost, out of the corner of my eye again.

I believe in ghosts. I always have and there is very little you can say to dissuade me. I have been to Sarah Island and felt the anger and sadness emanating from the convict walls there and the waves of cold and anger that boil through the paths. I have been scared spitless, on a path at Port Arthur, just knowing that it felt wrong.

I believe and I don’t care if you don’t.

When we bought our house, I was very careful to make sure there was no “bad feel” anywhere in the house. And while it felt cold and damp and in need of renovating, it never felt like we shouldn’t be here and I never felt like we ought to leave.

We bought this place over three years ago now. Since then, time and money have conspired against us and we’ve managed to do very little in the way of renovations, short of clearing up the indoor pond and getting the kitchen and bathroom floor replaced.

What has happened though, are enough small things that I am starting to seriously believe that we have a ghost.

A while back, Nathan and I were sitting watching TV, when the dining room light began to flick on and off. Not a minor flicker, but on and off, for around a minute, before the globe blew.

The doors will open and close occasionally, with no rhyme, or reason. Suddenly, they’ll just slam open, or shut.

We have the things that fall off benches, a full beer that threw itself and landed a good metre from the table and a few other niggly things that have me declaring “It’s the ghost” and Nathan rolling his eyes at me.

My brother heard footsteps through the kitchen when he was staying here one night and thought that I was walking around. On inspection, he was the only one awake.

I’ve been touched, twice. Both times cold and strangely not scary. Once on the shoulder as I stood in front of the mirror, and once on the cheek as I was laying in bed.

It’s spooky and it’s occasionally creepy and I absolutely believe that we have a ghost.

Earlier today, after my friend and her children had left, Nathan and I were sitting in our bedroom chatting. To my left there is a closet, with stuff being stored on top of it. One of those things is a lamp with a glass shade.

As we were talking, one of the panes of glass in the shade shattered, like an explosion.

There was nothing putting stress on the glass (it’s a loose frame type thing) and nothing fell on it. It just, broke.

Which is yet another thing to add to our “we’ve got a ghost” files.

Frankly, if we had the money, I’d seriously consider selling this house to move to a less haunted place. Not that there is anything wrong with sharing real estate with a ghost, I’d just prefer I wasn’t getting touched and having lamp shades shatter.

What about you? Do you believe in ghosts?

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Scheduling

by Veronica on June 22, 2011

in Grief, Headfuck

It’s Sunday night and I’m meant to be getting the week’s posts written in advance, so that I don’t have to stress about them. But this week, it’s not an easy week for me and I’ve been mired in a web of grief and exhaustion.

By Wednesday, when this is due to be posted, I will have tweeted lots, gotten Amy off to school after school holidays, possibly managed a cup of tea without anyone stealing it, or more likely, been forced to share that cup of tea with Isaac, while be obsessively asks where his sister is.

Our days are similar and they bleed into one another, a haze of come here, put that down, don’t eat that, where on EARTH are your shoes and didn’t I tell you no already? The similarity means that another year has passed, seemingly without me noticing it and here we are again, in the race up to the 24th. Time doesn’t slow for anyone and every day takes us further away from a palliative care hospital room and a death rattle. From the sight of eyes as they died and hands like wax.

I wish it were easy, but it appears that grief is not. Not for anyone and I am sick of feeling like I ought to defend my grief to the Universe, and play a game of Pain Olympics, wherein we all work out who has it worse and who has it better and why. I am sick of feeling like I should somehow be less hurt, less sad, because after all, she was ‘only your grandmother‘.

It doesn’t work like that.

Grief is grief is grief.

We all hurt, we all cry and we all breathe through our days until they pass behind us and we wonder where they went. My pain doesn’t negate your pain and neither should yours negate mine. We all walk this life and breathe the same air and feel emotion.

This is a hard week, so forgive me if instead of being online I am hiding in a corner with a book and a toddler wedged under my arm, a warm damp lump. Forgive me when I don’t have any words for you to read, or I’m more bitter than normal.

But of course, you’re the Internet. Of course you’ll forgive me.

It’s everyone else who doesn’t.

 

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The days are long, but the years are short

by Veronica on May 27, 2011

in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck

I stepped back and took stock of everything. It’s nearly June and the dread of the month is probably far worse than the actuality of it. I remember not writing about a lot of things, for fear of upsetting Nan and now, I look back and wish I had a record of each day as it passed, of the emails sent and received, of doctors visits and prognosis and finally, inevitably, the downhill slide to death and grief.

I wish I had every word, every memory, saved for posterity, rather than relying on the memories of a stressed and sleep deprived mind.

Someone said to me once, about life with children: The days are long, but the years are short. That fact slapped me in the face as I realised that it’s been nearly two years.

I’m not sure where that time went, except it’s gone now and wishing it back again isn’t going to change a thing. Would that it could.

Two years ago my son was small and placid, content to lie on the floor by himself. He was smiley and he attended every appointment with us, while I wondered how much time she had left and whether she would see my children grow up.

Life is hard. When you’re the one having to move through life after death, when it feels like the world should just stop and allow you time to process your grief and learn to live again, that’s hard.

***

Stop. Move around and remember to breathe. In and out, out and in. Don’t think, don’t remember, just get through the day.

Make it through until bedtime, then go to bed. Sleep, dream and wake, to do it all again, over and over.

If you haven’t torn your hair out by now, what’s stopping you?

We get caught up in the drudgery of the days and fail to see the years passing by, faster and faster. Like a river, speeding up as you head towards the waterfall (a hurtling death), you can’t seem to slow it down.

One day, you’ll turn around and look at the river of years behind you.

***

The years are short, but the days are long and I need to just keep moving.

Everything will be okay.

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Let’s talk about guilt

by Veronica on May 16, 2011

in Headfuck

Half an hour ago, Nathan went to visit his brother and took the children with him. Immediately, I was struck with a sense of urgency. The kids aren’t here, I am alone, surely I ought to be Doing Something Productive?

Before they left, I had plans. I was going to try to update this blog, write an article for the Mummy Bloggers Blog and maybe write something else, to be pitched for publishing elsewhere. I was going to drink a cup of tea, listen to music, write stuff and then read a book.

I was going to relax.

Then the car drove out of the driveway and the guilt hit.

I am here alone. I should be Doing Something.

I should be Making The Most of the time I have sans children and I should be proving that I am a productive member of the family, even when that family has driven away, leaving me in peace.

Which is stupid really, considering the things that suddenly felt all important were: scrubbing the windowsills, folding all of the dried and hanging laundry and doing more, scrubbing the benches and putting dishes away, or vacuuming.  I was also convinced that I needed to make apple crumble.

I mean, WTF self? Why so productive all of a sudden? Alone time should be relaxing.

So, why the guilt? All of the things that I felt I should be doing, are things that I can do while the children are home.

Things I can’t do when they’re at home include writing, eating and drinking a hot cup of tea without someone stealing it. I should be doing those things.

But the guilt. Oh the guilt.

So I asked on twitter.

And got a slew of replies, from women who feel equally guilty if they’re not being productive when given alone time.

Firstly, I am glad it’s not just me.

Secondly, I am a bit terrified that there is a huge contingent of women who can’t take time for themselves when they’ve got it, without feeling guilty!

Is this how we’re programmed?

I’m just not sure. Men don’t jump out of their seats when their girlfriend walks through the door and start scrubbing coffee cups, just to look busy (do they?)

I do know that I feel guilty about the time I spend on the computer and have been known to dive off the computer when I hear Nathan coming, racing to somewhere, to do something productive, so it looks like I’m busy.

Only the thing is, I consider blogging and it’s assorted things work and so does Nathan. It brings in money, and makes me happy, so why do I feel like it’s not worthwhile?

And really, the only time he grumbles about me being on the computer, is when I’m so deeply engrossed in reading or writing, that I don’t notice the children getting into mischief right next to me. This probably happens more than it should, but I’m a focused kind of person who kind of switches off to the rest of the world when I’m busy.

It’s really annoying actually, to feel this level of guilt about alone time.

Do you feel guilty when you’re spending time alone?

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Decompressing, whinging, sad and stuff. My brain hurts.

by Veronica on May 11, 2011

in Blogging, Cancer, Grief, Headfuck

Sometimes, I write things here and it all goes along swimmingly. Sure, you don’t get the whole story of the ups and downs, but that’s because no one wants to read 3000 words on how my feelings are feeling and how my kids are acting up. Not to mention I don’t want to write 3000 words about my feelings.

Other times, I go to sit down and write and come up blank and I end up walking away from the computer, rather than writing things out. When I’m feeling like my blog isn’t my safe place anymore, there is usually someone tromping all over it with their muddy boots, making smart arse comments designed to make me feel bad.

And let me be clear, I’m not anonymous in this space. I’ve never been anonymous. People find me here and then meet me IRL, or the opposite happens and I have no issue with this. In fact, if you know me IRL and you’re reading here and I don’t know you are, I’d love to hear from you. Even if you’re my next door neighbour, or one of the school mums.

This space stops being a place to talk, when I’m seeing snarky comments written about me. When there are judgements being passed, when they have no idea. When people don’t believe that what I’m doing is beneficial for anyone and so they set out to make me feel bad, by snarky, passive aggressive shit posted online.

That is when I retreat.

I’m not sure if I stop writing to save my own sanity, or because I get angry enough that I want to throw rocks at people, but either way, I sit on my emotions and stew and nothing gets written.

Then I get PMS and I cry on the phone to my mother because it’s a week til payday and I’ve run out of bread and milk and while there is enough money to buy more bread and milk and not have a cent left, this shit sucks.

When it’s not about the money really. It’s about feeling powerless, and angry. About being bitter and not having anywhere to talk about it. About being hurt and upset, because seriously, what adult goes out of their way to make someone else feel bad? Are you five?

My last major retreat from being able to blog was shortly after my grandmother died, when shit happened and I was so broken emotionally that I couldn’t connect enough to write what I was really feeling. Sure, I wrote surface stuff, but writing about how breathing hurt, or how I just wanted to sit in the sunshine and cry, that wasn’t happening.

I still miss my grandmother and the emotional shell I drew around myself 2 years ago has shattered and I’m feeling things, crying and being miserable. Grief is a process and you don’t always move forwards.

Amy’s Kinder Aide was speaking to me yesterday morning about Amy and some issues we’ve had in the classroom regarding friends. She looked at me and said ‘Amy is such a lovely child. I look at her and know her grandmother would have been proud. I think about Lyn a lot, and know she would have been so proud.’

I had to leave, because I was going to cry.

It is lovely to know that my grandmother made such an impact on people.

And then I cry, because lung cancer in a non-smoker is not how life is meant to happen.

Life has been getting on top of me and that’s okay. It’s okay to be sad and emotional and not want to write about it.

What isn’t okay is feeling like I can’t write, because of the judgements being made.

That’s when I get upset.

This is MY space. Not anyone elses. And if you feel like I’m not contributing to society enough, or that autism isn’t real, or that my joints don’t really dislocate, you can get stuffed.

And that’s that.

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