31 days of moving on: Day 13 – Work

Here’s today’s post for 31 days of five minute free-writing:


It’s hard work, being a single Mum who works full time. Going through hideous divorce proceedings, having weekly meetings with psychologists, lawyers, social workers. Having my life picked over by third parties who don’t know me, don’t know us, don’t really care (according to the dead looks in their eyes) and would, I’m sure, much rather be doing something, anything, other than raking through the ruins of things that have long since rotten and are now in their ultimate death throws.

It takes work to move on after something like this. I can be as positive as I like, I can try to be as hard-hearted as I need to be, but the dark wins some days. The dark that calls to me and shouts, “I know you miss him” (that’s a killer, that one), or “You will be fine, you can do this!” (yes, I know I can, in that I’m perfectly skilled and equipped to do so, but I’m not sure – some days – if I actually can). It’s hard work, battling all these forces, all these energies and things I never asked for, never called forth myself.

Some days, like today, I’m dog tired. Weary to my core. I woke up and went straight to bed again. Dizzy. Tired. Vertigo they call it. Stress-induced vertigo. [Oh, hurray, yet more debilitating things befall me!].

I do what I can to feel marginally better. I read. I go through my self care routine that’s bordering on ritualistic. But, you know, it’s bloody hard work. I feel lonely. I miss two lives, maybe more: that of my life in my own country, with my home and my family and my friends and, also – perhaps even more painful – my life with my husband. It all ended so abruptly, with not even a chance to say goodbye. And now I don’t even recognise him when I see him. It’s a multi-sworded grief that has me in its grips.

It’s hard work, pulling apart my emotions with regards to this, checking each strand and asking, “Is this because I miss him or because I miss a relationship, company, companionship, someone real to talk to that’s not a child or ten thousand or more miles away or is it, perhaps, because I miss my Grandad’s garden, seeing robins or the rain or the autumn leaves or or or…”. It’s bloody hard work, this constant battering.

And I feel those tears come rolling, those tears I’m unable to wash away. And I let them come. I feel. every. one. As they run they lighten my load inside. But its one hell of a big deep well. Frightening in its proportions as I stand above and survey the scale of it.

I force the tears sometimes, I play Louis, hear him laugh, but never mock, Give me a kiss to build a dream on. Or I turn to Chet and his despair and the tears come rolling, rolling. Unstoppable. Mighty in their insistence to be set free….

[Note: I wrote for longer than 5 minutes (8.5 minutes)]


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