So I’m borrowing this forum again because I feel like my
usual blog isn’t quite the space for these kinds of words or thoughts (it’s
more about me being self indulgent and talking about superficial/materialistic
goods like shoes and bags and clothes).
It’s August again, and I can’t believe how quickly another
year has flown by. I never really know how to feel about this month. On one
hand, there are so many celebrations – birthdays, mainly. And I’m not gonna
lie, mine is the one I most look forward to, because birthdays have always been
kind of a big deal for me – a sentiment instilled in me from a very young age.
There has never, in my entire twenty-four years of existence, been a year where
I’ve not had a party. Heck, there have been years when I’ve had multiple
parties. Sure, other family members were also born in the same month…but I was
always the spoilt, youngest child, and August was always all about me.
Until one year, two weeks after my sixteenth birthday…it
wasn’t anymore.
I still remember the week leading up to that day. I remember
it with absolute clarity. They had been fighting, lots. And with me being the only one still living
at home, with no job or car or way to escape, I found often myself huddled up
in my room. Crying, howling – praying for silence. For it to just stop. For it all, to just – stop.
Every car ride to school she’d be crying and telling me of
their problems and I – I’d have no words of comfort. I’d sit in silence not
knowing how I should respond, not having any words that could possibly make her
feel any better. So I just sat, and listened. A hug and a kiss on the way out
of the car was all I could muster. And I’m ashamed to admit, but being the
selfish teenager that I was, all I could think of was why this had to happen to
me, now, so close to the School Certificate. Don’t get me wrong, I worried for
her – for them – all the time. But I feel guilty to say, it always came back to
how it affected me.
I walked into school, two days before, to the wooden logs
underneath the trees where I’d meet my girlfriends every morning. Now, I’ve always
hated crying in front of people (though nowadays it happens more frequently
than I’d like). It’s not so much that I don’t want to appear weak or anything
like that. I just hate how it makes everyone around you so awkward, I hate
putting people in a position where they feel like they have to try and comfort
you or hug you or feel sorry for you. But anyway, on this particular morning, I
walked in, sat down on a log, and burst into tears, telling everyone about how
I was sure my parents were gonna get divorced. And they comforted me and told
me it’d be okay. The funny thing is, that I had already made peace with the
fact that they were going to separate. In fact I was pushing for it – because they
obviously weren’t making each other happy anymore. Yet still, there I was, willingly having
friends awkwardly patting me on the back and hugging me and telling me that
things would be fine.
In retrospect, so much of me wishes that they had just
gotten that divorce. But then I think, would things really have been that much
better? People talk now about how much
they loved her, how they would give anything to have her back, of all the
things they would have done differently and said differently – and while these
thoughts may be true now, I very much doubt, that if things hadn’t happened the
way they did, that their relationships would have been any different. Because,
as sucky as it is, that’s often the way life works. You don’t appreciate what
you have until it’s gone – and when it’s gone, there’s no amount of ‘would’ve’s
or ‘could’ve’s or ‘if-only’s that could bring it back.
***
That day, I got home from school, and she’d been in her room
pretty much the whole day. She hadn’t eaten a thing so I made her a bowl of
noodles and brought it to her room. She thanked me but said she wasn’t hungry.
I pushed, and she had two spoonfuls before handing the bowl back to me. You
could see the numbness in her eyes, the tiredness underneath them, hear the
defeat in her voice, and practically smell the sadness in the air.
I finished her noodles for dinner, downstairs, in front of
the television. Eight mile was on, on channel ten I think. The movie was in its
last twenty minutes when she came down and lay on the couch to watch with me.
It was a super dooper awkward movie to be watching with your mum, but I was
honestly just happy to see her outside of her room, and glad to have the warmth
of her company.
The movie ended, and I turned off the tv. And to this day,
her words as she looked up at me from the couch still ring in my head – ‘So
that’s it? It’s over?’
‘Yes mum, it’s finished. Let’s go to bed.’ I help her up and
walk with her up the stairs. She goes into her room and I go into mine to
quickly call Alex and say goodnight, and let him know that I’m going to be
sleeping in mum’s room tonight to keep her company.
When I walk in she says she’s fine, that I should just go
and sleep in my own room. She’d be okay on her own. I won’t take no for an answer, and just as I
did when I was a kid, I hop in to her bed and she cuddles me. I smell a strange,
sickly sweet smell that I can’t put my finger on, but I don’t ask her about it –
I just assume it’s some sort of cream or something that she’s been using.
A while later as we’re both dosing off, the front door
closes with a bang, and she asks me – ‘Is that Vien? Is Vien home?’ At the time
Vien had just started work at Teletech, and because she worked on a rotating
roster we never really knew what time she’d be home. I checked outside, and
came back in to report that it was Van, my eldest sister. I climbed back into
bed and mum asked if I could hug her. I don’t remember her asking me that ever
before, but I just went with it.
A few hours later, I awoke to a loud thud, and switched on
the lights to see mum had taken a fall on the way back from the bathroom. She’d
knocked over the DVD rack on the way down, and she lay on the floor with saliva
on her face. Van came in to see what’d happened – but then mum got up, and stumbled
back to the bed – and things seemed okay so she went back to her room. I was
worried, but just convinced myself mum was really tired/ half asleep.
Then a while later she started throwing up, and throwing up,
and throwing up. And I tried to wake her but I couldn’t. And I got her water,
but she wouldn’t drink. I just remember panicking and not knowing what to do and
just getting a whole load of towels. Vien came home and I ran to meet her and told
her ‘mum’s really sick and I don’t know what to do!’
She took one look and grabbed her phone and dialed 000 and it
was only then that my naïve brain clicked as to what was happening.
‘Hello, I need an ambulance…I think my mum’s taken something…’
The rest of that night is a blur. I remember it vividly, yet
at the same time everything meshes into one giant mess, of loud, chaotic….silence.
It’s weird…but when something like that happens, your thoughts get so loud and
so abundant that they sort of drown each other out, and the guilt eats away at
you and all you’re left with is this silence. This horrible, deafening silence.
Yeah, I finally got that silence I’d been praying for – but it definitely wasn’t
what I’d bargained for.
***
So every year around this time, I think about her. I mean, I
think about her all year round, but at this time of year, it’s more about
everything that happened on that night, eight years ago. About how much I miss
her. About how much she’s missed out on. About all the silly little things I
think she would’ve enjoyed doing with me. I go to the gym and see older ladies (the
nice ones, not the loud/annoying ones) on the treadmills or the bikes or ellipticals,
and can picture her coming along with me and making friends. I go to the shops
and wish she was there to tell me I have too many shoes at home already. I go
to get my nails done and think it would have been fun to treat her to mani
pedis and have some girly bonding time together. And I’m just sad. And I tell
myself I’m being silly, for being sad over not getting to do these silly little
things with her that she may not have liked or wanted to do anyway, but I can’t
help it. I’m just sad.
And this year, that I thought would’ve gotten easier,
actually hits a little extra harder. 2013 has been emotionally intense in the
last few months. It’s seen the breakdown of a few really close relationships
for me – family, friends, and recently, the guy that everyone, including me,
thought I would be with for the rest of my life. He was my rock, and he’d been
there with me through all of this. And I think that was a small part of the
reason I held on for so long – he was the one guy that mum had approved of, the
only one that she would ever get to approve of. And while he wasn’t always
great with words, every year, when it got to this time, he’d be there to listen
to my rambling, console me through my tears, and tell me how proud she’d be of
me and the person I’d become.
I don’t really know that she’d be all that proud of me right
now. I’ve made some mistakes recently. Some questionable choices. But I’m
trying, I’m really really trying to be a better person. Right now it kind of
just feels like life is a bit of a mess. There are so many things I want and
need to do but for some reason I just can’t bring myself to do them. And I’m
anxious. I’m scared. I panic. And then I’m fine again. The crazy is interjected
by these moments of absolute clarity. I just don’t know…I guess all I can
really do is ride it out and see where it takes me, and hope, that things will
work out in the end.
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