death & all her friends

A few Saturdays ago- insomnia got the better of me. I got tired of counting the dots on the ceiling.  I tumbled out of bed early.  I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. No coffee. And I absentmindedly just drove to the coast. On that particular morning, the visibility of the air stretched far enough for Etna to appear beyond the water. And I watched her on the horizon- smouldering quietly. She was still- but you could sense her impending violence from a distance; the potential destruction she could leave in her wake at any given moment. Intrinsically restless. 

Lately, I keep being reminded of how privileged my position in life supposedly is now. Everyone says that I'm glowing- that the air about me is lighter. But, I have heard this all before- last year. Before it went to shit. My sense of self had decayed beyond recognition. It was all very disappointing: everything imploded. What I thought I wanted proved to be the very thing that almost killed me. 

It was the displacement, first- never truly belonging, even in a community of people who loved and cared for me. I think I must have cried myself to sleep every night last winter. And, it wasn't just the weather- the sheet of darkness that used to engulf the city by four in the afternoon- it was ultimately the emptiness I felt inside. The particular incident I don't talk about. The anxiety of ending up alone- of being unloved and unchosen. I was lost. I fell back into my disease. And, well, professionally- it was what it was. I wasn't satisfied. And, there were nights where taking up the family vice was enticing. It didn't have to be the full-bodied Syrah my friends bought me for my 27th. At some point, any cheap wine from the Delhaize down the street would have done the job. 

It all eventually took a physical toll. My body wasn't responding- I couldn't get myself out of bed. I was constantly sick. My stomach wasn't keeping food down. There were days in which I could only taste acid reflux on my tongue. My mother: "Well, at least you're losing weight." The professionals? Well, they said bed-rest for a month. But I refused: I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts for that long. I wouldn't, legally, have been able to leave the apartment. I didn't actually think it was possible: mentally draining yourself to the point of no return physically. It might be better nowadays- but I still refuse to acknowledge it. The general consensus is that, by nature, I am an avoidant- and I avoid myself the most. 

Amsterdam, last weekend- it reminded me of everything that now isn't. I was just about to take the job offer there last September.  I had already started to scroll through apartment listings there- as though proximity to possibility alone could alter the trajectory of my future. I had already begun arranging myself mentally inside that city. Which tram line I would take to work. Which cafés I would frequent. The shape my mornings might assume there. But what I wanted didn't align with fate itself. Last weekend- I was vaguely haunted by the version of me that almost existed there. Strange, how grief can exist for places we never truly belonged to- I grieved the life that, ultimately, I made the conscious decision not to choose. But, the Albatross is, and always will be, hanging around my neck. Wherever I am in the world. Here, there- it would not have made a difference. The disease is part of me.

I've been told I act out of fear. I have a tiring need to control the uncontrollable. I wait for good things to end- and sometimes, sometimes I blow them up myself to prove myself right. A sort of "self-fulfilling prophecy". And, well, nothing is as impulsive and unpredictable as love. I don't want to face the possibility of getting hurt. Even the pigeons fucking outside the office window seem to have it more figured out than I do. I'm resisting the urge to runaway from everything again. Yet- I am attempting to remain emotionally regulated. I should be grateful- I suppose- that I had the opportunity to start afresh in my home country. They tell me: "take the time to understand how far you've actually come." But honestly, nothing I have feels like it's truly mine. And it all actually and really makes me want to constantly vomit. 

Everyone thinks I'm joking. 

Kahlo has this painting- scantily clad in white bondage; a column passing through her spine. I interpret is as an elegant portrayal of exhaustion from expectation- that we women must remain strong in the face of all the adversity. And, I- I must manage the house. It constantly feels like it's one minor inconvenience away from collapsing. 

There are dishes in the sink. But there are always dishes in the sink. The laundry basket has become a monument to my avoidance. There hasn't been food in my fridge for over a month. I don't eat unless someone cooks for me. Work drains me so thoroughly that sometimes I sit in my car for twenty minutes after arriving home because the idea of walking through the front door and immediately becoming responsible for everything again makes my chest tighten. Sometimes, I think about pulling the final stone from the foundation myself. 

Fuck, did I pay the electricity bill? 

The walls seem to have absorbed the tension. The paint crumbles off the limestone. Things keep breaking in small, unremarkable ways. A leaking tap. A lightbulb dying. Doors that no longer close properly unless forced. None of it catastrophic enough to demand urgency. Just constant maintenance. Constant tending. Constant reminders that neglect accumulates quietly- that slow deterioration of things left unattended because everyone inside cannot handle themselves properly.  

And now- this impending sense of an ending. 

The hospital had its usual smells- disinfectant, stale air, over washed sheets. But, beneath all of that- there was this unmistakable scent of the body beginning to surrender slowly to time. Ageing is not always so dramatic- I'm the only one making it seem so. It's unassuming at first. And then, on one random afternoon in summer, you're barely able to recognise the shape of your own name. 

We never questioned it: how stubborn he is. Extended family admit they were scared of him- some of them still are. I suppose this is who he was before I was born: a disciplinary figure. To me, he's the one who tells me the same story three times. The one who squeezes the handle on the car door whenever I'm driving at forty kilometres an hour on the main road. The one who was always stern and systematic- with a particular forcefulness as to how things should be. Ta' rasu. But, to me, well- I suppose he was also soft. In his own way. Now, you can barely recognise him. You can barely make out what he's saying. 

I noticed it first. There had already been signs of steady decline over Christmas, and perhaps my silence at the time consequentially rendered me complicit in all of it- the collective delusion that everything was fine. But, then- in early March last year, he was uncharacteristically rude to me- he had never gotten upset with me before that. I had, of course, warned the only child that came before me. That something was off. It was too late by the time they bothered to listen to me. No one mentioned it yet, though- the word "death". Although, hospitals also have this way about them- and I can subjectively chalk it down to the disgusting fluorescent lighting. And it forces you to watch it on your loved ones' faces in high definition: the emotional unravelling. I suppose I feel the worst for the only child that came before me. At sixty-six, he's still scared of him. Trying to honour his wishes, even when they're causing more harm than good. Then, the marriage- I would have been better off had I studied psychology and made the marriage my sole project. It's a lot of threats. A lot of swearing. No one has the patience. And, as always, I'm in the middle of this- sitting silently. The role of the only child is unmistakable- the observer; the mediator. But I'm not certain that it's personally sustainable.

I came back to this. Voluntarily- I keep deluding myself. I recognise the inevitability- the inheritance of all of this. Subsconsciously, I prepare for it daily- the oncoming grief and, already, I'm starting to devise what scene the mosaic made from the broken pieces of my family will potray. But, the question remains- will I still be around to claim my inheritance? 

C'est la vie. Always, c'est la vie.