Monthly Archives

April 2012

Loss, Love

Must keep typing

April 30, 2012 | 2 Comments

I’m typing because everyone knows what will happen if I don’t. I’ll pick up the damn phone and I’ll press the stupid buttons and have a conversation that doesn’t fix anything and then cry until I’m ninety.

It wouldn’t even be the right conversation. My prediction is this one:


Hi. What’s up?

Oh you know, I’m just sadder than the population of SadLand and I wish my face would fall off so at least the crying would stop. What’s up with you?

Nothing really, just playing Words With Friends.

You did ‘her’ and then ‘toned’. Are you trying to tell me something?


Are you leaving me because there’s someone else and she’s more toned than me? Why didn’t you just tell me?

I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.

When are you coming home?

I don’t think I am. Remember?

NO. That was an IMAGINARY conversation for IDIOTS. Come home right now!


Why are you doing this to me?

I think I should go.

Don’t go! Please! I miss you! Come home!

Bye Anna.

Everything I ever loved has been taken from me I can’t go on like this I’m going to overdose on Panadol and you will always regret it no one will ever love you as much as I do.

So you see, there’s no possible way I can stop typing.

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The Other Things

Sunday night

April 29, 2012 | Leave a Comment

I used to dread Sunday night. Everything from 4pm onwards felt like winding down, and there’s nothing I like less than winding down. The feeling of inevitable endings. I used to fear that moment at about 7pm on Sundays when the nighttime crept around and I knew the weekend was over. That the next thing was sleep and morning and Monday and school runs and traffic and being late. I would sit on the couch and will Sunday to run a little longer, with my eyes scrunched up and all. It never worked; the clock just ticked louder and louder until the sun rose and rudely shook me into the week ahead.

These days, I like Sunday night. When the kids are asleep, I can make myself a cup of tea and light a candle and look forward to the promise that Monday holds. And I mean that in completely the Oprah way. I like knowing that I haven’t screwed the day up yet. I like knowing that I can put socks on and the night will stretch out in front of me and I don’t have to do anything.

So right now, even though I’m sad, I’m wrapped up inside my Sunday night, and that’s the best place I could be.

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But then writing poured out

April 28, 2012 | 1 Comment

“I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore.”

Hang on, this isn’t what we rehearsed! Take it back! He’ll leave!

“I can’t – I hate it. We fight constantly. When we’re not fighting, I’m just waiting for us to start fighting. Even when it’s good. It might even be worse when it’s good because I know that any minute it won’t be.”

I’m not sure he’s really listening. He’s holding a book.

The words have spilled out of me in an ugly, clumsy dance. What I meant to say was Gaz, something needs to be done about this relationship, but now he moves to stand and reaches for his keys. I’ve asked him to go. I’ve told him that it’s not good enough.

And it’s true, but as the door closes behind him I am howling at his shadow.

I send him a text message almost as a reflex: I’m sorry, that was shit. His response is instant: I’m sorry too.

I tear myself to shreds wondering what that means. Is he sorry and is coming home? Is he sorry because he doesn’t love me anymore? Is he sorry because he knows that he’s an asshole? Is he sorry because he has plans to have me killed?

I write message after message, composing and deleting, wondering how much you can drip tears on a phone before it short-circuits.

What are you sorry for? No.

Come back and we’ll talk. No!

Eventually I throw out a little That’s good and put my phone in a drawer. I sit and watch the drawer for half an hour, wondering why it isn’t ringing.

I’m so desperate to call him that I’m not sure whether I am actually calling him without realising. I’m not. I don’t think. I’m about to. I pick up the phone. I call my dad. I call my brother. I say things like “just wondered what you were up to.”

It roughly translates to “I just wondered what he is up to.”

Which means something like “Why doesn’t he love me?”

I go to bed. I’m not sure why. The sheets are rough and scratchy and they smell like him. Is my phone ringing? No, of course it isn’t. Better look at it just to be sure. No, definitely not ringing.

I watch myself find his name in my list like I’m in a different body. I’m pressing the buttons. No, stop! My phone dialling self isn’t listening. His name flashes up on the screen.

It rings. Once. Twice. Eight times. Fourteen times.

I leave a bumbling voicemail message. Foolish. Pleading.

I know he’s not coming back.

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Love, Writing

Writing is broken

April 28, 2012 | 5 Comments

It’s a funny thing, being too depressed to write. And by ‘funny’ I mean ‘so horrifically unfair and devastating’, P.S. I write much better about the sad things when I’m not sad (though it usually takes me a couple of days afterward to feel anything resembling unsad). When I’m this depressed, this is what my writing looks like:


So, not excellent.

It’s 8:30pm on a Saturday and I’m in bed. I was going to watch television to make me less sad, but I accidentally listened to some Lana Del Ray and knew I had to go to bed before I literally slammed my face in a sliding door.

Continue Reading…

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Out of my depth

April 24, 2012 | 3 Comments

This afternoon I met with Georgia’s teacher again, to discuss the ongoing friendship and social issues that she’s having. More and more, she comes home from school with tears in her eyes and with her little shoulders slumped and that is just not on.

Part of me always hopes that her teachers will say, “No, you have it all wrong, she’s fine at school!” And sometimes they do, but today was not one of those occasions.

“The other kids do tease her,” the teacher said, and my heart dropped into the centre of the earth. “Usually not right to her face, but they talk about her to each other sometimes, and sometimes she does hear them.”

At this point I was glad for my sinus infection, because I could pretend I wasn’t crying.

“What can we do?” I asked, and for the first time I realised I had no idea what answer to expect.

Continue Reading…

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