Saturday, April 19, 2008

'Snot a gag.

I got to the line in Shauna's book about holding her Poppy's hand in the hospital, and I lost it. Broke down and cried as though I'd never cried in my whole life and payment on every single hurt had come due at once.

And then I came to the computer to write about my latest revelation, cued up my mp3s on random, and 'Are you lonesome tonight?' blared out at me. Fucking Serendipity, coincidence, or whatever the hell you want to call it.

Right now I'm blubbering so hard I can barely see the screen. Since we're out of tissues, I have my trusty roll of dunny paper on the desk. God, how I wish I'd bought tissues this week. I hate blowing my nose at the best of times because I get all gageriffic over mucus. Tissues can occasionally break, but toilet rolls suck the most. No matter how much you finangle the layers, there's always the chance its skinny little strips don't overlap properly, and you end up with handfuls of snot. But, I s'pose it's better than a bushman's hanky. {Gag}

Okay, enough about snot all right already!

Reading that line in the book put my guard down momentarily and then my emotions hit me with a one-two sucker punch combination.
. . .
. . .
. . .

Sorry about that. Had to take a break to go sit on the toilet and cry for awhile. So much easier to drop the soggy paper in the toilet as I go, than pile it up on my desk or overflow the wastebasket.

Where was I? Ahh yes, the sucker got sucker punched. The last few months I've been focused on dealing with my past. Specifically my relationships with my family members. I've been discovering all the niggly little comments which I've mortared into a strong foundation for the shrine to self hatred and low self esteem that I built when starting puberty. Man, there's been some serious dough invested on extensions, lemme tell you. Since it's humble beginnings, it's gone from a little personal shrine to resembling St Peter's Basilica, I swear!

After admiring its complexity, I got down to the business of demolition. The digging, sweating and painstaking archaeological excavation of LSED's Basilica, plus the psychoanalising, budgeting, and talking with people about How Will We Ever Cope If We Have A Baby over the last three months, have all been in aid of hiding one very painful, personal truth.

I miss my family more than I could ever possibly tell them.

God! Just writing that leaves me disemboweled with my guts pooled under my desk.

I know my Mum will roll her eyes at this, she knows her daughter very well, but I've been trying to pretend that I'm feeling so fine and dandy. I'm all grown up, making my own way in the world, living my dream job of being a writer, married to my soulmate, and have finally made my peace with the city I live in. I hate to tell ya folks, but all is not well in Kadaland.

I feel like I'm living that song, Torn Between Two Lovers. Except not quite. Because Australia and my family are the ones I loved first, I don't love them less, but I DID leave them for Alaskaboy. And yet it doesn't stop me loving them. And it hurts so fucking much that I'm all the way over here. Not only that, I feel torn between both sides of my family and all my friends. They're all so spread out, and so very far away.

Logically I know I'm in the very best place to be able to travel to see everyone. I know I'm in the best place for our life together, but it hurts so very much that my favourite people in the world, are spread out all over that world.

I'm a fixer, and this is something I've finally realised I can't fix. By moving closer to one, I move farther away from another. I'm walking way up there on that tightrope and any shift towards a new location means my balancing act is over and it will all come tumbling down.

This horrid painful longing is something I thought would be over and done with when I moved here. Fucking fiction has a lot to answer for. All the stories “end” at the point where the happy couple ride off into the sunset to start their happily ever after. Living umpteen thousand miles away from Alaskaboy when we were dating, then engaged, was the most horrific emotional pain I've ever experienced. Until today.

With that situation, I had the expectation of moving away, getting married and living happily ever after. Living with your soulmate in wedded bliss means a choir of angels singing in two hundred bit harmony 24/7, right? With this, all I can do is muddle along. I'm perfectly happy most days, but then there's the days where I just want to call someone up and say, “Hi, I miss you, how about you pop on over for dinner/coffee/whatever?” And I can't. Six weeks out of every three or more years just isn't enough.

Thank Christ my Nan was staying at an Aunty's place, too many hours drive away to be able to see me off at the airport this time. With her in the airport I would have blubbered the whole 14 hours home. Seeing the difference in her that three years had made, knowing that in X-years time the difference will be greater, if she's even there at all when I get back to visit, and same with my dog, well, it's had me stuccoing that basilica with troughloads of food.

And we repeated the same kind of heartache with Alaskaboy's family when we went to Pennsylvania in February. In some ways that was a little harder. I'm only just beginning to learn who these people are that raised Alaskaboy to be the wonderful person he is, and I don't have a lifetime of memories to dwell on once they're gone. With my nan and my birth family, the ones who created the awesomeness that is moi, I have memories that stretch back into my infancy.

Ahh fuck it, one isn't harder than the other. Why do I have this insane need to quantify everything? It's all fucking awful. Living so far away from loved ones, seeing them as infrequently as we do, it really brings home the fact of their, and our, mortality. And for the woman whose greatest fear is to be left alone, well that's a real kick in the nuts.

Each time I leave good ol' Melbourne airport, I have to starch my upper lip so tight it's stiffer than John Holmes on Viagra. I'm done with living the lie. I'm not some perfectly sculptured porn goddess of emotional fortitude. I'm the Stay Puft Marshmallow Woman blubbering in the corner.

Writing this has taken much longer than my usual posts. It's a bit hard to type coherently, let alone type at all, when you're crying so hard you're gagging. And my inner perfectionist can take her gag and shove it. It's all her fault that I'm all tied up in knots.

WHY is it that when it comes to admitting the real reasons I'm upset, I'm more bound up than masochist in her mistress's bondage chamber? Where the hell does this Muy Macho need come from to hide that I need and miss my family? Is it all tied up in guilt that I actually left? That I made a decision and I'm sticking with it? That I've mired myself deep in this steaming pile of emotional manure.

Am I that afraid that my family is going to say, “Don't come crying to us, you've made your bed, now you have to lie in it!” No. It's not my family that's been saying that. It's Lil Miss Perfect. She who believes in black and white. She wants me to admit I made a mistake. Give up this dream of this writing nonsense, and take my husband and flee back to the safety of a parental home. Doesn't matter which one, as long as we stay with them and pretend we couldn't make it out in the big wide world.

But, it's not what I really want to do. Not physically. Emotionally I'm learning to leave the gag off and scream with the sheer terror and excitement of my first ride without my training wheels on. I'm a grown up on a big girl's bike, but inside, I still miss those teeny wheels. Calling people and telling you miss them, whilst blubbering all over them on the phone is NOT the same as even a five second hug from that same person. Emotionally I need the comfort of knowing that my family is here, not some nebulous over there.

But, here I am, and there they are, and it hit me today that this is the reality of my life. I did the right thing for me by moving here. Doesn't mean that I can't miss like hell the ones I left behind. Not black, or white, Lil Miss Perfect, but grey!

Or slick green on white if you really must know.

1 Nibbles:

Amanda said...

That must be really, really tough. I know what it's like to live far away, so I do have a sliver of understanding of how you feel, but I've never been away so permanently that there was no light at the end of the tunnel. But with the impending move to the UK, I expect that moments like this will become something to expect.