Under the Floor Again, First I was Up, and In The Air, And Now I'm Down...
I thought I was ready, my psychiatrist (the charming man who keeps me in a valium haze) thought I was ready, I seemed cheerful throughout the hour.
But no, a few hours after talking with a psychologist, and I was as depressed as hell. Having flashbacks and PTSD terrors, that I'd rather not bother anyone about.
Nothing big, just the recurrance of watching my dad who'd been dead for four days being cut out of the twisted wreck of his motor in at the edge of a farmers sheep field when I was 12, my brother and his dreadful illness that made him a dreadful person. My mum leaving to go back to America just before my 13th birthday. Trip after trip to the crematorium after caring their way out of this world. My Grandmamere, my Uncle Stuart, My Auntie Helen and the never ending parade of beautiful gay men who died too young all skeletons all gone, ashes in the wind.
So much stopping of all the clocks, so much covering all the mirrors, so many eulogies, so much bad white wine, celery sticks dipped in blue cheese and black olives, scones and clotted cream with strawberry preserves and tea with whisky poured from flasks, so many many funerals, champagne toasts in celebration of lives cut too short, by a plague that still rages on. Or dads that voluntarily cut their lives short because their jobs were forcefully taken away, either from coal pit closure or the unwilingness to caugh up black spew at the dinner table. The never ending parades to wakes, to parlour viewings, I could've done their make-up better. All just ashes and remembrance now.
No, I wasn't ready to talk, I'll just take the pills that help me forget. I have a new life now, and a new family that loves and cherishes me so much that the term "in law" is out of the question and I thank everything I believe in every day that I have them. The past is not where I want to travel.
Thatcher can keep her English 1980's, I'll just take the music.
Let her have my memories and flashbacks and the pain in my back that still lingers during that time of the month when my body remembers the night the IRA blew up a pub on my street as I was walking home and I was knocked face down in the street and a hot brick hit my shoulder and I was deaf for three days.
Let her have that. I'm too tired to keep it, and it hurts right now. At least everyone got out alive that night.
Sorry to be so cheerful, and don't go pitying me I'm blessed, I have a roof over my head, I'm married to the love of my life, and we have a beautiful son and four lovely daughters, whom our parents call their Grandpets. I could be far worse off. I'm not though, and I thank God for that everyday.
But no, talking about the trauma, won't help me now, looking forward will.
SisterVanian
I thought I was ready, my psychiatrist (the charming man who keeps me in a valium haze) thought I was ready, I seemed cheerful throughout the hour.
But no, a few hours after talking with a psychologist, and I was as depressed as hell. Having flashbacks and PTSD terrors, that I'd rather not bother anyone about.
Nothing big, just the recurrance of watching my dad who'd been dead for four days being cut out of the twisted wreck of his motor in at the edge of a farmers sheep field when I was 12, my brother and his dreadful illness that made him a dreadful person. My mum leaving to go back to America just before my 13th birthday. Trip after trip to the crematorium after caring their way out of this world. My Grandmamere, my Uncle Stuart, My Auntie Helen and the never ending parade of beautiful gay men who died too young all skeletons all gone, ashes in the wind.
So much stopping of all the clocks, so much covering all the mirrors, so many eulogies, so much bad white wine, celery sticks dipped in blue cheese and black olives, scones and clotted cream with strawberry preserves and tea with whisky poured from flasks, so many many funerals, champagne toasts in celebration of lives cut too short, by a plague that still rages on. Or dads that voluntarily cut their lives short because their jobs were forcefully taken away, either from coal pit closure or the unwilingness to caugh up black spew at the dinner table. The never ending parades to wakes, to parlour viewings, I could've done their make-up better. All just ashes and remembrance now.
No, I wasn't ready to talk, I'll just take the pills that help me forget. I have a new life now, and a new family that loves and cherishes me so much that the term "in law" is out of the question and I thank everything I believe in every day that I have them. The past is not where I want to travel.
Thatcher can keep her English 1980's, I'll just take the music.
Let her have my memories and flashbacks and the pain in my back that still lingers during that time of the month when my body remembers the night the IRA blew up a pub on my street as I was walking home and I was knocked face down in the street and a hot brick hit my shoulder and I was deaf for three days.
Let her have that. I'm too tired to keep it, and it hurts right now. At least everyone got out alive that night.
Sorry to be so cheerful, and don't go pitying me I'm blessed, I have a roof over my head, I'm married to the love of my life, and we have a beautiful son and four lovely daughters, whom our parents call their Grandpets. I could be far worse off. I'm not though, and I thank God for that everyday.
But no, talking about the trauma, won't help me now, looking forward will.
SisterVanian
platypuz:
your welcome & enjoy the new found direction
jimmytrash:
Dude. /;{