A moving trolley has broken my camel’s back! Its image will remain though long after I have departed.
I am leaving my relationship because I can no longer endure the shit. The mess, the contagion of stuff that she insists on piling in my space. And yes, it is embarrassing to say that in 2016, the laundry is my space, but it fucking is! I’m the one who tries, against all odds, to keep her house clean. I have tried to overcome the feeling that it isn’t my space and sometimes I have even believed it to be our space. But after the massive argument we had 3 months ago, I realized that I would have to accept the situation as it is, as she would not change, even if it meant losing me. I’not saying that I don’t love her. I do love her, but I, me, the person I am inside, is feeling imprisoned, as if I am in a maze and can’t find my way out.
I’ve had to fight for each little bit of garden I’ve created here. We’ve had massive fights over shade umbrellas (the purchase of one). All along I’ve tried to create beauty and sanctuary in this place (her place) and the garden and house is a tribute to my sheer endurance towards this end. But I can’t do it any longer. She just doesn’t ‘get it’. She still thinks that we’re breaking up because I got my knickers in a knot over a trolley she placed in my laundry, when I ‘could’ve just moved it’. It’s true reading Charlotte Wood’s The Natural Way of Things, has enlightened me to the ways in which I have been ‘trapped’, ‘imprisoned’, ‘held’ by emotions so basic as ‘I want to have a home where I belong” and “I want to be loved” and “if I leave, I will have nothing”.
All my life I have stayed with OTHER PEOPLE because they can offer me one of these things – physical comfort, a kind word, familiarity, financial security. Yes, they give me this, but it also robs me of freedom, authenticity, agency, spontaneity, imagination and manifestation.These are the things which make me who I am. And I’ve stuffed them down and pressed them beneath the mattresses of my relationships. WHY?
Because I’m afraid to be alone? I’m afraid of my fear which roils within my gut? I’m afraid of what I might have to say if I tell the truth. The truth about me. I am a witch. I have strength and powers which do not yield to others’ needs, but I have been suppressing these my whole life. Fitting in, being nice, wearing a modest skirt, smiling, laughing, giving my body to others who desire it, buying acceptance, wanting to be liked by my children and behaving acceptably so they will like/love me (this is the one that disgusts me the most). This hasn’t worked. They share deep and bitter resentments about who I am, just like I did with my mother. It was only at the end that I realized I loved her no matter what she had done to me and I wanted to freely give of that love to make her passing easier.
But while doing all these acceptable things, my wild spirit has been breaking out where the fabric had worn thin, like a flowered print on a rust coloured dress from long ago. Keeping my baby, fighting against my abusers, imaginings of a different life that I didn’t have the guts to do for myself. But then there was lesbianism and that one truly put me on the graveled road of contempt; my lost school friends don’t know what to make of it, but it was there at the beginning. When I was 14. I always wanted to be with a girl.
I have only a brief time left, even if granted the usual span. If I stay, it will kill me to the core. I will be found slumped against the washing machine one day and that will symbolize my life – the one that didn’t get away, despite all her protestations.
I must risk being alone. It will do me no good to go sailing into another’s arms just to stop the loneliness. I have to have my own agency. If I want to hammer a nail that isn’t a brass one into my kitchen wall and possibly breaking the plaster doing so, then I will fucking do it. I will not have to ask, time and again, get angry, simmer down again and make up, then perhaps 4 years after I have bought a storage solution for the problem, throw it across the deck in anger (and get blamed for my ‘outrageous’ anger). It is not outrageous. It is not uncalled for. It has been there since the first night. The night I saw what she was capable of, in her own chaotic nest, which she had spent half the night cleaning for my arrival. I said silently,that I would not live with this woman. But I didn’t honour my whisperings; I liked the intimacy, the skin on skin, the ‘I love you’ and I stayed and I stayed. And stayed. And stayed.
I could stay longer. It would be so easy. Too easy. I have somewhere to live. The bills paid. I do not have to labour outside the house. Old age can be a nasty place without companionship. In poverty.
BUT there is something I have to discover about myself. I cannot do that while still fulfilling the role for which all women are prepared; carer, cleaner, cook, caresser. I must break out of those roles and push, push against the tide that locks me in to that addictive place.