Very much just another blog

The Beach

with 2 comments

Sometimes when I wake up I know I have been dreaming even though I couldn’t tell you exactly what passed through my head. Rather it is a trace. Some slight and light that was there; a feeling. A thing that probably was… or maybe… but not for sure.

I have these sensations often, more particularly since I left the Writer. This time the trace is a beach. And I know exactly what that is:

I can remember talking with the Writer about how different people choose to negotiate life. We happened upon this image – walked into it in fact – that at some stage earlier in our lives we were on a beach. Actually, everyone was on the beach. And then everyone left; ran to some room where they were handing out answers and lists and guides on how to be a tremendous middle of the road success. And we were left, kicking up pebbles and looking under stones for our own answers to our own questions. We found each other on that beach.

Sometimes, inexplicably, something in life dislocates and you find that everything unravels. The Writer and I left each other one way or another. I still don’t completely understand what went wrong; life with him was amazing every single day. And then it wasn’t. So go figure. Sometimes, in quieter moments, it still feels like there is a mark burning inside me; his hand print tattooed on the inside of my skin. But what can I do except carry on? And, of course, knock sheepishly on my parents’ door and ask if I could come home for a while. I’m lucky in many ways. My family are close, relaxed, funny, bright… but, frankly, living with them once again is a fucking nightmare.

I have my own rooms but this in no way equates to privacy: I got home to find my father in my living room the other day ‘having a think’. A little part of me died.

Not eighteen months ago I thought I would be beginning my own family by now – the Writer and I as we had always been – up to our ankles in the way things were but facing out towards something more amazing. The problem is that writing it down doesn’t pay the bills or do the commute or clean the kitchen floor. It doesn’t sleep for you at night. And now, as I wedge myself between other grey souls on the Jubilee line, I see those posters for single women who want babies. They glance surreptitiously. Fuck that: I wrote the number on my hand.

The problem is, if I think about any of these too much I begin to lose my thread. I start to ask big questions like, what does it all MEAN? And what am I doing here anyways? I did, you’ll be relieved to know, receive some amazing advice very recently to tackle this point exactly…a dear friend leant over to me, smiled sweetly and quietly whispered in my ear: just chill the fuck out, darling.

Yes: Chill. The. Fuck. Out.

That is my plan.


Written by elikafm

December 21, 2009 at 12:55 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

2 Responses

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  1. On a similar tangent; when I too was having a similar ‘moment’ in my life (oh, OK, the years 2000-1), a wise old bird of a colleague, took me to lunch one day, to deliver one simple message:

    ‘Stop over-analysing. It’ll happen. Just live.’

    She was right. She was committed to that faith too, as she ran off with a magician a few months later.


    December 21, 2009 at 1:48 pm

  2. I wouldn’t mind meeting a magician; I have a list for him.


    December 23, 2009 at 4:55 pm

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