Sometimes dreams are true

Maybe . . .

A few years ago, something  she always worried about (it happened to her mother) started to happen to her. She was frightened and lonely and much too proud to want to share her real deep down fears with anyone. Added to which, the effects were affecting her responses and behaviour, and her ability to think about what was or might be happening and what to do for the best. He became increasingly confused, angry, and upset, at her sudden mood changes, outbursts of unreasonable or incomprehensible anger, and she could see that. He was having problems himself, of self esteem, with his business, with her and their relationship, and although he tried to be philosophical and accepting, lurched towards drink and denial. She began to see the situation was hopeless. She did not want to descend into dribbling incoherence, or worse, with him, and when she remembered that she loved him, did not want to drag him down with her. She concocted a plot - to drive him away, but not to tell him why, because she knew he would not leave her for that reason, that that was what he had signed up for, in sickness and in health. And she felt it would be kinder, to force him out.

So he left, and she began to regret it almost immediately, convinced he would kill himself, and then sent him money so that at least he might survive for a while, long enough perhaps to find his feet. He did not understand, and kept pursuing her, badgering her, trying somehow to persuade her that things (which he did not understand) were not as they were. And she, wretched and confused, wanting him, in some way, but knowing that could not, must not, be, pushed and pulled. And all the while the rot crept on.

Eventually, affect ceased. She did and said things almost by rote, because she felt they were required; a postcard, a letter, birthday and Christmas cards and poems, but felt each day, each week, each month, less able to summon the feelings the letters and cards were meant to convey.  She talked of the old, good times they had shared, all the while knowing there was no future, they could do no more. He grew irritated and sad, that she said so many empty things, while meaning and wanting something more (he felt). And each time they met, the distance grew wider, the gulf deeper, until only anger or rage was powerful enough to jump the gap, which only made it wider still.

Finally, one day, he understood, and wept. Because he loved her, and meant to care for her, and did not know how to reach out his hand, and hold hers, and be good to her.

New Year's Day 2014

Almost immediately after I woke up this morning the still small voice said "I" (or perhaps it said "You"), "will never hear from her again."

I hear it quite often. It is quiet, authoritative, without an emotional edge. It is not judgemental or despairing. Sometimes it tells me not to have another drink, to stop doing something, and I ignore it. There are no comebacks. Sometimes it makes quite banal, mundane suggestions, such as "Stop this now" or "Go for a walk". It seems completely real and trustworthy to me. If I ignore it, it doesn't mind - I may beat  myself up about ignoring it, but it never does.

When I heard it this morning, I was sad. Not despairing, or grief stricken (I've done enough of that in the last eight months). I just accepted that it was telling me the truth. Not practically or literally. There will inevitably be some sort of contact, about divorce, or property, or the stuff I've left behind, but that could just as easily be through a lawyer or accountant, or one of my step daughters, on her behalf. But there will be no loving, caring, engaged, email, or letter or phone call.

I was told recently about distinguishing between "coping" and "transforming". Coping is just accepting, putting up with, suffering patiently and willingly, or otherwise. To transform requires us to truly relax and then to enter in to our painful response and engage with it. I realise I have spent a lot of my life, and of the last ten years, coping, imagining that I was surrendering to the flow, being detached. In reality I was just putting my pain or frustration or anger or despair to one side, but not moving through it, engaging with it, and then leaving it behind. Hence perhaps my drinking - numbing myself to the great crowd of supplicants in the waiting room next door.

So I spent the day feeling needy and lonely, unloved. Little new year messages on Skype or Facebook or email seemingly ignored. I worked hard at researching for stories for the next issue of the Transition Free Press, all too aware of how ignorant I am of what has been happening in "the world of media" for the last eight months.

So, at some point, I did sit down to relax and enter this feeling, turn it round, see what else was there, what other perspectives I can take. I understand that in a way I've been living in a sort of daydream for years. Clinging to times of happiness and content, of joy, of deep love, of real companionship, but ignoring or glossing over times of misery and despair and deep loneliness. And then I look ahead. Freedom. A new start. A sort of rebirth. I found my self commenting on someone's blog on Inner Transition (what does resilience, sustainability, permaculture, living lightly, mean for the inner life we lead?). She talked of a cone - the individual at the top, then immediate family, then extended family, then community, then nature, land, the earth at the bottom. How each of these sustains us and when one layer fails, the other steps up. And that sometimes we only have the bottom - nature itself - to hold us. And I realised how much of the last eight months has been about rebuilding and repairing each of those parts of my cone. Finding a new community after 25 years in Wormingford and Coggeshall. Going back to my extended family. Staying close to my children. And experiencing nature, this island, deeply, slowly, and being fed and sustained by it. Just the sheer physical pleasure of bright sunlight and sea, plants and animals, this extraordinary landscape. And until I wrote that comment, and read the blog, I had not even realised this was happening.

I jumped into the abyss (a la Castaneda) on April 29, and entered another world. I’m still falling, or floating, or flying . . .

Married life part 2 final

Slept OK on the floor of my shed, but woke up at 4.30 needing to pee. Back door locked (Megan woofed when I tried the door). Slight drizzle. The King's Speech has won Oscars. The water I spilt on the Marrakesh carpet has run dark blue into the pillow case, sheet and brown carpet - strange how intense it is when the carpet itself looks so faded.

Thinking about what's ahead. Do I go to Gillian Bence-Jones tonight? Or to AA in Halstead? I really don't want to give Pol the satisfaction (or easy out) of saying it was all because of my drinking again, and I suppose there is a connection. I didn't notice her getting any easier to live with when I wasn't drinking, but maybe I was coping with her better, and we did seem to be getting on really well until a few weeks ago. She seemed fine until she went to Berlin to look after Elly, but something wasn't right when she came back and the three sluts all seemed to be in a huff on Friday evening, especially Laura, who went in to one of her horrible sulks. I might have said something vaguely disparaging about the FO, and Pol kept telling me not to talk so loudly. I'd been driving the bus, so didn't get back til quarter to eight.

Finished the WCCM newsletter (which is why I'd spent all day in the office, when Pol stomped in after her expedition to Frinton with Elly "because I knew you wouldn't want to come", which was true - I'd already decided after her giving out the orders for gardening on Saturday afternoon, that I'd be doing precisely what I wanted to do on Sunday). Filled in the forms for Braintree. Would it have made much difference if I hadn't been drinking whisky out of a pint glass when she crashed in to the office? Managed to get her out of the place without using force; I was so pissed off, and with myself for not locking the door - I felt really outraged that she should feel she could just barge in to my office (not her shed) - bad enough that she does that when I'm in the shed in the garden and she's in a strop (usually about my being in the shed and not walking, gardening or otherwise entertaining her).

Anyway, I'm very pleased with the newsletter - I feel it's the best one yet, very meaty and nutritious and with plenty of pictures too. Shame it's about 6 weeks late - I've called it March 2011, winter's over now.

and I've not been meditating as much as i should over the last few weeks - sometimes not at all, or only once, and I think that's beginning to tell. And yes, the drinking's been getting out of hand too. But I'd really like to just stop, not say anything to Pol, not give her the idea that that is all that this is about . . . until I do stop, and realise, that really, deep down, it is what all this is about. And the sense of deja vu - the logistical difficulty of getting to an AA meeting (bus to Braintree or Colchester?) - just like after my motor bike accident. And blowing Top Trucks and Cars just as it's all taking off.

So maybe I do have to eat humble pie, say I'm sorry, and start going to AA meetings again. It would be nice to be able to talk to her, honestly and openly. That was the disappointment with Bob not working out - I wanted someone to talk to, but he wasn't interested unless I was really committed to AA, and in any case, it would have all been about alcohol.

Meditate when I've finished my tea and go in and finish the newsletter.

My unhappiness when leaving Flost in Genoa, which I thought was concern for her - maybe that was fear for myself and what was / is to come, and why Flost kept asking me afterwards if I was alright, that she was worried for me as well. My "wisdom mind" speaking perhaps - see http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/spiritual-wisdom-secular-times/201102/wisdom-mind

Married life

In my shed. Listening to the Westminster Hour on R4, with half an ear. Bedding on the floor, water by my side, precious things in the suitcase, ready for a runner.

Options - stick it out, it'll blow over, we've been here before.

Run away, slowly. Give everything that's left to Pol, think of a place to go, leave, on foot, with my world on my back.

Find a room in Coggeshall, and live there. Arggh! I'll have to get my own broadband.

Kill myself. I wouldn't mind, I don't think. Children and some friends might.

Actually I'd rather not. I'm quite excited about Top Truck Storage, Top Cars, even Top Trucks Transport. I'd like to see if they work out.

Surrender. Go to AA meetings, stop drinking, beg, be really good, hope that does the trick. But in my heart of hearts, I'm not sure she gives a fuck, she'd just like to see me out of here . . . or I'd just like to be out of here.

I think I'll watch the Promise Pt 2 and go to bed.

Watch this space . . .