I keep thinking that I have already lost as much as it is possible lose and still go on living but I just keep diminishing. When I was walking the woods in Wales I heard some songs inside me but I wasn’t able to sing. Something had gone. Something in me had been extinguished although I had survived.
I have thought thoughts that are more painful than death. Last night I cried and felt like I was choking. Now it is a new morning. Another morning. I woke up and whilst half asleep I remembered. My body remembers and I ache. My desires have turned into pain. I got up while it was still velvety blue outside. The dusk and dawn, the fire that burned. I am numb, like dead at daytime but alive at that blue hour, half awake, half aware. My heart and my body are one and I lie there breathing like a hurt animal waiting for the blow of mercy that would end all this.
I have loved, I have loved so much. But it, or I, my love hasn’t been welcome. I haven’t inspired love or even interest in the two men I have loved in my life. It hurts like hell. William was even cruel towards me and I haven’t recovered from that. I have felt their indifference as humiliating as violence. It mocks me. I have then thought from the depths of my being that I don’t ever want to see them again but it has hurt me even more and something in me has died.
‘You will make someone very happy one day’ I have been told. You say that to teenagers, you say that to children. You don’t say that to women like me because it is not true. I have lost hope and I have lost courage. I am like a wounded animal. I bleed but I trust no one. Anyone who tries to say something about love - or worse, give me advice, I want to maul and bite.
Vultures, people are like vultures when they see casualties of love.
I was as dark as thunder when I left for choir practice. Like I could run under a train just like that. I killed a spider with my thumb and slammed the door. In that reckless rage I am able to admit to myself that I am pretty. But then I also know that being pretty doesn’t mean anything although I know that life would be harder for me if I wasn’t. Being talented doesn’t mean anything nor does being intelligent. Admiration is often nothing but a set of expectation and when you fail them people are unkind. Because when they admire you they are really intimidated by you, they envy you and then they are mean to you. I am pretty, talented and intelligent but none of those things has made me lovable. I am either too much or too little, never worth the risk.
That rage quickly turns into a reservoir of sorrow. Ropes tighten around my insides and begin to strangle me. In the end to be considered beautiful in general is nothing but to be beautiful to someone to whom one's heart belongs is everything.
Singing those songs with the choir soothes me a little. I hear them long afterwards, they are so beautiful. In my mind I sing my own part and hear the other harmonies, the whole soundscape. I sing some parts when no one is listening, over and over again. I don’t know why and why it soothes me. Maybe I forget it all momentarily. The panic, almost nausea that chokes me when I think of my life stretching ahead of me like this, unchanged. The grotesque oddness of my unconsummated loves. The irrational injustice I blame God of at the same time as I pray for my daily bread to be able to carry on.
I’m sometimes genuinely happy. I am like a child then. I am excited about eating triple chocolate cake, I skip around like a girl wearing her favourite dress. I smile to myself like I held good secrets within me. I hear songs, they fill me like music fills a cathedral. I listen, close my eyes and I hum. I guess I don’t remember life as a woman then. The dark depths within me are still.
Why isn’t that enough?