Waiting For My Real Life To Begin: A Thank You

I wanted just to do a little post about the reaction to my previous blog post on New Year’s Eve, “A Diary’s End”.

The amount of feedback I got from it was amazing and very unexpected. New Year is such an odd time; one of reflection, self-examination and consolidation. Many people had a difficult 2010 it seems and I truly hope that 2011 is better for everyone.

Now this next bit will only mean something to those of you who indulge in a spot of tweeting…

I “lost my Twitter mojo” last year. The forum that had been a lifeline to me for many months faded into the background of my life whilst I dealt with more pressing things, like relocating from Switzerland and finding somewhere for me and the kids to live. Twitter can be a huge support and I have never forgotten that, however, for a while I just felt that I had nothing of interest to say. I was sick of the sound of my own voice and didn’t really want to inflict it on anyone else.

After I got the hurdle of Christmas out of the way, however, I have found my old spark returning. I had a few days to myself whilst the kids were with their Dad, I got some sleep, I went for some long walks and just generally spent some time doing stuff that I wanted to do, without miniature people screaming at me for “JUICE!”, demanding that I wipe their bottoms or construct a toy farm in under 30 seconds.

And I found myself giggling again…

Last night, after my blog post, I got chatting with a mate from ages ago on Twitter, the lovely @jimbobbers (#FF a must follow). He read my post and sent me a link to a BEAUTIFUL song that I have blatantly nicked from him and linked to below. But I MUST share it with you, because it just goes with the whole vibe of my previous post; about waiting for life to begin and not knowing what’s on the horizon.

But more importantly, I wanted to say thank you to @jimbobbers (and thanks for reminding me about that late night conversation when you were in the park), and to the many other mates I have on Twitter, who have stuck by me through tough times recently; times when I haven’t really felt like tweeting and times when I have half-heartedly tweeted and just haven’t been “feeling it”.

I also want to say a brief, but public, thank you to the unique, funny and talented @WharfTheCanary (#FF – goes without saying), who made the last part of 2010, and especially New Year’s Eve (a time I normally dread with a passion) incredibly special.

This year, I am going to do some tweet-ups. The first is planned for 29th January.

I think I am living proof that Twitter is far more than merely a stream of 140 character status updates. It can be life-changing and real friendships and relationships can come from it.

Hopefully I’ll meet some of you very soon. x

A Diary’s End

Once upon a time I started a diary. It was called “Diary Of A New Life”. The story began on 3rd October of this year when the person who I thought was my life partner, the father of my children, decided that he didn’t want to be with me anymore. Things were further complicated because we lived in Switzerland.

I had to leave my life behind.

Let’s be frank; that’s really old news. Life moves on. The dust is settling and I have brushed myself off.

I had hoped to continue the diary, but things have been far more difficult upon my move back to the UK that I had anticipated. It’s been hard enough just trying to find a home, to find money, to find some kind of sanity. Writing became painful.

These days, as some of you may know, my series of mini-blog posts could be entitled “Diary of a New Love”. However, I am reluctant to go into depth about my circumstances. Suffice to say that something, or rather someone, who had been in my periphereal vision, has become a huge part of my life. It is very unexpected.

Today, my new love and I drove the kids to the beach. It was a dark, drizzly day. And after all the Christmas excitement the kids fell asleep almost instantly. We drove to the coast and whilst the kids slept, we discussed what it meant to be happy. Happiness, we concluded, is simply captured in a moment, it is not truly a state of being.

We discussed what we wanted from life. My only real conclusion is that I want to reach a point in my life when I want to feel more settled and I want to stop searching for something else. I am not at all sure I can achieve this.

When we finally got to the beach, we ventured to the shoreline and collected pebbles.

It was dusk. We could see the shoreline and the waves, but the horizon was lost in the mist.

And I realised that this is the point. However hard you look sometimes, there is just no horizon. You can’t see for looking. You can’t see what’s ahead.

I do know this. This much I can give. After an intense year of being open, of dialogue, of communication, of talking… talking… talking; I cannot tell you just how much beauty, and indeed honesty, I have discovered in silence.

Enjoy your evening. I wish you all the absolute best and all the love in the world for 2011.

Janey xx

Diary of a New Life: Day #20 “The Inukshuk”

Precisely two weeks ago, three of my best friends and I sat on a terrace in Switzerland, drinking wine and looking at the mountains on a very chilly night.

One of these beautiful ladies who I love with all my heart handed me a little package. She spoke a few words and cried. She told us a little story about what the package contained. It was a little metal symbol, hanging on a keychain. It was called “The Inukshuk”.

The Inukshuk, eternal giant of stone, symbol of the Inuit civilisation of the Canadian Arctic, stands as the unique guide in the frozen vast wilderness. The gold and pewter sides of this piece are to remind us of the season of continuous daylight and of complete darkness which climax respectively with the summer and winter solstices. The Inukshuk will be with you for luck and protection throughout all your travels.

The next day, I walked out of that apartment with the little terrace, with my children and a few belongings, including a little bottle of lake water, in search of a new beginning. So much has happened since…

I have been in the wilderness.

I have been cold, frightened, terrified for our future.

I have felt that my heart would stop beating, such was the pain.

I wrote before I left that if I could just make it to a time when I could paint my daughter’s new bedroom walls her favourite colour pink, then I would know that everything would be ok…

Today I bought a new toaster, a new kettle, some plates, some brightly coloured duvet covers for my kids, and some PAINT! I also collected the key to my new home and attached it to my Inukshuk.

I dedicate this to all my true friends: to those of you who have bought me “Crisis Beers” in recent weeks, who have bought me a carrier bag full of bread, butter, ketchup and bacon, who opened their home to me and my kids and made me welcome, who told me jokes online and made me giggle when the world seemed black, who offered help when they really didn’t have to, who have been there for me, late at night, when I’m lying in bed and feel it’s safe to let my guard down, that a brave face is no longer required.

I love you all…thank you.

I made it!

I am HOME!

Diary of a New Life: Day #12

I stumbled out of the car, slightly merry from the Japanese beer and ran to the edge of the water with my friend. The music from the car stereo grew quieter as we ran away from it, laughing. We stopped by the edge of the lake and peered down into the darkness to the surface of the water. Every so often, white reflections cast down from the street-lamps caught on the blackened surface of the water, causing fluid, moving patterns of white light on the waves. Even on the coldest, darkest night, this lake held such beauty. I edged down the stone steps closer to the water and reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small, cobalt blue, glass bottle. I had washed it out earlier in the evening, but I could still smell the essential oils it had held. Remnants of another previous life. I leaned down closer to the water, unscrewed the cap and dipped the bottle into the freezing water. I stopped laughing. Instead I concentrated on remaining steady, as the water froze my hand. I wished it would freeze my heart. I no longer wanted to feel.

The bottle filled almost instantly. I quickly screwed up the cap and stood up. The final few seconds. I kept my back to my friend standing at the top of the steps, as I watched my quickening breath against the night sky; carrying my wordless, heart-breaking message into the night. It’s over. Goodbye.

I ran back to the car with my friend, giggling, shouting once more, hiding the desperate feeling inside; that I had lost everything, that the little freezing cold bottle in my palm may as well have contained the last traces of my soul.

_______________________________________________________

Waiting in the security queue at the airport, watching my children say goodbye to their father. A six foot three man, crying his eyes out, bending over two tiny bodies, their faces beaming up at him, he’s holding them so tight I think they’ll disappear into him. I clutch the family passports to my face like a shield. Usually four, now three.

I want to hide behind them forever. I want to disappear.

I cannot take this pain.

_______________________________________________________

 

Today I spent most of my morning in Ipswich Job Centre. I had been asked to go there for a meeting about benefits, mainly income support. I arranged for my friend to take my daughter to school and for my mum to pick me up and take my son and I to the meeting. She could look after him whilst I was in the interview.

Of course, I hadn’t counted on the fact that my son would have the biggest meltdown known to parenting precisely five minutes before we were due to leave. Not just a bit of a tantrum, but full on screaming, “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!” at me. I’ve been getting a lot of that lately.

I got to the interview twenty minutes late, sweating, apologising, teary, frustrated.

But Joe was there to calm me down. Job Centre Joe as I have christened him. His “I am here to help” attitude got me through the next hour of questions, his “hey, everyone needs assistance sometimes” message I found heartwarming. I was beginning to feel less of a disaster-zone than when I had first walked in.

An hour later, after Joe had carefully taken details down about my previous relationships, my varied and colourful work history, my financial status, my lack of any incoming financial support or benefits, and my reasons for why I was actually sitting down in front of him in the first place, he printed off my application form, handed me a copy, shook my hand warmly and lead me to another waiting area to take a seat.

Another twenty minutes later I was summoned to another desk. I gave my reasons for being there for a second time. The lady was very polite and kind, once again gave me that look as if to say “don’t worry, it will all get sorted out in the end. There there…”

Only it won’t. Or at least it feels right now that there will never be an end to this.

Ten minutes after checking through all final details, she announced to me that I wasn’t entitled to Income Support because I wasn’t claiming Child Benefit. My application was unsuccessful.

“But I don’t understand,” I stammered, “how am I supposed to have a Child Benefit claim already in place when I have not received the application form in the post yet and I only arrived back into the UK on Sunday? And more importantly, when I was told I should attend this interview, WHY was that not one of the FIRST questions that was asked??”

“Our telephone team are not Benefits-Trained,” she explained helpfully.

So basically, the first point of contact you have when you find yourself in a situation similar to mine, when arriving back into the country, not knowing anything about benefits and entitlements, this seemingly uber-efficient telephone team with lists of “helpful numbers” at their fingertips, know FUCK ALL about the system itself.

I was told that the only thing I could do was to ensure I made my Child Benefit claim as soon as possible. She could also help me to claim Jobseeker’s Allowance (in itself a falsehood, as I am not seeking a job, I am being Mummy to two tiny kids).

“What do I have to do to claim it?” I asked. “Is there a form I need to fill in? You already have all my details.”

Upon which she handed me a leaflet and underlined an 0845 number. “You need to call this number and make another appointment,” she explained.

“You are JOKING,” I cried. “What happens to the information I have just spent an hour giving to your colleague, Joe?”

“It’s deleted,” she admitted. “You have to start the process again.”

“So that’s it? I am deleted?” I asked incredulously.

She nodded nervously, her eyes not leaving mine, recognising the look in them, her hand moving slowly under the desk, in preparation for ringing some kind of security alarm, no doubt.

Instead, I cried. I put my face in my hands and wept. My dignity is long gone, so I really didn’t care.

And after a few sobs, I gathered up my things, took the telephone number from her, thanked her and left quickly.

_______________________________________________________

 

Too many times, TOO MANY TIMES in this life, I have been sent back to square one, sent back to the start. I am tired of it. I know I must remain positive and I do know that I will eventually get through all of this. I just wish that I didn’t have to earn so many battle scars, I wish I didn’t have to constantly swim upriver.

I’ve just taken my little bottle of water out of my suitcase. I hadn’t dared look at it until now.

As I look at it, I just cannot work out WHY this is happening.

So many questions.

I feel like I am only just beginning to find out what the questions are, let alone the answers…

This post is dedicated to a good online friend @emilyniawatson on Twitter who has offered support to me and also came up with the idea of bottling some of the water from my beloved lake. Thank you, Emily. x

 

 

 

Diary of a New Life: Day #5

Today I managed new things. Just little things mind you, but things that remind me that I am “still in there” somewhere.

The real Jane doesn’t normally spend days wandering around wailing, or wringing her hands, or not eating. You see, THERE’S the perfect example of how unlike myself I have been. I love eating. Mind you, despite people’s protests at how important it is at the moment that I must manage a square meal, I have been absolutely unable to swallow properly.  There’s ANOTHER example, RIGHT THERE.

Today I laughed.

Not just chortles, or weak guffaws; PROPER belly laughs. The kind where I had tears streaming down my face and I even had to do a *Pants Check*.

It felt really, really good (the laughs that is, the Pants Check was awkward as I was in the middle of a restaurant).

I patted myself on the back, because today I had to do another task that I was absolutely dreading. I had to go to the local commune (rather like the town council) to get de-registered. That means that I give up my residency permit. Or rather, I don’t give it up, they stamp it and hand it back to me with the words that feel as though they roughly translate as “GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU LOSER.” OK, I am a little sensitive…

Up until that point in the day, I had been managing rather well. Laughs, civil conversations with him, lots of necessary and useful arrangements had been made. I had lunch with a very good friend who I hadn’t seen in ages. She took the afternoon off work and, to be honest, I just don’t know what I would have done without her.

We talked, plotted, cried and laughed about silver linings on clouds, relationships, cars, sex, revenge, heartbreak, children, England, horses (?) and magical energy.

We talked about the positives about me moving back to England and being newly single. Since our conversation, I have thought about this a little more. The good points include (I urge you to keep an open mind at this point):

• I can eat Salt & Vinegar crisps (proper ones, not pretend ones) whenever I like.
• I don’t have to tidy up after another adult.
• I can sit in the pub for as long as I want (or as long as the money lasts) without worrying about when *someone wants to go home*.
• I can have sex with who I want (with their consent, of course).
• I can eat Pot Noodles for breakfast.
• I can try lesbianism. Properly. Not pretend lesbianism.
• I can love Apple products again and even mention the iPad without getting lynched.
• I can do what the fuck I want.

Laughing aside, it was a lunch I will remember forever. Mainly because I shared it with someone so special, but also because it was my first lunch as a “single woman” again.

My friend took a picture of me. When I saw the picture it dawned on me…

I already feel different.

After lunch, we headed to the commune. We were laughing so hard and being so silly at that point, that even when I handed over our permits, I felt fine.

It was only when my permit was handed back to me, tucked into my passport, and I saw little smudgy purple letters across it, that I buckled.

Go directly to where you came from, do not pass go, do not collect anything except your suitcase.

It’s strange. All week I have been making calls, making arrangements, making a life. But I suppose that there has been a part of me all along that is in denial.

I felt that rubber stamp like a knife through my heart.

My friend comforted me in a brilliant way, however. She bought me some Euro Millions lottery tickets and some scratch cards and took me to sit beside the lake so that we could see if we had any winnings.

I won TWO WHOLE FRANCS!

She took photos of me laughing my face off at this stroke of luck, determined to document such a traumatic, crazy time in life, so that I could look back and laugh at it all when I find some happiness, some peace.

I have been asking myself in the last few days: What do I want? What will make me happy now? When will I feel at peace?

The truth is, I cannot actually have what I want. I am being forced to change my hopes and dreams, or at least downsize them.

My new dream, my hope for our future, the light at the end of this tunnel, is this:

My daughter is suffering right now. She is crying a lot, doesn’t like being left, is afraid of the dark. She is confused. Scared. The only thing I can do is promise her that I will do my best by her, that I will never leave.

And I can promise her a pink bedroom, all of her own.

All I want is to make it one piece, to make it to a time when I lift up a paintbrush from a pot, smell the fresh, slightly eye-watering, chemical smell and paint a dull, bare wall the most ridiculously vibrant shade of fushcia.

That is when I know we are home.

That we made it.

I know that we can do this now.  Earlier, as I laughed at my two francs winnings, I could suddenly feel something familiar, I could feel a little internal spark once more…

The essence of me is still there. And my luck is already changing…

Diary of a New Life: Day #4

I am on my own.

Today, that really dawned on me. I know I have a huge amount of help from friends at the moment, and will continue to do so. But today, I suddenly realised that, in terms of parenting, I am on my own. Something inside me seems to have plummeted like a stone.

My kids are really stressed out right now. They are fighting, screaming, crying, hating. I am finding it incredibly hard, as I have so many things to do before I leave. I want to just cuddle with them for the next few days, just shower them with love. But I can’t. I have to do the paperwork, make the calls, ask the questions. There is no-one else to do this apart from me.

I had better get used to it.

I did an Audioboo earlier. I don’t really know why. Maybe if I hear myself talking about things I get just that little bit further towards accepting them. There is still that sense, when I am explaining to someone what’s been going on recently, that I am describing something that is happening to someone else, even a fictional character in a book.

My biggest fear amongst the next few days, is how I am going to feel finally saying goodbye. Not to him, because although I am saying goodbye to him as a partner, he is still going to be in my life. It’s the nature of our relationship that is changing. Yes, it hurts, but I can cope with it. I have to. The “bit” that’s killing me is leaving Switzerland, our friends, our connections, leaving Skye’s favourite swing, the playground, the beach and “my lake”.

This place has healed me. But suddenly now it’s as if I am broken again.

People have said to me, quite rightly, that I should be thankful for my experiences here, and that I enjoyed my time in Switzerland. I am incredibly grateful. I am just not so grateful that I am suddenly being plucked out of my life here without any warning and dumped into a place that, at the moment, I don’t want to be. I will adjust, of course I will.

I am dreading watching him say goodbye to the kids. I can’t even write about it without tears pouring down my face. That is all I have to say about that part.

I was proud of myself last night, proud of a little bit of strength I found. I went to see a friend, so that I could get some space between me and the kids and also so that he could spend some time with them before we leave.

I stepped out of the apartment quite tentatively at first (I have been reclusive and have only stepped outside once since this whole thing started). Down our road is a bridge over the railway. At the top of the bridge you can see the Old Town of Villeneuve, and Les Dents du Midi to your left, down the Rhone Valley. This mountain range is one of the most visually stunning in the region, a jagged ridge that seems to plant its teeth into the sky, as if trying to tear it apart. Les Dents du Midi translates as “The Teeth of the South”. Opposite this ridge is Les Diablerets (“The Devils”), another stunning ridge that resembles a kind of devilish horned animal, presiding over the valley. It’s breath-taking.

I always carry my camera with me, so I took some photos. I decided that this would be my last walk alone in this area, I decided at that moment that I was strong enough.

I carried on into the town and took more pictures, walking along Le Grand Rue (the main spine of the town) and finally walking through one of my favourite archways to the lake. This was the part I was really dreading…

Tears came instantly. This stretch of water has almost felt like a living, breathing thing to me for the last three and a half years. It has been my friend. I know it sounds mental, but when I have felt under pressure it is the first place I go to. It heals me.

Never had I seen the lake looking so beautiful. Fucking typical, really.

I took off my shoes and sat on the steps into the water, so that the water was nearly lapping at my toes. If I am totally honest, I felt right at that moment….”if I didn’t have kids, if I were alone, I could just walk in and let it wash over me”. That sensation, that momentary feeling of hopelessness, held no fear for me, only a kind of acceptance. I would have happily died in this place.

But I do have kids. So instead, I took some more pictures.

And then I cried some more. I “howled into the wind”, as I call it.

It’s a kind of primal process for me somehow, letting gut-wrenching, noisy sobs come forth from within a deep, hurt place inside of my body. In fact, it goes deeper than the physical me, it comes from my soul.

It is something I have found to be utterly necessary in these situations. When I broke up with my husband back in 2004, every lunchbreak during work, I used to walk for an hour. I’d climb a little hill in rural Suffolk and when I got to the top, I’d stop and begin doing some really weird things. I would ask questions, I would shout, I would cry, I would whisper, I would laugh, I would scream. I don’t know really who I was talking to. But at that time, that stretch of sky at the top of the hill was my friend.

And then, a year later, I would do the same. But this time it wasn’t a hill in Suffolk, it was Parliament Hill, Hampstead Heath. Yes, slightly more populated; I got used to getting some odd looks.

And then, four years later still, a hill in London where I watched kites dancing on the wind turned into a gigantic stretch of water in Switzerland, where I watched paddle boats on the water, and when the water was warm enough, took my babies in for a dip.

When I used to travel extensively, particularly in Ecuador and Peru, I used to love the Quechua word “Pachamama”, the literal translation is “Mother World”. In Inca mythology, “Pachamama” is a fertility goddess who watches over planting and harvesting, birth and growth. Another translation is “Good Mother”. People of the Andes usually honour her before every meeting or festivity by burying food, burning incense, in some cases, even performing ancient rites of passage to bring the good will of the goddess, such as sacrificing animals.

This has resonance for me somehow. I think that the times when I stand on my hill and scream, or sit by my lake and howl, I am talking to the Good Mother, the Mother World.

I am finally sacrificing myself somehow. Giving up on a time in life that is obviously over. And trusting in something that is infinitely bigger than me.

It’s as if I’m saying:

“You have me now… my flesh, my heart, my mind, my soul. I cannot go on. I have nothing left. Now I am trusting in you to plant the seed of me again, of whatever I represent, and nourish me; help me grow and flourish in a new place.”

I will flourish again. I will put down my roots into the soil once more.

And I am lucky. I know where it is I am going.

This morning, my friend, my wonderful friend who is opening her home to us over the next few days, sent me a message with a picture attached that simply said, “I know you’ll miss your lake, but your river is here waiting for you! x”

I am going back to the source, to the place where I was born.

I am going home.

Diary of a New Life: Day #3

Today I awoke to that now-familiar sick feeling in my stomach.

But I could breathe. It’s a start…

The first heartbreaking task of the day today, one which I had asked him to do, but he declined, was to tell Skye’s crèche that she will be leaving on Friday. I knew it was going to tear me to pieces, but I just stealed myself to do it this morning.

It was utter hell. Trying to explain things in French, then bursting into tears. All the other mums crowded around me consoling me. I daresay if ever they get wind of his whereabouts they might be after him with stale french sticks in their hands and violence on their minds.

The second task of the day, not heart-breaking, just stressful, was to call my UK bank because I had lost my bank card. I opened my purse this morning to pay for my flights and it wasn’t there. Cue the retracing of steps, endless calls to the various places I had been, all of which amounted to nothing. One hour and seven different departments later (including the re-telling of my sorrowful tale seven times over, and with it bursting into tears seven times), I had arranged for emergency cash to be wired to my Swiss account and for a new bank card to be waiting for me in the UK next week. For the bargain price of £30 (£30 which I don’t have).

It was only twenty minutes ago, however, whilst on the phone to my sister and whilst the kids were running riot, my daughter came up to me shouting, “Here Mummy, here it is!” She had hidden it, and no doubt in the stressed out frame of mind she is in, had forgotten where she’d put it. I can’t go back and resurrect the card, the bank has already put a stop on it.

Just waiting for the locusts now…

What has amazed me in a more positive way in the last few days, however, when I could be losing my faith in the whole of humanity, is the overwhelming generosity of the human spirit. I am not going to name names, you know who you are:

The crèche are cancelling their original arrangements for Friday’s session and will be holding a little leaving party for Skye.

I have had offers of money and shelter from people I have never even met.

A friend in the UK is dropping everything to fly over on Saturday, JUST to hold my hand and help with the kids on the journey home. (Yes, home. I have started to refer to this place at the apartment and my destination as home. It’s the only way.)

Another friend is collecting us from the airport and driving us to her place, to warmth, comfort and SAFETY. Don’t get me wrong, we are not in any danger here, at least not physically. But having the ground pulled out from under us like this is very emotionally unstabling. I can’t wait to feel on semi-solid ground again.

In fact, there seems to be some kind of Emergency Response Team in operation, who are solely concerned for the welfare of my kids and even for me.

Again, today there are many jumbled thoughts. I find it utterly bizarre that only on Saturday I published a poem on my blog about a homeless woman. At the end of the poem I thanked my lucky stars for being loved and having shelter and comfort in my life. It was then, that same Saturday evening, when he told me it was over. No, I am not losing the love I had (at least not from the majority of people in my life), but I am losing my home, somewhere I have spent the last couple of years building up.

In fact, there are so many pieces of writing that I have done recently which held a kind of prediction within them, which appear now to be having some kind of significance. It is uncanny.

But I cannot be too analytical. I must be practical. I have to make things happen.

But if, out of all of this mess, I was allowed one wish, if indeed the stars are willing to line up the right way for me, at least for a few minutes, then this is what I would wish for:

When the lovely people at the Housing Department eventually come up with a place for us to live, I just dearly want it to be a place that I can smile at and feel relief when I see it. I don’t need a palace, I don’t need mod-cons. I just want somewhere in my hometown that is light, clean, not falling-apart…..OURS. Somewhere that I feel I can settle down in and make into a really happy home for the kids. If anyone reading this feels they can help me manifest this, please do try!

I can’t help but feel that this whole thing is happening for a reason, and I feel it is all about being self-sufficient. I want to earn my own money and not be on handouts for long, but for the first six months I will concentrate my energies on giving my children as much attention and love as possible. I’ll be honest, they are incredibly distressed right now. Lots of tears, tantrums, clingyness. I am just about dealing with it all, but I am obviously depleted of my energy.

But I will manage this!

This is a song that I used to listen to, when I started again before (only five years ago)! The words are incredible to me, and just about say everything in life that I would pass on to my kids, if I only had five minutes left in this life to tell them the important stuff…

I WILL manage. Just watch me.

YOU GOTTA BE – DES’REE (Lyrics and video copyright – Des’ree)

Listen as your day unfolds
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky
Lovers, they may cause you tears
Go ahead release your fears
Stand up and be counted
Don’t be ashamed to cry
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold
You gotta be wiser, you gotta be hard
You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm
You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day
Herald what your mother said
Read the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
Some may have more cash than you
Others take a different view
My oh my heh, hey
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold
You gotta be wiser, you gotta be hard
You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm
You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day
Time asks no questions, it goes on without you
Leaving you behind if you can’t stand the pace
The world keeps on spinning
You can’t stop it, if you try to
This time it’s danger staring you in the face
Oh oh oh Remember
Listen as your day unfolds
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky
Lovers, they may cause you tears
Go ahead release your fears
My oh my heh, hey, hey
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold
You gotta be wiser, you gotta be hard
You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm
You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold
You gotta be wiser, you gotta be hard
You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm
You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day

Diary of a New Life: Day #2

I woke up this morning at 4 am, and once again nearly had a panic attack, caused by those first few sickening seconds…you know the feeling…when you realise that the horrible thing you dreamed about has burst out of your nightmares and joined you in reality like an unwelcome, demonic visitor.

So many questions, so much confusion.  How was it that I had known things were about to change, even though I didn’t know in what way?

I had said to Karl of The Dialogue Project only recently, that the interview I recently did was not the END of my story and that my life may change once more.

I just didn’t know it would change so soon, so dramatically, and at least what seems to me now, so tragically…

__________________________________________________

This weekend is the family ice-hockey team weekend in Leukerbad.  I wrote about this annual trip before, and described how it was one of my favourite things that we do here in Switzerland.

Only, of course, this year it is cancelled.

Or so I thought.

Last night, when he and I were talking, it came up in conversation.

He is still going.  He thinks it will be good for him.  Good for him.

What is good for us right now?

Is it good for us that in the next couple of days I will be taking our 2 children and 3 suitcases, containing the most important necessities of our now-downsized life, and walking out of our apartment, our home, never to see it again?

…That today, whilst he is at working carrying on as normal, I have had to discuss with the kids which toys are the only ones they will be able to fit into their suitcases?

…That in a couple of days we will have to travel along our beautiful lake for the last time, away from Villeneuve, away from where I had placed my heart and soul, where I had started a new, fun and exciting life for my children, and we have to say goodbye?

…That when I arrive in England I must immediately go to the Housing Department and declare myself “homeless, penniless and vulnerable” and beg for a roof over my head?

I understand that it must be done, so I will carry on looking forward, trying to see a way through this situation.  A situation where once again, I am left with a choice without choice.

I know what I have to do.

I have to leave this life behind.

I have to continue to defend the father of my children to others that see him as a bastard.  I have already had to do it and I know I will do it again.  Why?  Because he is their father, they love him and they need him in their life, even though their lives are changing beyond recognition.  They still need to see him as the wonderful father he has been.  I need to take my ego out of this situation, however hurt I feel.

And whilst I travel alongside “my lake”, crying for what seems to have been snatched away from me in a heartbeat, an ice hockey player, the man I am practising “not to love”, will be practising his moves lightly and swiftly, skimming across the ice, carving circular lines in the ice with this skates, celebrating his new-found freedom.

He may as well be carving directly into my heart.

Diary of a New Life: Day #1

I have decided that I will write blog posts about what I am going through right now.  Writing is my outlet and I need to do it.  I will not tweet about it, because Twitter is an open forum.  I will include links from my Facebook fan page and just tweet the links.  People can read or they can look away.  This blog is mine and it feels now that, apart from my kids, it is all I have left.

I woke up from a nightmare this morning.  Except that when I “came to” I just couldn’t get rid of the tight, sick feeling in my stomach and my heart was racing.  My head continued to be a haven for black, almost suicidal, thoughts.

“My Jason”, my beautiful supportive man, seems to have been replaced by someone else.  I lay next to him last night in bed, while he snored gently.  I was careful not to touch him, careful only to occupy my side of the bed.  It feels like I am no longer allowed to touch him, as if I am now polluted in some way.

I cannot even refer to him as “Jason” anymore, only “him”, as it hurts so much to say his name.

I don’t love you.  I just want to be single.  I’ve been unhappy for ages.  I don’t want you in my life anymore.

My foundations have been ripped out right out from under me.  I am floating in a surreal world today, kind of in a state of confusion and disbelief.  I haven’t eaten in nearly 48 hours as even to chew and swallow seems an impossible task.  I am shaking and my legs are like jelly.

But even through blurred vision and with shaking hands I must be practical.  I now am in protection mode, and I am trying to find a new life for me and my kids.  They are my priority.  I cannot fall apart.  I cannot listen to music, as I will be ripped to shreds.  I cannot walk beside the lake that I have loved so much, beside that water that I felt had healed me of my past, without feeling that I will simply fade into nothing and my heart will stop beating, such is the pain.

So I am making calls.  I’m designing a new life.

The worst part of today so far was when I picked up Skye from crèche.  She looked tired when I went to collect her (she knows something is wrong after he sat her down and told her the truth last night).

She got upset because she wanted to take home a painting she had made.  I asked the crèche assistant if we could take the painting, but she replied, “No Skye, because the painting is for the party we are having in two weeks’ time.  You can take the painting home after the party, but for now it’s going to decorate the walls.”

Skye cried.  And then so did I.

How do you begin to explain to a three year old that she won’t be at that party?  That all the things that she loves about this place, crèche, school, the lake, the playground, her little friends….that they are all gone?  That it’s over?

I have to find a way for the three of us on my own.

I have to pick up the pieces.

This is Day 1.

Safe

I’m sitting in a hotel room after an absolutely gigantic lunch at Switzerland’s only Wagamama’s, including quite a lot of beer and sake.  It’s nearly time for a crafty little siesta before heading out tonight to explore more of Zurich’s nightlife.  So in the holiday frame-of-mind are we, that I even have a little glass of vodka & coke at my side.  Life is rather lovely today.  All of this after a night of about 9 hours sleep, in the softest, most comfortable bed known to man, well, I am feeling pretty spoilt.

What is even more lovely, is that I have finally finished a poem that has been rattling around my head since the early summer.  I don’t want to go into much detail about what the poem has meant to me.  I like poetry because the reader can draw his or her own conclusions and make it entirely personal to them.  Rather like music, I suppose.

What I do want to say, however, is that the poem was inspired by one of those moments in life that shakes you to the core; one of those moments when you have a horrible, sick feeling wash over you.  The poem is about a homeless woman I saw once.  She simply hasn’t left me since.

And as I sit here on a huge comfy hotel bed, with my geeky boyfriend snoring away next to me, fiddling around on my laptop, sipping vodka and coke and feeling the most relaxed I have felt in months… feeling SAFE, I can’t help but feel so very lucky.  I often forget that.

I hope you enjoy the poem.  It is called The Absence of Good.

Jane xx