My blog title is taken from the Emily Perl Kingsley piece of the same name. You can read it in it's entirety here and I recommend that you do if you want to start to get a handle on our life.
blog is an attempt to get to grips with the fact that I'm in Holland,
not Italy. And to try to get over my grief about it. Because, as
... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to
Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very
lovely things ... about Holland.
Sometimes I rail against it all, though, and I wrote the piece below when I was feeling very low about it all.
Welcome to fucking Holland ...
I don't know what I want to write. But I want to write *something*.
am so bloody tired of everything. Five child-free days in Toulouse was
wonderful, despite it taking me three days to wind down enough to not
have a constant headache from grinding my teeth and another day to get
my linguistic ear in.
Coming home and here I am again. House full of clutter, marriage full of clutter, relationship with children full of clutter.
I want to do is escape, either physically or in to my head. I want
everything to be smooth and easy and not require charging at night. I
read until the small hours because I can't bear what happens when my
brain isn't busy doing something. I can't pause during the day because I
will start thinking and feeling. I can't bang out werewolf porn as a
distraction because writing, even crap writing, requires a certain
amount of internal stillness in my inner pool so that the thoughts can
rise to the top. I can't get out for a walk in the air because my
fucking hips hurt and the cold air makes the bloody fibromyalgia worse
the next day. Nothing is laying in chicken-world so I don't have the
distraction of hatching things.
The house is full of
specialist lifting equipment, wheelchairs, chairs, beds and bath-aids.
Nenna wants to hold her drink by herself and unless we supervise her
constantly it spills. Everything is covered with juice. Sofa, floor,
chairs. The carpets need cleaning in the living room and in Leo's room
as well because the cat is still disgracing herself occasionally. There
is paperwork coming out the wazoo. If Nen doesn't have her splints and
her shoes on all the time, she slips and falls, even with the walker.
And you know what? I can't bring myself to fucking care about any of it.
B and I are living our lives, our marriage, in the cracks between caring
for our child. Leo is living his life there as well. Everything revolves
around her. Our entire life is about her and her next move, whether
that's forward or backwards. And today, I fucking resent it. I resent
coming back from my five days just being me, just being Ally, who's in
love with B.
I resent that I have a future that
involves changing adult nappies and using a bath-lift and knackering my
back lifting someone who doesn't have muscle control. I resent that we
have to spend an hour and a half every day tube-feeding. I resent the
time I spent on stretching exercises. I hate not getting proper sleep at
night because when she wakes I lie there, rigid, waiting to see whether
one of us is going to have to get out to turn her.
resent the fact that I resent it all. I resent the fact that I am angry
all the time. I resent the fact that I'm forty three, I am four stone
overweight, I am too tired to be funny, too tired to be creative, too
tired to cook a fucking meal, sometimes. I resent the time we both spend
having counselling about all this. I resent the time I spend filling in
forms, talking to physiotherapists, talking to social workers. I resent
not knowing where we are going in the future.
resent that my beautiful, clever, funny, amazing daughter, who I love so
much it hurts, is not going to have the life that she should have had;
and that we will not have that life we should have had with her.
resent the fact that our entire fucking life has been hijacked by one
measly gene fragment that doesn't even have the decency to be easily
Welcome to fucking Holland. It's shit here.