What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
One question I hate to be asked is ‘yeah, but who’s your favourite’? I’ve been asked that over the years regarding my children and grandchildren….my answer is always and will always be the same, ‘I don’t have a favourite’.
I can be asked until the cows come home and I still would not, could not, answer the question.
The thing is all my children and all my grandchildren share the same amount of love I carry for them in my heart.
Now, when it comes to all their individual behaviours, quirks, attitudes etc, that denotes how I ‘respond and react’ to them. It does not denote how deeply I love them. If they, or anyone else, has a different opinion on ‘who MY favourite is’, then that is a matter of conjecture and not a matter of fact.
We are all very unique. Possess very different sets of skills, patience, tolerances, resilliences, etc and I guess we all bob along best we can, but as for favourites…..
There is no favourite person only my favourite chocolate bar, or my favourite food, favourite book, favourite movie, favourite destination etc. Even then, it does not always remain the same, it changes.
So as to my children and grandchildren, they are all one of my favourite people on the planet…..
I sat at the table looking out of the window to the river rushing by, trying to steady myself. Trying to anticipate how it would be, telling myself to remain calm, to not cry, to not make it about me.
The waitress brought my drink. I toasted, with a nod to the empty chair. Holding back the tears that were prickling my eyes, wiping the sweat of my palms on my jeans and swallowing hard, the dry lump in my throat.
I ate the dinner in silence. Thousands of thoughts racing in my head. Conversations. Things I would and wouldn’t say.
I went up to my hotel room, checked the time and waited. My stomach lurching. My body began to tremble.
I placed my phone on the dressing table, it was upright and facing the chair. I sat down heavily in it as my legs turned to jelly.
It began to ring that recognisable tone, exclusive to facetime. My heart nearly stopped and with bated breath and a fake smile, I answered.
She looked fabulous, Tired but her usual beautiful self. Her usual cheerful smile. Cracking jokes and making small talk. Her family with her, her husband and children by her side. Her other child, mother and sister on another facetime call.
Distance of being in another country, difficult, but at least we had technology.
‘I really hope i go tonight’, she said. ‘I’m ready’.
‘i love you. I’ll miss you, but i hope you get your wish’ I said, my heart breaking into pieces and taking everything i had, to not cry.
‘I love you too’ she said
When i hung up the phone i stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was glad in that moment i was alone in the hotel room. I was grateful no one could get to me, to try comfort me. There was no comfort knowing your best friend was about to die.
I walked over to the bed all I could do was punch down so fiercely on the pillows, and scream and cry to try let out the sheer anger that consumed by being.
It was the hardest goodbye I ever had, but I’m so grateful to have been able to have that moment with her.
If I could be someone else for a day I would be my guardian angel, whoever that is. I would be my guardian angel so that I could take a trip back up to heaven and chat with my dad, my friend and my relations and ancestors.
I would love to know and speak to the people in my ancestral line. I would love to hear the stories of their lives when they were on earth. I would love to hear what they would think of the world as it is today and whether they are glad that they lived in the time that they lived in.
I often say I was born in the wrong era. I wonder would my ancestors think the same thing about when they lived?
I think being my guardian angel for a day and chatting with my dad and my friend would be such a hoot. They would think it totally mad and crazy and the craic would be mighty, we would have such a good laugh. When I would have to leave and swap back to being me again, I would feel a little bit lighter about them being up there in the first place.
That old saying ‘Get your teeth into it’ is what I literally did. I drew a picture of the house I wanted to build on a small copy page from my daughters school copy.
At night, in my head, I would walk through the rooms and the next day I would adjust, move or replace walls, doors, rooms and re-draw the house until I had it ‘just right’.
I then gave my copy page drawing to an architect to properly draw me a house and plans.
We moved into the house after six months. I project managed the whole thing from start to finish. I sourced all the tradesmen and was very hands on many times.
When we moved in there was still work to be done. Second fix carpentry was one of them. I have bought the timber for the skirting and architrave which was lurking about in my hall. Many a time I, and my children, tripped over it.
Having ran out of money and patience I decided to go buy a mitre block and took myself off to my brother, who is an expert carpenter (although a very busy one), to show me how to use said mitre block.
After my 10 minute training session I proceeded to haul the timber onto my workman bench and into my mitre block (after having measured the door frames and angles) and picked up the saw.
‘Use it like you are cutting through butter’ my brother said. ‘Keep your index finger straight on the handle pointing towards the end of the saw’. He had demonstrated the position and said ‘just glide it, gently until you get your ‘nik’ then, take longer forward and backward motions keeping your sawing in a nice rhythm and it will be easier than you think’.
So, having gotten the teeth of the saw into the fresh (but dusty) timber, I began to do, just as he taught me, and got ‘my teeth stuck into the task’. I completed the remaining 4 bedrooms, measuring, cutting and nailing the skirting and architraves to the wall and to frame the doors.
No more tripping over timber in the hall and after admiring my handywork, it was now time to put on the painting clothes, grab my brush and paint, and get back to work finishing the job completely!
When we find time to breathe, to get off the treadmill, to escape the rat race, to be alone and at one with ourselves, we find we can love ourselves more…..
“The only constant in life is change”
Heraclitus
Duty
There is a freedom in letting go
And the unfurling of knots and grip, and sinew, though
at first feels wrong, strange and painful, soon becomes
loose, light and lethargic.
Yet in that looseness, a new strength is constructed,
and in no length of time consciousness truly awakens,
and brings fresh breath to each cell, each nerve, each muscle
as though, it has been reborn, rebooted and realigned to
its own self,
to embrace, to understand and accept, that therein lies
the true reality of duty and obligation.
To first, clutch oneself, love inwardly, one’s own mind and body,
Did you, do you, feel trapped. Trapped in a situation, a relationship and feel like you are drowning, disappearing? Did you know, there is a way out, you just have to put your trust in someone….. YOU!
I was 19 when I realised that I had this ‘power’.
I got engaged when I was 18. It was a magical, deep emotional love. A whirlwind romance. We got engaged after 3 months. I was completely swept off my feet.
He was kind, funny, attentive. Until after about 6 months, when attentive and kind, turned to possession and obsession.
It was a slow and gradual transition, so slow and gradual, that it almost evaded me. I was young and naive, and in love.
It started first with words, then a shove, a push, a punch, a kick and a strangulation. There is a new word for how it begins these days, ‘gaslighting’. Back then, anything to do with gas light, was exactly that, a light.
How easy we can be manipulated without really knowing what is happening.
It went on for 18 months and all the while in silence. I was ashamed and had no voice with which to tell anyone what was going on in my ‘secret life’.
On the outside, all looked fine and dandy, because that is the picture you want to portray. We all portray a fine and dandy picture one way or another, at some time or another. Yet, we all suffer, one thing or another.
It may be a bad relationship. It may be caring for a sick child, a disabled child. A sick or disabled parent. A job we hate. Ourselves, that we despise. What ever it is, there is something that we all tend to gloss over and hide.
At almost 20 I had decided that it was time to find my power to escape this secret life.
He came back from the pub, drunk, so drunk and I pretended to be asleep. It was after 2.00 a.m in the morning. He decided he wanted a fight. First he raised his voice to ‘wake me up’, then he smashed a few ornaments before throwing me on top of them. Next he hurled the bed up onto its side, before sitting astride on me and placing his big hands around my neck while screaming and shouting and strangling me.
I was terrified. I screamed in the hope that the neighbour would bang the door down, or at the very least, call the police. They did neither.
Next, he grabbed me by the skin of my chest and swung me from the floor to the window, all the time holding on, and bashing me against it, over and over and I screamed some more, thinking I was going to die by falling through the upstairs window to the ground below.
Exhaustion took hold of him and he finally let go. Thank god it was a sash window. The horizonal wood across the middle almost certainly saved my life.
I tried to calm him, apolgise to him, appease him. Eventually, it worked and adrenalin had left his body and left him as weak as a kitten
I escaped. I quietly tip toed down stairs, opened the front door and ran, in nothing but my bare feet, underwear and flimsy dressing gown, into the night.
I told myself I would rather be raped and murdered by a stranger than stay with this monster who purported to love me.
I realised, as I finally made it safely, to a fiends house some miles away, that the choice was mine to make.
I loved HIM dearly and with all my heart. However, I despised and was terrified of his behaviour when he was drunk.
We had been in this abusive situation many times, but that night, I decided, would be the last. Love was not enough to endure this abuse any more.
We all have our demons, our faults, our capacity to deal with adversity, whatever the adversity may be. However, we all have our strength, our power, our resilience, there within us. It is a matter of choice, not chance, when we decide to tap into it, hold it by the hand and bring it to the forefront of our battle.
That time of making that choice, is usually when we have had ‘enough’. Our ‘enough’, not some one elses. We have to decide, when we want to stand up for ourselves. Ask for help, for ourselves. Let others know what our demons are, what our cross is that we have to bare, and share the load.
It is not weak to ask for help. It is not weak to walk away. It is not weak to stay. Transition often takes time. As gradual as this new situation crept into our lives, can often take a gradual transition to deal with and cope with and understand or even break free from it, depending on what ‘it’ is.
In one way I am glad that I encountered such horror so early in life because it set me up, on alert for every situation that I found myself in ever since. It prepared me to weigh up my options, to accept or become absent. To seek help or to walk away.
Each relationship, good, bad, indifferent teaches us something. There is learning in every single encounter that we have. It is in the learning, that we grow stronger and more resilient.
But, it is in the choices we make whether we decide to stay stuck in our secret lives or whether to share our ‘secret life’ and offload our pain, our troubles, our worries and tales of woe with others so as to feel not so alone, ashamed or isolated.
The power of sharing is the secret to unlocking the power within you, me and everyone.
Relay shun ships 
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