LEO KANE

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WHY I WRITE

 

This week, purely by chance, a friend of mine caught sight of a face book message posted by someone who is a complete stranger to me. My friend suggested I should look at the message, it read:

 

I have known Jacqueline for forty years. I am leaving this message in case there are any people out there who may want to know that, sadly, the doctor announced her death at 0930 hrs this morning. She will be truly missed.

 

Some cuts cannot be seen, you can't stem the flow of blood, you can't wrap a bandage round them or kiss them better. Sometimes you don’t even see the flick knife that shot out of nowhere and sliced you open like a side of pork, but the scars are there and they never fade.

 

A strong spirit can spend a lifetime ignoring the sick residue of rejection but, it’s a patient demon that waits, secure in the knowledge that it will eventually be welcomed home by low self-esteem. So, it won’t leave. It hangs around for days, weeks, months and years like a bad smell until it attacks like a virus when the guardian of the emotional gate takes a short vacation to peace of mind.

 

Abandonment is predatory, always on the look out, alert for weakness. The little things grab its attention, like a certain song on the radio, the sight of a stranger viewed from behind and just out of reach; or the brain freeze of ice cream accompanied by the scent of melting tarmac and the screech of seagulls on a hot summer’s day. Other times the demon of desertion attacks with the weapon of despair, inserting it into nightmares of being small and lost in a sea of giants, calling for help but never rescued. Sometimes, the tormentor initiates a flinch at the sharp sound of a slap on a child’s body; or a startled gasp when a small cry rings through the night.

 

Relationships are best built on trust but they can be built on far less worthy foundations. It is impossible to trust when every day holds a fresh expectation of being discarded by a wounding separation. When anxiety takes residence in a frightened spirit, it is left to the rest of the world to feel secure in love. The slightest look or harsh word sets a scarred heart pelting for shelter, screwing itself tight into a small stony space, as old tears scratch and burn but will not fall. Never cry. Never show how much it hurts. Be brave. Pretend.

 

As the river of life moves inexorably on and children then grandchildren join the flow, the horror of the very idea of losing them or being the one left behind punches in the solar plexus leaving the soul breathless and the psyche afraid it might just cut loose. Stay busy, travel, do anything and nothing important at all rather than anticipate the pain of separation from another. Hiding the need to hold small hands and the longing for damp curls, warm breath and innocent smiles. Don’t be dependent. Be solitary in your soul.

 

Now and again, under attack for an ordinary every day reason, the abandoned heart shouts in joy with the sudden freedom to express its sorrow and anger, screaming out pain from a cause that was witnessed and understood, if only for a moment. While the really filthy wounds fester and grow cancerous in dark places.

 

The raw underbelly of the rejected is always on show, success won’t cover it up, nor wealth dress it or age neglect its sick vulnerability. The lost soul is forever waiting to be stamped on until it is left bruised, bleeding, breathless and pleading for mercy and only then, on the edge of hopelessness, will it feel truly alive.

 

The cure? There is no cure. But love is a balm. Life’s tiny pleasures and the great are comforting embraces. Being cast adrift too early in life creates deep oceans of empathy and joys that are extreme for being hard won and rare. Love has already been tested, tempered in the foundry of childhood where it courageously resisted all attempts to twist and distort it; where love stood proud and strong despite pounding tsunami waves of rejection, disinterest and disdain.

 

So, as I was saying, my friend called me at midnight. I read the Facebook post, as she advised me to after saying, ‘I am sorry, so sorry to be the one to tell you this and in this way.’

I quickly fell sleep. At three a.m. I woke with tears streaming down my face. I thought I might die of grief; I didn’t because it wasn’t grief that assaulted me, it wasn’t despair or the pain of abandonment. The tears that fell were a flash flood of blessed relief.

 

A ship I longed to travel with has now sailed beyond my horizon. My damaged heart is free to beat unfettered by the childish desire to chase after the unobtainable. I no longer crave that which was stolen from me so long ago; I see now that it was never mine to lose. I understand that the feeling that has haunted me through the years was anticipation of her return. Now I accept that she will not come home to me and saying that it was all a terrible mistake. I can, finally, stop waiting.

 

I will exorcise the slasher demons that beset my nightmares. I will not spend another day avoiding the memory of the razors that cut long and deep I will face them and heal the invisible wounds. If the scars itch now and again, I am strong and I can bear it.

 

I am not a weak reflection of another, not even when I look in the mirror and it a different woman who looks back at me.

 

Forty-four years ago my mother left me. This week I read about her death on Facebook.

 

This is why I write.