Writing

A blog to post my writing, for myself

[redheaddwrites]

It’s summer

You ask me about my mother and are met with blankness like a dark and endless corridor

Or else rage that boils with the blood that runs through her veins and mine

This is only gift she’ll ever give me, existence tainted red like my hair

Burning with a quiet and inexplicable anger, or else longing, or else nothing

Left with an eternity of never-knowing exactly how or why and my father’s grief

Hearing how she peeled him open like an orange

Slowly, meticulously, until he was raw and uncovered

Ready and willing to be consumed by your never ending illness and addition

You bathed in the cool sweetness of his love

Scabs bleeding covered with work and alcohol

And me

That’s a lot of pressure to deal with

A constant reminder of what he lost, a gift, a curse

I have always felt like a paradox, anyway

I don’t think he ever recovered

I am unsure why summer brings this specific sadness

The longing to belong to a mother that does not belong to me

I am only her daughter

And she is only a mother, my mother

[redheaddwrites]

Sometimes I feel like the only thing holding me together is the pressure of others’ expectations

It encases me, pushes the pieces of me that threaten to fall apart back together

But the weight is awful

I wish I could afford to fall apart

Explode, make a mess

I’d pay for it with my stability if I could

But perhaps the weight of this pressure will allow me to implode instead

At least then I wouldn’t make a mess, I wouldn’t make a sound

I’d just grow infinitely smaller

Slowly, quietly disappear into myself

Until I was entirely gone

[redheaddwrites]

withering

I felt my heart go soft and mushy in my chest like a rotting apple, as if love was withering me away, soon to dissolve completely  I feel this way in my life more generally,  Like I get more pliable with age  Weaker, less surface tension  Less stubbornly solid Able to be bent in ways I do not want to go

I often wonder why I can’t be like bread,  Get harder as I go stale Until I crack under the pressure and crumble to dust All at once, the breaking would be, sudden, dramatic And I would be instantaneously destroyed

Not this awful gradual wrinkling that I’m forced to deal with 

[redheaddwrites]

N1

I wonder if Sisyphus ever got tired of rolling the same boulder up the same hill, only to begin again when he nears the summit. The futility of it all. I wonder if the boulder ever felt any heavier over time, as he got weary of performing the same task. I wonder if it got lighter, as he got stronger. I wonder what I’m being punished for, what Zeus-like being has condemned me to drag this grief tirelessly around for eternity. Maybe it’s the price I paid for more time with you, or maybe the deal is remembrance, so long as I’m still conscious the other, blacker, side of the coin. Perhaps your life is the fire I stole from the gods, and I am destined to be ripped to eternal shreds. It feels like I wear that cursed albatross around my neck, I never should have shot it down, never should have prayed to have you for as long as I did. It probably would have been easier when I was younger – if the last loss is any demonstration, probably not. My albatross is in the shape of a crab, gold, sparkling, walking sideways over me in my sleep, snipping its claws menacingly to make sure I don’t forget you. As if I ever could. My dreams are ridden with you, always you, alive, awake, warm. I bask in these dreams, they’re never long enough, and no matter how hard I try to make them real, there is a sadistic part of me that always knows they aren’t. That you’re gone, really, and I can’t tell you because then you’ll leave me again. The saddest part is the feelings are shadowy, the voice all wrong, the words fall flat. Though in reality I can’t even remember what you sound like, not anymore – that’s been gone for a few years now – so what’s the difference? I reach out to tell you what I’ve done with my life, but you are already gone.

But I remember some things. “Two rings when you get home” you’d say, the old adage, though I was cursed to forget every time you asked. Then you’d stand in the doorframe and wave as I rounded the corner, every single time, as if I were leaving on a long journey (though I’d see you the next day anyway). It was nice having the comfort of being cared for, my safety in your hands. It was knowing that if our house phone ever rang, it would inevitably be you on the other end, two rings meant you were safe, more meant you needed something. It was your version of caller ID, the quirks of a bygone era, saying “its just me, hello”. For a while, I’d find myself staring at my phone when I crossed the threshold of the front door, wondering at what I’d forgotten. Searching in my phone for your number, though I knew it off by heart anyway, repeating it in my head like some TV jingle or weird prayer, 84615986, again and again. Maybe I thought I could summon you that way (and God wouldn’t that go against everything you believed in?). I’d wait for that phone to ring, wanting with every bone in my body, every bit of blood in my veins that made me your (grand)daughter to hear that “hello darling” whenever you’d hear me call you. I wish I could etch that sound onto my skin, throw it into the darkness for it to throw back in your voice. I walk past your road, sometimes, wanting to pop in for tea and a chat, hoping you’d let me in – only to remember that your number has been deleted, the phone thrown in the bin, the keys disposed of the flat given to another like you. All these small things gone, removed, condensed down into the familiar shape of a crab that hangs around my neck.”

[redheaddwrites]

15.05

Dear you,

Do you ever find that the world isn’t as bright as you thought it’d be? I assumed my 20s would be full of new experiences and happiness, but all I’ve found is a never-ending road of confusion and inexperience. Is it all supposed to be like this? Forever? Or is this the curse of a semi-attractive, sort of intelligent 22-year-old woman with a degree she’ll never use and exes she’ll never get over. I constantly feel full of grief, regret, and angst that I wanted to leave behind in my teens. Forever doubting myself and questioning every move, while simultaneously being spontaneous to a fault. Will I ever feel balanced, or am I destined for instability? But then, it could be worse. As I sit here and complain about how melancholy my life is, I’m forced to consider what’s happening worldwide. The Ukraine war, poverty everywhere, the Roe v Wade laws in the USA. Everything we know could be infinitely worse in just a few months… and it’s already pretty bad. Am I selfish for being wrapped up in my own life, when in the grand scheme of things, it’s pretty comfortable? Am I ignorant for doing nothing to help? But my brain is too full of university and love and life and regret to know where else to spend what little mental energy I retain. I’m tired, and very lost, and ultimately deeply unsatisfied with life. But I don’t know what to do about it. The only thing I can do is send you these deeply pretentious and not very well executed emails, in the hope that catharsis will occur, and you’ll validate my feelings with a similarly depressing reply. Or at least sympathise and not rub your incredibly well put-together life in my face (though, who are we kidding, you are probably as much of a mess as I am).

All my love (as much as I can muster in the state that I’m in)

Erin x