The ones left behind

I've had the words spinning around my mind since it happened, making me nauseous. I cannot get them to stop. I have been trying to put them down in some form of organized structure, wanting to get it right. Needing to get it right . . .

Those children. Their parents. The survivors. That town.

I have lived in "that" town.

My neighbors were those parents.

My students were those survivors.

In 1996, I was an obnoxious 18 year old living in a different country and I can honestly say that I don't remember "that day", but 8 years later I moved to that tiny little town which is cozily nestled around the river Allan in beautiful Perthshire, Scotland.

Almost every person I have met (and even to this day, if someone asks), when I told them which town I lived in Scotland, they have reacted with raised eyebrows and have forced out a somber and deflated, "Oh."

And it has been sixteen years now.

It stains a small town forever; the name becomes synonymous with tragedy. All other beauties and triumphs are stolen and that is all that remains — to the outside world looking in, anyway.

I remember being taken aside on my first days of teaching. I was told names of students that had physical (and emotional) scars of which I was to "avoid" mentioning at all costs, and yet it still didn't really sink in. It wasn't until the moment that I actually saw those visible 9 year old scars on my then 17 year old students — that was one of the most difficult moments of my life. Fucking gun shot wounds on these children. I just wanted to pull them close and hug them, but of course, I couldn't do that. And I couldn't cry.

Teacher's college doesn't exactly prepare you for that — but really, is there anything that possibly could?

On the 10 year anniversary of that horrific day there was not an official memorial or gathering, but every resident quietly lit a candle in their windows as a tribute to those 16 children and 1 teacher that have not been forgotten.

And that night, as I walked my dogs around my dark and silent neighborhood, it glowed.

It glowed with sadness.
And love.
And loss.
And hope.

So after the events of Friday, I wept for the people of that town. I wept for a loss that I cannot possibly comprehend. And today, as I write these words, I weep for their future because that, I have lived in.

Another 'ship has sunk

Was I popular in high school? I guess it depends on what is considered "popular". I was out-going, out-spoken, moderately entertaining, usually friendly and had my hands in a lot of different honey pots. So, did most people know my name? By that sense of the definition, yes.

But did I have a lot of people that I genuinely valued their company and friendship? No.

After the completion of high school, I was so glad to give the majority of the people I knew a big giant "FUCK YOU!" (Queue the creation of my living nightmare that is Facebook) But there was a small handful of friends that I loved, and apart from extenuating circumstances, I fiercely valued those friendships.

Then life happens.

We grow apart.

But you know what? Even with spouses, kids, real estate, eleventeen hundred projects on the go and mild nervous breakdowns, I still love my friends. I would do anything to help them, stand by them, and support them... if they let me, even if I did show up still unclasping my straight jacket. Whatevs, right?

The downward slope began about a year ago when phone messages and texts weren't responded to. HOW HARD IS IT TO REPLY TO A TEXT, SERIOUSLY? Gah.

Then an engagement. And bachelorette party. Then a "reception" (since the wedding was essentially an elopement). All with zero communication directly from the bride. Now, I've always known that we weren't BFFs or anything, but still close enough to expect some kind of acknowledgement that I exist. But no, nothing.

During a catch-up session I was having with my rock with a cock (who was never more to this girl than a close drinking acquaintance), he tells me about an e-vite THAT HE GOT for the "reception".

And here's the moment I felt like I got punched in the stomach and spit in the face by a "FRIEND" that I have loved for the most part of 20 years.

But now I have to move on. I have to let go. It's something I am truly terrible at - I will claw myself to the surface of a relationship until my last possible breath. Apparently, with this relationship? T'was about 18 months ago and I've been making myself sick over it for no reason.

And that's time I'll never get back. Sleep I'll never gain. Tears I'll never replenish.

And she most likely doesn't give the slightest ounce of fuck.

So here I am, standing at the edge of the proverbial ocean as I shoot the last bullet into our 'ship and let it sink to its grave, once and for all.

I wish her well in all that she does in life, but I'm done staying sad about being ignored and excluded by someone that clearly hasn't valued me for a very long time. I have more important things that I can be happy about instead.

And then there were three..

Last Year Ago

This time last year I had reached my limit.

I couldn't breathe.

I had to escape --

Self-preservation at its most desperate.

I needed to go home.

Melbourne.

Approaching the city,

My breaths became heavy;

Fighting back tears of relief,

Of elation,

Of memories,

Of a place so alive.

This time last year I sat on the train,

I laughed and cried openly

As the city revealed itself to me.

Some different; improved.

The important things stayed the same.

I walked through the Richmond gardens

Usually buzzing with people

Dead silent this day --

No football.

I sat on the steps of the MCG.

I shivered and then wept.

Why? I'm not sure.

Relief, perhaps.

I missed you intensely.

This time last year I touched your skin,

I felt your lips,

I smelled your skin,

I saw your smile,

And heard your voice.

This time last year I kissed you goodbye.

AGAIN.

It wasn't enough.

I'm still recovering.

Last year ago, I felt something.

I've been searching ever since...

Bye Bye Brutus

This weekend will suck for me. After 5 years with my "first born" it has come painfully apparent that he will be happier with another family -- and so will we, once we get over it, anyway. He's a little hyper crazy dude that needs more attention than I can give him, and with less competition from those darn human children that keep cramping his style.

Sniff, sniff.

On a lighter note, I wrote some ridiculous attempt at comedy over at My Own Private Idaho. Yay! Please check out the awesomeness that is all of Brandon and tell him that I sent you!

Brutus

My best pal 2006-2011

Comments are closed. Check out My Own Private Idaho.

My Crappy Valentine

Valentine's Day is an extreme; you either love it or hate it. I hate it. I seemed to always be freshly single when it came 'round or the thought of a romantic prospect was the furthest thing from my current situation - although like New Years Eve and other annoyingly inclusive events, I always had a inkling that I wanted to belong or be a part of something on that day. It's stupid but I know a lot of people feel this way, whether we want to or not.

I finally had the best Valentine's Day in 2003. I had met my would-be husband 2 weeks before and our melodious 3rd date was on Valentine's Day. Bow-chicka-wow-wow! Yes! I can finally not loathe this stupid commercialized soul-sucking day and actually enjoy that vomitously cute teddy bear that holds an embroidered heart saying "I love you." ...or so I thought.

Then on February 12, 2004 my grandfather had been admitted to the hospital with acute phenomena and he was going into heart failure. My grandfather was everything to me. Just as I had lost my father, he had lost his son and so he and I met in the middle to share the ache of that void together... for my entire life. I never felt that with my grandmother, but she's not exactly sentimental, to put it politely.

I had often thought of my grandfather when I heard this particular song from The Murmurs album, since I had been watching him slowly deteriorate since this album came out in '94. Whether it was to torture myself or just to help me expel the grief I was feeling, I dug out my Murmurs CD and played this song on repeat the entire way to the hospital on the morning of February 14th, 2004. When I got there I told him I was going to be OK and that I thought that my boyfriend was "the one" and that he was going to be there for me. He squeezed my hand and then we took him off life support and said goodbye.

Basically thinking of 

basically wondering why.

Your watch is ticking fast, 

your mind is running slow.

The rain is trickling down.

It's a meantime 

madness today

And life's just passin you by.

'Cause you're basically thinkin of 

basically wondering why.

Basically never like to know

'Cause you're basically out of luck 

you're basically growing old

Life has basically been told.

Let me be your strength 

let me hold your body's weight

I wanna walk for you.

In your heart you feel your walking memory

But to me you're so alive.

How do you hold inside 

the rage that you must feel

Watching your body give up on you.

Since I was a child 

the thing that'll pick me up.

I'll do the same for you

Let me be your strength let me hold your body's weight

I wanna walk for you

I wanna walk for you

The Visitation

Since I was old enough to go on my own, I had been visiting my father’s grave once a year, on the anniversary of his death. When I was overseas, of course I wasn’t able to go – so I went to church instead. I pretty much never went to church unless my mother made me go, so it was a weird experience to begin with. It was the 17th anniversary of his death; he died when he was 24 from a heart attack, and my mother was pregnant with me. I was born 41 days later... on his birthday (which is why I don’t visit him on his birthday – it would be a bit of a downer for me). It’s not that I wish I wasn’t born on the same day, on the contrary, I feel like it is something that will always connect me to him and even though I never got to meet him, it’s like our special ‘thing’ that we share.

When I walked into the local church there was a visitation going on – of course. There’s nothing quite like staring at a casket of a dead guy to take my mind off of my deceased father. I knelt in the back pew, buried my head between my arms and cried as if I was mourning his death for the first time in my life. I don’t think I had ever been that affected by my unique situation before; perhaps it was a whole bunch of issues that I had been dealing with and this day served as the icing on my hormonally-injected cake.

I had been there for about 10 minutes and an elderly woman sat down beside me and put her warm hand on my back.

‘Did you know him well?’ she asked. Her eyes were tired, but kind and welcoming. I felt bad that I didn’t even know the guy in the coffin, but I didn’t lie to her – I didn’t see any point. She smiled and then I told her my entire story. I don’t know what enticed me to pour my heart out to this complete stranger, but somehow it made me feel a lot better. I felt like I had known this woman my entire life – like a long-lost grandmother, yet I didn’t even know her name.

We talked for a long time and took some breaks where she would pray and I would cry some more. I felt so much better – like a physical weight had been lifted off my chest. I know that’s a cliché, but that is exactly how it felt. After a while, she got up to leave. She gave me a hug and just as quickly as she had appeared, she was now gone.

I think she was an angel and I think it was my father who sent her to me. I don’t normally believe in that after-school special ‘touched by an angel’ religious crap, but that day, I believed.