time warp

I wonder how many people find old suicide notes when they clear up their drawers.

Today, I did. Those suicide notes were mine, all dated November 2006, all written in neat script within the pages of an ordinary-looking lined notebook.

I remember writing them. I was sitting on the floor hunched over the Oik's coffee table after one of our many arguments. At that time, I felt smothered by the existence I had created for myself. Everything in it pointed to my lack of self-worth, down to the way I survived, the company I kept, the romantic delusions I entertained and the debts I incurred just so I could feed myself. That night, I finally took a decision, which was to abdicate what few remaining responsibilities I had left and be rid of that whole sorry mess for good.

Like any other decision in my life, it would be thoroughly thought through and my farewell notes would act as many disclaimers, designed to assuage the bewilderment of those who might care about my demise. I may be a coward but I am fair - there was to be no room for guilt other than mine, the guilt of not having been 'up to life' after all and of bailing out earlier than perhaps naturally planned.

I proceeded through a mental list of those who mattered most to me, and started writing what I thought would be my ultimate letter to them. One was brief. True to the affectionately sparse nature of my upbringing, the one to my mother read:

Don't ask yourself why, just know that wherever I am now, I am happy.

The others varied in length, containing several paragraphs in which I explained to those friends and relatives how much I loved them. The more I wrote, the more love seemed to pour out of me, sometimes even peppered with wit and irreverence. Once again, the page became a mirror reflecting back a picture of a young woman I had forgotten about, a young woman who seemed to have plenty of life left inside her yet had made the ludicrous decision to... die?

Absurdity and an achy wrist won. Although the rest of that night is a blur, I wrote the last note then closed my notebook. I then probably curled up on the sofa and surrendered to sleep, hoping that a new dawn might bring a new perspective.

The weeks that followed are non-descript in their drabness and isolation, but that night served a purpose, that of forcing me to look at myself and take action. I reasoned that if words could save my life, I probably should rekindle my passion for wordsmithery and make it part of my daily routine again, just to be on the safe side. I also reasoned that since I had nothing, nothing could be taken away from me and I started investigating ways to clear my debts permanently, which led to my filing for personal bankruptcy a year ago. Finally, I understood that it was up to me and me only to create a life I would feel happy with.

I don't know why I kept the notebook. All I can think of is that I moved out of the Oik's so precipitately I didn't have the time to sort through things.

Today, I threw out the notebook.

A few minutes after I did, the lines below appeared in my inbox from somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean:

Every morning when you wake up, look in the mirror and tell yourself: "I am capable, I am sufficiently intelligent to disentangle myself from this difficult life, I am pretty, and there is someone in this world who loves me".

New beginnings.

by hand

[I spent a whole day writing the letter below, first penning it in English - which took no time - then painstakingly translating it into 'Islandese' based on my knowledge of related languages, using a dictionary, a phrasebook and the internet - I cannot converse in 'Islandese' yet and 'X', the man's wife, doesn't speak or read English. After finding somewhere I could get the letter printed, I then walked in circles around the city centre for hours before gathering all my strength and getting into a cab to go and hand deliver those words. The only editing that has taken place is name changes and the addition of hyperlinks for clarity.]

Dear X,

I’m sorry for what you are going through – I too hated living a lie and I’m glad we all finally know the truth.

And the truth is this: I love 'the man', he loves me, and we both know that we can be happy together. However the guilt of hurting you and the boy has led him to sacrifice our happiness. Now he has to live with the knowledge that this happiness - which he had already begun searching for before he met me – exists and is possible elsewhere. He will always know that I love him passionately and that he transformed my life, initially for better, now for worse.

With this in mind, I beg you X, I beg you to give 'the man' his freedom back. He will not ask for it because he doesn’t think he deserves it after hurting all of us – that’s why he has chosen a future of regret and suffering instead.

'The man' loves you X, he loves the boy, he loves me too. If you love him, please let him go so he can at least try and be happy. I know that he will never abandon the boy and that he will always love you.

Sorry if this is an unusual approach – I don’t speak 'Islandese' well yet but I wanted to open my heart to you.

I share your pain X, but he is the love of my life and I don’t know how to live without him. At the same time, I desperately want him to be happy and for us all to live an honest, truthful and loving life.

Thank you for taking the time to read my words. I understand written 'Islandese' so if you want to contact me, you are welcome to do so.

Ariel

what if

“What if I decide against you?”, he says.

“…”. Shock ate my words. When I was here last, he professed undying love once more and assured me that he had only ever made one decision – to be with me – but that in light of his son’s recent unhinged behaviour, he had had to move back in with his wife and abandon the apartment that was our shared home. The child in question, a teenager with severe medical difficulties resulting in a complete absence of social life outside his family circle, had – allegedly - tried to commit suicide. Twice. Once at home – where he then still had access to an ample array of his medications – and once at school, a place where he excels yet loathes on account of being bullied owing to his below average size, a side-effect of his condition.

We’re in the car, driving along winding coastal roads. I wish the agony could end now, on the volcanic rocks down below, killed on impact, together. He consumed most of a bottle of wine at lunch, in an attempt to alleviate the deadly silence that descended upon us after a panic attack forced me to step outside mid-meal.

“You mean… if you stay with her? After all, you’re already back in the same bed and she’s decided to have the tummy tuck you wanted her to have, and… you’re fucking her again anyway”, I spit. I am reliably informed that the happy couple are now back in the same bed, a new development since my last visit to the island. I am also reliably informed that his wife is mightily proficient in the bedroom department and ‘does everything’. He told me this afternoon, and spoke those memorable words: “Ariel, I love her but I love YOU more”.

So there we have it, the classic situation of a man who has everything yet hankers for more and then finds himself divided between the wife of 21 years with whom he cohabited for 5 years prior to officializing their union, and the lover of 7 months with whom he fell in love at first sight and woke him up from a long monotonous slumber. Until today, I had failed to realize the exact nature of the conundrum befalling my beloved for the simple reason that he had always ascertained that his marriage - although not uncomfortable - was dead, a theory illustrated by the extra-marital activities he threw himself into prior to meeting me. On those premises, I became an interim modern day saint, the very epitome of tolerance, patience and forgiveness, pledging understanding and support until such time when we could re-enter the world of visible coupledom.

We’ve reached my road.

“What if I decide not to get out of the car?”, I ask. I reckon he’s the kind of person who would rather sit it out than throw me out.

Correct.

He parks up, and I start one of my forced monologues that encompass most human emotions. He cannot even meet my gaze, preferring instead to stare in the distance. He cannot answer me, his silence bellying a mind in turmoil and under pressure, perhaps cooking up the next lie to be delivered to the wife in order to explain where he might have disappeared to…

Only our full bladders will force us out of the car and back to my secluded studio where he will almost immediately be taken ill and collapse in the garden in an hypoglycemia fit - he is diabetic. I will remain calm and composed, respecting his wishes to wait until it passes rather than call for medical assistance. I will attempt to spoon feed him honey and I will soothe him with more loving words. He will eventually emerge from his daze and tell him that it would have been a good moment to go. We will sit on the sofa and talk some more, his phone will ring dozens of time, he will ignore it and we will hold each other tight, delaying the moment when he has to leave, as we always do. It wasn't so long ago that we would fall asleep in each other's arms and wake up side by side.

The next day will bring more of the same shared agony - his borne out of indecision, fears and absence of courage, mine borne out of frustration at being forced to feel ashamed and guilty for loving him.

He is adamant he doesn't want a mistress but I have become a dirty secret.

Today, the lies are closing in on him. I have finally decided to reclaim my dignity and that of his wife's because this love was never all about him but about us too, the women in his life.

green witch 3/3

"Do you know... yesterday someone asked me if I was a policeman", he starts.

"Really? Eh, I often get asked if I am a trolley dolly, and I'm not! But why would they ask YOU that?", I ask. There is nothing in his appearance, demeanour or choice of vehicle that might support this ludicrous theory. What kind of cop would drive around in an estate strewn with folders, files and a fluffy - non-indigenous - cow hanging from the rear view mirror? Cowjak?!

"Because I was there, looking...", he replies. This, I feel, is some sort of confession that I probably shouldn't try to interrupt. If he was there, I certainly didn't see him.

"... above the airport, with binoculars, to see you", he finally admits, to my astonishment. This feels very odd suddenly - even the lone fly in the room is holding its buzz while I hold my breath. And finally breathe out slowly. Back to normal.

"But, but... why didn't you just come into the terminal? I would have been pleased to see you", I reply, or rather my heart does while my mind belatedly pauses to consider these revelations - his and mine.

"I was scared, I hurt you so much, I thought you wouldn't want me to be there". And then he crumbles again, face nose-diving towards the rug, shoulders hunched forward. I can hear choked tears too.

"Oh. I am very surprised you thought that", is all I can manage. I don't feel threatened or stalked, but I feel aggrieved by his assumptions. I have loved this man so unreservedly that I may never be able to turn that love into anything else. I have considered hatred and anger towards him but never experienced them. The closest thing was desolation. Now the love has morphed into a restrained version of its former self - I have gradually learnt to deal with the impossibility of it and know to refrain from any urge to express it. It is precisely what keeps me rooted to the spot on my little stool at the moment.

"Ariel?"

"Hmm?"

"What you have to understand is that... ISTILLLOVEYOU", he sobs.

"...". I gasp. I thought I was prepared for everything, but I wasn't prepared for that. At all. I'm not even sure whether I heard this or dreamt it.

"Pardon?". Reflex politeness steps in and a nanosecond later my body throws itself onto the sofa, my arms wrap themselves around him and a little voice goes "That's OK, that's OK, there, there, iloveyoutoo". The rest of me stares in awe at this surreal scene.

The man I fell in love with is back. In time, he will manage to articulate the very same statement again, with pauses between words. For now, I begin to understand why he is so upset and what his daily life must have been like since January. He was more selfless than I could ever have been and renounced love - for his child. After all, I never offered to walk away or intimated that I might do so. He did try to push me away but it didn't work. For either of us.

"And that decision?", I ask.

"You know what it is. I only ever made one decision, and that was to be with you Ariel. I have never changed my mind, and it's killing me", he replies. He is under pressure and I don't wish to add to it. Nevertheless, one nagging question remains unanswered and I cannot quite let it go, especially now that a possible answer has presented itself.

"About finding out where I was staying", I say, "could it be that you just 'phoned around? Is that it?". This would never have occurred to me earlier but now it makes sense. This may be a small capital city on a small island but there is no way that he can be on first name terms with 50,000 people, born networker though he may be. I guess his pride prevented him from telling me he did all the legwork so he blamed the 'narks'.

"Hmm, yes", he replies sheepishly, "it was easy, I started with the small places". Good thinking - he knows me well.

"Look", I say, "for me, nothing has changed. You have my love, you have my commitment and you have time. My decision to move here was taken independently. I had to arrive at that conclusion on my own, for the right reasons, and regardless of you".

What else could I say?

medical meltdown

[SQUEAMISH EYES, LOOK AWAY NOW!] "Holy sh... CRAP!", comes the audible gasp from the cubicle. That's me, doubled up in pain, peeing red onto the pristine white porcelain of a shopping mall toilet, and broadcasting in my idiom to the waiting bladders outside that their foreign counterpart is ailing somewhat. Once the shock wears off, I hopefully unwrap a Tampax and stick it in. The symmetrical shooting pains in my lower back attest to the futility of my gesture - my kidneys are not kidding.

Having duly flushed twice and checked for any remaining telltale signs of this impromptu blood-letting, I meekly extract myself from the cubicle, and rediscover firsthand what an ongoing feat of human effort and willpower is required to stand upright. It then occurs to me I may be more comfortable crawling, alas this would probably attract even more unwanted attention than usual. I am already highly visible here, being above average local height and flame-haired. Then again, were I on all fours, maybe they'd just pat me on the head and call me a 'crazy pooch'?

Back in England, I rush to see Doc.

"There", she says handing me an empty plastic cup, "why don't you give me a sample?".

"Uh?". She's seen my bits before but... I am used to urinating in private and I'm probably going to pee on my hands again, trying to target the cup with only partial success. It's not easy for girls.

"Eh", she smiles and mind-reads, "across the hallway".

I return to her office bearing my sorry liquid offering. The verdict comes a couple of days later. Anti-bacterials are prescribed. Blah. Their spectacular side-effects strike. Re blah.

I have been listening to my digestion for the last few days, or rather, my digestion has made itself heard. Something is amiss. The pills that cure all ills may have made my pee pristine but the rest of me is still undergoing complete deconstruction. The puzzling chest pains - akin to a sumo in boots using me as a human trampoline [or perhaps a heart slowly breaking, something the man did claim full responsibility for a few weeks ago, in an elan of poetic compassion] - are worse; headaches are almost always present in one form or another; I start yawning around 7pm only to end up in bed in tears two hours later at the most; my waistage is wasting away; and food - the ingesting and processing thereof - has become such an ordeal that the only tolerable aliment is... bananas. I must have eaten my way through a few acres of St Lucia by now. I go back to see Doc.

"I appear to have turned into an ape-like gastrically gaseous OAP with as much energy as a plate of overcooked noodles", I yelp, "and my only ambition is to be horizontal".

"Eh", she beams Dutchly, "you need to eat healthily, bland food". [Doc is Holland's finest NHS import and a living testimony to the laid-back culture of her home country].

Check. When away from the other island and its marine delights, I survive on a strict vegan diet, initially through financial necessity and now out of consideration for my dodgy digestion. No junk passes those lips. Ever. Alas, since taking the meds, my body is not so much a temple as some grossly distorted Zeppelin hosting the methane-producing equivalent of an entire bovine herd. In other words, I bloat up to mid-pregnancy stage sizewise and I flatulate excessively most days.

"OK, I knew you were good... but those chest pains", she says, ogling my rapidly shrinking B cups to eliminate excessive breastage as a possible source of discomfort, "try something for a month", she suggests. She's as mystified as I am by my singular symptoms, therefore she's now playing medication bingo, an approach that has the nature-loving me rigid with protest. I purchase the med but decide to read the small print before ingestion.

'If you are very ill, you may feel confused, nervous, aggressive, depressed or hallucinate', says the mediblurb in the box. I mentally calculate that if I carry on downsizing at this rate, I might make it to size zero in a matter of weeks - new ribs are becoming visible every day. Aha! The mediblurb is prophetic, the modern-day Western equivalent of a fortune cookie pandering to patient hypochondria with clever use of grammar and commas. I lift a buttock to mark a pause and evacuate some excess air. Regular readers will recognize this as the 'oik technique'.

And when I read what the med is actually for, I am not even surprised:

Ulcers.

"Darling", I should perhaps say to the man, "you don't break my heart, you give me gas".

Life is hard to digest sometimes. [Cue group sigh from the cynics].

green witch 2/3

"You know, I have been stalked before. The threat remains, it will always be there and it still causes me to look over my shoulder at times, in some places, but it no longer rules my life. So, erm, forgive me for being concerned by what you're doing, but it makes me feel really uncomfortable. Can you understand?", I ask him gently.

"Eh... look at me, I'm not carrying any weapons, I don't want to hurt you, I...", he attempts to be funny but is clearly too emotional to carry it off. The urge to go and sit next to him is overwhelming, the urge to give him a hug even more so but I resist both, hanging on to my little stool for resolve.

"What happened when you were here in the winter, it's not your fault Ariel, you never stopped trying, you never gave up but I had to push you away, I was trapped, I didn't know what to do", he says. I do indeed recall his complaints about being trapped. At the time, oblivious to the family drama unfolding behind the scenes, I took it to mean I had become his unwitting captor, trapping him with a love that was as indulgent and unconditional as it was forgiving. At the time, he never sought to correct my assumptions either, hoping they would push me to sever all ties and give him his freedom back. Now I know that we were the freedom while his home was the prison.

"I've always believed we could have worked through this together, I was here for you but you wouldn't let me into your head", I reply.

"I had to make a choice", he says, "because I couldn't live with the guilt, I couldn't have lived with the guilt". His son, the love of his life, was crying out for help and attention, repeatedly, dangerously.

"But", he continues, "you know that I had already made my decision".

"...". I can't even manage a polite "Pardon?". Words and comprehension have deserted me altogether.

"When you were here, I had lost my green witch - I didn't know what to do but I had already made my decision", he explains in a serious face.

I burst out laughing. It feels good, but I don't think my reaction is what he expected. I still don't understand what he is trying to tell me, but the surreal turn the conversation has taken is a much welcome distraction. And then, ping!

"Eh... but the 'w' is silent sweetie! Oh bless, you're speaking Miclish again!", I enthuse - there's no other word for it. His linguistic blunder is a time-warp, a throw back from happier days... Miclish is localized English, or rather his own colourful take on English which can be poetic, surreal or just funny. I am enjoying this moment, he is smiling too. Suddenly, my impatient ignorance pokes me back to reason.

"Er, WHAT decision exactly?", I ask.

We have been talking since late afternoon. Then the dusk came, then night time. He is still here, an hesitant messenger determined to accomplish his task.

green witch 1/3

"Don't worry, I have your address. I never ask anyone about you but I know all your moves. Everybody tells me everything. I'm sorry", reads his text message. Gasping for air, I steady myself against the wall of the little studio I have rented for the week. Privately owned and tucked away in a courtyard within a tropical garden hidden behind an imposing Victorian house, I chose to stay here precisely so I couldn't be found or followed. This doesn't make sense. Unfortunately, his words remind me of someone else's many years ago, words that still hang over my head to this day. "No", I tell myself, "that was then. This is now. Not him. NOT him. No, no, no."

Refusing to give in to supposition, I decide to call his bluff. "Fine. See you then", I reply, deliberately omitting any address details. At the appointed time, my phone beeps. "I am at your front door, take your time". Slowly, I walk to the front door, growing more confident with every step that there is no way he could have come to the right place. Any time now, a new message will ask where I am. Anytime now.

I open the door gingerly and take a step onto the pavement, looking both ways. "Eh, pffff", I mutter to myself smugly. I am about to exult into some mental jubilation when the thud of a cardboard box falling to the ground roots me to the spot.

"Your stuff Ariel", a familiar voice says.

"Oh", I think [say?] and motion to him to follow me. Thoughts and emotions won't fit into words.

In the studio, I show him to the sofa. The power of speech returns to me in the form of "Tea". I methodically prepare two cups and place one in front of him. He keeps his head lowered and his gaze fixed on the rug. The tea will remain untouched for a long time. I settle on one of the stools.

"So?", I ask.

"..."

"So, er... how did you find out I was here?", I ask again.

"Doesn't matter", he whispers to the rug.

"I need to know", I say.

"No. Doesn't matter", he repeats in the tone of someone for whom language is a painful condition. He doesn't move.

"Hmm... how are you?", I reply in a neutral attempt at conversation, realizing that I am neither angry nor upset but finally at peace with him and with myself.

"I... I didn't expect that. You're...", his voice hugs the silence for courage. Words hurt him, I can see that.

"Yes?", I volunteer encouragingly.

"You're not... you're not mad at me", he says, incredulous, stealing a quick glance at my face just to check. Those softly spoken words speak a relief that is shared. I'm almost comfortable now but will spend a long time wrestling with silence in a long monologue aimed at bridging the gap between love and friendship. Already, I've decided that he needn't know about what happened in Ireland - I sense it would hurt him, I want to protect him.

"Ariel?", he looks up at me. "I'm sorry I treated you so badly, it's not your fault".

"?", my eyes widen in astonishment. "Then why?", I finally ask after a long pause while defeated self-hatred beats a reluctant retreat out of my thoughts - if there's one thing I must now unlearn, this is it.

Revelations will follow, information he withheld from me during my six-week winter stay to protect me, things I couldn't have known back then, events that explain everything from the frosty reception at the airport in January to his erratic behaviour thereafter. Those explanations do not help the story at this stage but their validity is unquestionable, even though they're not excuses - on this, he and I we agree. And let go. What else can we do?

"But there is something else...", he starts.

"Uh?", I smile to mask my surprise.

"You took a long time to get out of the airport yesterday, I thought you hadn't come", he smiles back. I wonder what that has to do with anything, then I remember he wasn't there so how can he know, unless...

"Oh... Princess Grace [his sister] told you, did she? It was very kind of her to be there and...", I attempt, acutely aware that something doesn't quite add up.

"No, she didn't. I just know", he replies matter-of-factly, causing me to shudder involuntarily. This conversation is far from over, there is a lot more explaining he has to do and I won't rest until I have all the answers.

"How? How do you know? About the airport, about the studio, HOW?", I ask in a last ditch attempt at confident yet crumbling inside questioning.

He stands up and makes for the door. "I have to go Ariel, I have to", he pleads. He is crying.

"Tell me first, then you can go, I need to know, please...", I beg him as adrenalin rushes through my veins as it so often did this winter. I thought I had learnt to control my reactions and unlearnt panic. I haven't. It grips me, holds me tight and won't let go. There is something important going on but I don't understand what it is. I take a deep breath.

"Look, please, sit down, let's talk, it's OK", I say.

"No, it's NOT OK. HOW could I do that to you?", he hiccups, "you don't understand, do you?".

My panic attack subsides - I can feel that neither his words nor actions pose any threat but I am still unable to identify the cause of his distress.