Playing Hookey

I love days like this, despite the lessening guilt of not being at work where I am paid to be.

I sit and write and read and the world is peaceful in my home with the dog on her bed, asleep next to her favourite rubber toy.

I know there is a huge part of me that needs this. This being alone and free to just entertain my own private thoughts about life and world. And my putting it down somewhere, even if it is just for an audience of one.

There is a lot in this world to be unhappy about. My mother thinks I am an unhappy person. I don't think I am. I am grateful. Grateful for the things I have, the places I've been and will go to, the people I know, the people who want to know me. But I am also scared. Scared of it all going away one day because of factors I cannot control, like politics and world leaders and nepotistic Prime Ministers.

So many people who are not even as huge misfits as I am in this place are already leaving or have left. The depths of their disgust with the stink in this country are so great they are willing to leave family, familiars and relatively comfortable lives to go elsewhere for the sake of a little more peace.

Are they running away? Is the good fight better fought on the war-torn turf? There are many who think so. Many who think the thing to do is stay and persevere and try and change things by fighting the system. But I also think that those who leave are fighting the battle. They have voted with their feet, putting the latter before their hearts. And I think it is time the country listened.

When someone takes a step away and flees, it is a signal often, of desperation. Of reaching a state where the person feels there is no other choice but to disengage. When a woman stops talking, it is because she is done. When a people flees its Motherland, it is because the Motherland no longer embraces them, or makes them feel like it is enough of a home for their spirits.

When a people turns its back on its own soil, it cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is - a sign of pure, unadulterated distress. Distress with the knowledge that even they, those who have strongest legal and constitutional claim to the land, no longer buy into the Great National Dream. Distress with the understanding that they are now powerless to change things enough that a tolerable living standard would be reached in their lifetimes.

Yes, their lifetimes. For we are selfish, aren't we? In as much as religion teaches us patience, the limit of patience in most of us is our own life spans. If we cannot see things changing while we still live, the selfish in us will say, what's the point? Let someone else fight the battle in their own life time.

Last Night

Last night, we decided to talk. About the things that are raw, uncooked, not even sashimi-sliced. Just slabs of raw placed on the table for both of us to face and scrutinise and analyse and pick apart.

No seasoning, just plain raw.

And you know what? I think it did us a world of good.

I heard things from you that pierced my flesh and spirit, like a fine fish bone scraping its way down my throat with every swallow. Eat a ball of rice, the mothers tell you, swallow hard and it will go down gentler.

I think at times I managed to get through to you. To show you what I see in your mirror - beyond the smoky vagueness of the tomorrow in your head. I showed you what I see clear as day, this hamster-wheel you seem to have yourself caught on, this endless turning, turning and playing catchup with your feet. And I asked you to try and let go.

We ended with a feeling more so than words. A sense, I think, that there is a deeper, stronger current beneath the surface of our negativity. A knowledge in our souls that in the end, we do love each other, and we do want to make it work, and we do share some dreams.

You made me realise that. I think I made you realise it too.

This time the making up was gentler. No tempests, just plain talk. No make-up sex, just you deciding to sleep next to me and wake up next to me with the dog in between us.

I like that. It's what I want.

Endings

It is Sunday, and I have lost count of what day this consitutes in our silent war.

Early this morning as I was going to bed, after reading The Prophet, I had this incredible urge to go up to you and kiss you as you lay sleeping on the couch, and invite you to our bed. But then I realised that you may groggily comply and I will have to put up with your sleeping presence next to me, while my inner turmoil rages next to you, keeping me awake.

So instead, I let it go and went to sleep.

This afternoon when I woke, I snuck a look at the text messages on your phone. You are smarter now since I caught you the last time - you actually erase some of your messages. But I do know you've been talking to the ex, like you typically do every time we fight.

What is it with you and your blindness? You think you can run away and seek solace in her presence, when it was her presence you ran away from in the first place? You told J that the ex probably hates you, yet you keep going back to her, saying hello, reaching out.

I don't know any more how to sort things out in my own head, let alone yours.

There is a part of me that wonders whether it is me, me wanting you to achieve more, reach higher, dream bigger. I also realise at times, that it's not right for me to do this. That you are your own person. But at the same time, you resent me for it.

Maybe I should just be with someone else. Someone whose dreams and efforts are as big as mine. And as simple. Or at least someone who actually does something to reach for their dreams.

It's not like I want you to be a billionaire. But I do want you to worry about what will happen in the future, and how we will take care of ourselves. You live paycheck to paycheck. It's not like your family or mine is rich enough to support either of us if something happens. What sort of safety net do we have?

I don't know. Maybe I am just slowly going into a depression because of where my own life is.

Am I depressed?

I do sometimes feel like this world has gone to pot. Like there's little I can do to change it. And I want to change it.

But often, I think there is still a lot of beauty and grace in this world that makes it worth while living. I love living, I love life. I can't bear the thought of dying. I think it is such a horrible, frightening notion.

Yet, there is at times like this, a hole. A hole that is so black I don't know what's at the bottom of it. If you know the bottom, at least you'll have an idea how best to fill it.

Am I happy in this relationship of ours? Of late, I have to say no. No because things don't seem to be changing for the better. You seem to, in my eyes, be getting worse. This is my year of figuring out what to do with the rest of my life, at least in the medium-term, and having you regress is not something I can cope with.

I need you with me and in the moment, or perhaps not at all.

I don't need you to tiptoe around when I need to be my raw, unedited self, thinking aloud, coping with the every day in order to get to the next station.

I've been trying, in our quiet, to turn the mirror on my self and discern this reflection that looks back. To find out what it is I really feel about us. To uncover whether I really want us to go on.

It has been hard. My mirror is too clouded with the things I don't like about you.

I know that one of the reasons I persevere is probably because I am too afraid and it is too difficult to unwind our position. The telling of friends, the getting used to being alone once more. The getting on with life in the every day without someone next to me.

Aloneness, is a scary thing. I can endure it, but I'd rather not. At least that, is clear to me.

But then, for as long as I endur this, am I depriving myself?

Let me think about what it is I love about us.

I love that you make me laugh. That you are so weird and eccentric you make me laugh. But you don't like that. You think that I am mocking you when in fact, my laughter is a sign of fondness, of loving, of cherishing the oddities that make you the person you are.

I love that you calm me when I am stressed out. But lately, you don't seem to have the energy to do it any more, in the same way I often now am so blase about the things I hate about you - your inertia, your promising to do something and my assuming you won't.

You know, these days, I don't take your promises seriously anymore. That's what has become of us. I don't even give you benefit of the doubt. I assume you won't do it.

Because you have disappointed so many times.

So much so that when you do deliver, I am surprised.

There were many things in the early days that I loved about you. You took charge on vacations. You took care of me. You told me stories at bedtime, and held me. You planned with me and dreamed with me.

Now I do all the dreaming. And I think that is the saddest truth about us. That you don't dream with me any more. You don't want to go on vacations with me any more. You just come along for the Me ride. You're a passenger.

Yes, maybe that's what we have become. A cab driver and her passenger, except I dictate where we are going. You just sit in your seat and surrender.

Sometimes I wonder, is it the money? And often I assume it is the money. But I have also seen you spend, and find money and save when you want something. You're not incapable of it. I realise that now. Which means, in my mind, that you simply don't care any more. You don't care to save for tickets to a show, or a concert, or a holiday.

OK.

I think, more than ever now, that it's time we ended this.

Questions

Day 4 of not talking.

I have discovered of late that whenever we are not talking or you are not around, I sleep better. I wonder why.

The house is also cleaner - as if both of us make more of an effort to keep it neat.

I go to the gym more.

I am so torn between just ending things and persevering. Yet I cannot forget how you have ignored my birthdays two years in a row. Yet you can offer your ex a wonderfully lavish birthday present. I think there's something wrong with that equation.

I don't trust you. My gut tells me that when we are apart like this you wander, and entertain thoughts and possibilities of being with someone else.

This is what life without you would be like:

I would go to work, to the gym, see friends, have to scramble to feed the dogs, have no one to come home to and talk with, have no one to do groceries with, have no one to sleep next to and hold me and tell me that everything will be okay.

I am trying to figure out whether we persevere because we are both afraid of being alone, or whether we actually want to be with one another. I am beginning to feel perhaps it is the latter.

I still love you and want you but I don't think you feel the same. It is always me touching you and goading you into intimacy. Not the other way round.

I wonder why I persevere. Is it because I really love you or because I don't want to be by myself.

This is always confusing. This petering out of exhilaration that makes me question.

Is it my habitual questioning whether there's something else out there? I don't know.

I know that when I am apart from you I don't lie awake worrying about money. I don't worry about what will happen if something happens to me or you and how we are going to pay for it.

I worry less. As if a burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

Do I really have the strength to do this by my self? I think as I grow older, I grow stronger, and am able to face the possiblity of being alone for a while. Or a long time.

I don't like it. I want to be with someone. But I want to be with someone who wants to be there with me. Not someone I have to second guess, not someone who thinks breaking up is always a possibility.

I know that I sometimes think about breaking up - like now. But I also know that I want to work at this, as long as I feel you want to as well. Because there's no point just talking, talking, talking about things.

When you say you want to leave me, I will be sad. Because I know we could have been so much better if only you and I had figured out a way to be more supportive of this relationship than just giving in to our personal baggage.

Problem is, I feel like I am the one figuring out the baggage tags all the time. You just ride along with me.

Maybe I am just tired of having a passenger in my life.

Carpets

I had lunch with you today - my long time friend from high school. It's our almost now annual ritual, about the only time we ever meet.

And we talked about trivial things, like how there's not enough time, and how our bodies are starting to show their adulthood. And politics, and children (yours) and new things we are doing or exploring.

But we skirted around the usual topics that used to be fodder for our long telephone conversations in high school. The heartaches, the boys who gave us palpitations, the irritants that our other halves have sometimes become, the coping with wondering whether this is all life has to offer us, and whether we are content with it.

I wanted to reach across the table and grab your hands and tell you that I don't know if I am still in love with my other half enough to see things through. And over-analyse it all, what she said, what she did, what she didn't say or do.

Instead, we focused on our sandwiches. And parted ways, you off to work, me off to scout a handbag that I ultimately didn't buy.

So this is what becomes of old friends. A carpet underneath which everything is swept.

Half An Hour

Half an hour till the official end of the working day.

30 minutes before I have to decide for myself how to spend the rest of the evening.

We are currently on Day Two of not talking.

Maybe I should turn the mirror this way - see what reflects back.

What do I want?

I want someone with whom I can build a life time. Someone who will hold my hand, embrace me and touch me and kiss me for no reason other than their spirit needs to reach out so much it manifests itself in the person's fingers, limbs and lips.

Someone I can laugh and fight with, without the fear of the person wanting to walk out. With whom staying is a given, not an option. I guess perhaps that goes for me too - I should stop treating leaving as an option.

I want someone who will take part in the building of my dreams, just as I will his or hers. Not just watch on the sidelines. I don't need a cheerleader, I need a team mate.

Today is one of those days that make me feel like buying a giant eraser. Or hitting the 'Delete' button all the way to the first paragraph.

After six years, here is where you and I stand:
1 house, mortgaged, paid for and still being paid for by me
5 dogs, largely taken care of by you
3 cats, those are all your responsiblities since I hate cats
2 cars, on two separate accounts

In the grander scheme of things, that's what it boils down to.

If we split, the only points of discussion will be the cats - and you'll have to deal with those, and how many dogs I keep.

Everything else is cut and dried.

Here are the things that make me feel like giving up:

1. You seem immutable to any change whatsoever. Progress is something that sits in the realm of fairy tales when it comes to improving your quality of life and financial standing + future. Someday you will invest in this, someday you want to buy that. Some day. But some THING tells me those are just pipe dreams you are incapable of reaching due to your own inertia.

2. But on the flip side, you envy my position of being the financial provider. In fact, you plain and simply hate it. You resent that I make more than you because it makes you feel like shit. Well, deal with it. If you actually gave a bloody care about the house, then maybe I'd let you pick door colours. But you don't. Oh yes, you do the dishes and call the gardener, but if something breaks down I have to tell you to ring the bloody contractor. And you wonder why I don't ask you when I am picking new wall paint. I didn't think you cared.

Actually, I think the crux of my constant (of late) wanting to end this all is this feeling in my gut that you, deep down in the seat of your emotional cave, have built up such a wall of resentment for me that you cannot let go. And your internal coping mechanism is already edging you to leave. So one eye is on the door. The foot is tracing the line, poised to take flight.

The only thing stopping you is something to chase.

I don't deserve this.

Why

I suppose, like with all beginnings, I need an explanation, even if this is only to the ether.

This is my secret cranny, where the part of me that seldom sees daylight will live. It's funny - you carry this other person inside you your whole life, and in most cases, she never gets to have her say.

Well now, I do.

Not that I have multiple personalities, but I think I need somewhere to vent. About life. About the other half. About the job that is such a chore to wake up to most days. About the fact that as an adult, the political landmine of friends and family often don't permit a woman to be completely and brutally honest and wavering about her self and her life without the repercussions hitting you in the face later over a dinner or a tea.

This is what I've learned in over three decades: Everything has a consequence. Even those things we girls hold sacred, like crying on a friend's shoulder. In fact, at times, that's the worst of the lot. Cry, feel better for three seconds, and then pay back for the rest of your life by having to put up with 'I told you so's' at best, and at worst, some tangential judgemental comment six months down the road.

Enough said.