Little House of Savages

I haven’t even cried for you. This comes as a surprise to me too. Maybe you giddied me up to such heights unashamedly fast and unhesitated that I must have expected a crippling crash. You didn’t even allow for enough time to plan a weekend getaway or next Sundays breakfast and paper, so I guess there was no ‘life crumbling’ moment to indulge in or a habit to miss. Even so, it seems years ago that I sat on the kitchen floor hugging my knees rocking gently, when crying felt more like vomiting, when the pain felt surreal.
Maybe I’ve successfully learnt an ‘adult’s ‘ ways of dealing with these things or maybe thinking of myself as two separate people, the griever and consoler, is just mad. But who else will eat packets of corn flakes by the spoon with cold milk with me when I’m feeling blue? After all, I’ve studied myself well enough to know what tickles my fancy. I know which ballet class will calm a racing mind, that a glass or two of Tanqueray will be my finest reward after a difficult day at work, that reading a book will make me feel less alone, that standing in my underwear at the kitchen sink eating a perfectly ripe mango will make me tingle with pleasure. I know that painting with some rock n roll in my ear and a glass of wine in my hands will make me feel invincible, braving the wildest angriest waves, lion hearted in a floating, fearless way. My fingers have learnt their way down the sheets at night to still buzzing thoughts and fight insomnia. I know which friends to call to make me laugh which ones make me feel like they understand and which friends will accompany me to feeling oblivion and slamming the empty bottle back onto the table. So, you see, I’m a master of my own self and so I make a vow never to abandon myself and that everything will be o.k.
And just as firmly as I believe this, I come crashing down again, with one word and one foul swoop.