by Pseud O'Nym
As I write this, I sit on a sofa in a sitting room surrounded by rolls of bubble wrap, gaffer tape, and boxes that have been assembled and filled with things. Mainly my things, it has to be written, as every other potential storage area is, or is about to be used. Earlier on we finished packing away the last of my records. The writing it is less of wrench than it actually was. When we had finished, Paul, who was helping me, asked ‘What next?
That’s a good question.
Because what I wanted to do was to be transported back to the warm and cosy moments of bliss my body found just before I got out of bed this morning. And stay like that, for as long as I could. But I couldn’t. Paul is on the clock. So we had to continue packing. It’s a complete and utter head-fuck this packing malarkey. Aside from the physical practicalities –my brain damage means I can’t do the packing myself – there is also the emotional fallout. Which is a new thing.
Before my brain injury, I was pretty much always able to keep my emotions in check. But now? This move feels like I’m caught up in a tsunami of grief, never quite knowing when the next wave will engulf me, but knowing there will be a next one. I described packing up the records to Paul as like running up the steps to the guillotine.
Now rationally, I know it’s the very opposite of that. Moving in to share with Nosferatu will be an unquestionably good thing for me. Not sure about for her though. It’s just that I want to be at the point where the move has been done and is a memory, where everything is not like this. This I can do without. I hate these feelings and yet seem incapable of stopping them. When was last time I thought, ‘And I woke up from a coma for this? When I finished packing up my records. That’s when.
Before then, not for a good while.
So what next? Well that’s up to me, isn’t it?
(Or not, as according to my iTunes playlist it’s ‘Molly’ by Michael Nyman)