CREATIVE NON-FICTION
Keep Calm and Carry On
Late October 2022
He’s still sleeping when I order the Uber XL.
I’ve been up for a while.
I’ve already done two loads of washing. Now dry, folded and packed. Laundry is one of the should be small things that become a bigger thing when you’re moving around without transport of your own.
I wash the dishes and tidy the house as I pack. Now also a part of my preparation to move on. I clean each place I stay in methodically and thoroughly before I go. It’s my process of saying farewell to a part of this experience consciously mindfully.
While I do this I order groceries, to be delivered, in readiness for Nathan’s return home to me this evening. I don’t have a car to go shopping and there are no grocery delivery services available at our next stay. I’ve already checked.
We’ll meet at a suburban farm, that I managed to book for two weeks, while Nathan is with me again.
I’m calm and thinking clearly despite my current situation.
This ritual of leaving a place…
This neatly packing the few, but still too much to carry, things I have left and the planning ahead to save time, money and energy is getting smoother with every move.
I enjoy it now.
It’s meditative to put each item into its correct place, in whatever pocket, of whatever bag. To wrap the tech in neat pieces of bubble wrap, cut to size, used each time and stored until the next move.
It’s satisfying to take the plastic sheets out again and to fold them around each item. Piece by piece. Everything packed into a backpack assigned to only these specific tools. The bag filled perfectly and just able to close as they’re slotted in, like puzzle pieces, one by one. The satisfaction of zipping up the bag and laying it right side up on a chair nearby. All of it. Right there. Everything we need to stay productive and connected. Compact and easy to carry.
I move on to the clothing next.
It only takes a couple of hours to pack and clean a place now. Four weeks ago, when I left Noordhoek, the move seemed bigger, stressful and more complicated.
In this short time I’ve simplified even more.
What hasn’t been used, since we began to travel, has been put into storage owned by the person I’ve been staying with since we moved on from the gentle, elderly couple only ten minutes drive from here. I’m still in Somerset West. I’ve been staying in the spare room of a stranger, for these last two weeks, while Nathan visits his father.
A virtual stranger.
We met online just under a year ago.
But my sense of time and it’s passing has always been sketchy. More so since the move to homeschooling and no more home business after the events of 2019 and lock-down the year after.
No ticking of the clock to adhere to anymore and no fixed work days to answer to clients anymore either. Every day is just another day now. After an almost whole life of constantly racing against time.
He offered a place to stay within the first few messages all that time ago and I thought it unusual. But I’ve taken strangers off the street and into my home when they were in trouble, so I assumed he might be a bit like me.
Our few messages tapered off as quickly as they began when I abandoned the idea of dating within a few days of downloading the app. Again. Still not ready for that kind of thing despite an interest in meeting new people at last.
Over the following months, however, I occasionally reached out.
We had things in common and, even though I’d made it clear to him that I wasn’t going to sleep with him when he extended the offer of a place to stay, we stayed in sporadic touch because of shared interests. Business and work related.
I’d also felt bad for my blunt end to the possibilities of our interaction before it’d even begun.
It was an assumption and I try not to do that these days. I try to own my stuff, these days, as well. And so I messaged to apologize a couple of days later to clear the air even though I thought, at that point, we probably wouldn’t be chatting again.
I find it easy to apologize now.
A few years of learning how beneficial this is, for everyone involved in a misunderstanding, has made it easy to do after some practice. I also have no wish to add more emotional baggage to a load I’ve spent years trying to lighten, because I subconsciously feel guilty about behaving badly. I know, now, that this makes a person act out in self destructive ways and I’ve had enough of that thanks.
It’s simpler to just apologize when I f*ck up.
I feel lighter again almost immediately.
So I messaged him because I felt bad about my insensitivity and assumption; to clear the air; and to “keep my side of the street clean”.
This is where the 12 Step Program can go horribly wrong and was one of the reasons I abandoned it many years ago, by the way.
Sometimes…
you shouldn’t apologize.
Sometimes you should trust your instincts instead.
We had sporadic, but respectful enough, brief messages for me to feel okay to take him up on his original offer all those months before.
I was physically exhausted by this stage, after the unexpected some-kind-of variant-of-Lyme’s disease that totally floored me for several weeks, and needed a place to rest and regroup.
I’d had no choice but to soldier on through it and was, by then, constantly exhausted and a bit worried I was sinking physically.
I’d also given notice already at the encouragement of a distant acquaintance of some years, who’d said he wanted to help me, but had suddenly withdrawn his friendship when I refused his interest in an intimate relationship.
Despite his agreement that I could do his website for him in repayment because I wasn’t comfortable accepting his help without being able to reciprocate.
I find it hard to accept help.
Or to receive anything, in fact.
I’m far more comfortable giving.
It’s not always altruism. It was largely trauma driven before I became more mindful. A way of feeling less awful about my own challenges and also feeling needed. Validation that I was worth something.
And dealing with your own stuff is easy to avoid when you’re always busy rescuing everybody else.
I’ve come to learn that we’re rarely capable of seeing our own desires and real underlying motivation.
Not unless we’ve been properly trained to do this by practicing mindfulness every moment we walk in this world.
And even then we sometimes miss it.
“Stilling the mind”, and being able to control this at will, means being able to avoid getting caught up in the moment and real time interactions.
With this ability a person is able to “see” things more clearly, instead of seeing through the lens of their own, only human, fragile, often wounded and all too easily frightened “ego”.
Our animal instinct to survive, I guess one might call it as well.
Basically, in a nutshell, these practices enable people to see more “truth”, because they allow people to remain detached and be fully observant of everything, without being triggered or pressured to react.
This is a superpower, by the way.
It’s not always pleasant to have the ability to see things as they truly are because the “truth” isn’t always that pretty. But it most certainly does make for a more peaceful life when things are both seen and accepted more easily.
And over time…
seeing things clearly becomes less frightening and less not so pretty as well.
I still lost my sh!t though.
I was in a serious situation and, once again, I’d been let down because someone wasn’t together enough to understand the inner workings of their own mind.
You may think he’s a predator. Or a d!ck.
But he’s neither.
He’s just scared and lonely.
I know, these days, that we can’t label people because of one action or behaviour.
Or even a list of behaviours.
I know, these days, that I need to look at the motivation driving people’s behavior and decisions to find any kind of “truth”.
“Truth” is not as simple as we believe it to be.
Nobody is completely trustworthy in every which way all of the time.
This is “truth”.
We can all react blindly, at times, when we feel unsafe or vulnerable.
Or because of our own ignorance, unconscious prejudice… or whatever.
Our fear.
And we all make mistakes because of all these things.
People who’ve been hurt by people often ask how they’re ever going to be able to trust again.
I felt this way too, once upon a time.
After some extended learning I understood that I didn’t have to learn to trust people again at all.
I only had to learn to trust myself.
So I was fearless enough to take up that offer of a spare room. Back in the nineties this was how we traveled, by the way. How things have changed.
The plan was to cut costs of rent, while Nathan wasn’t with me, so that I could rest and get healthy again. And save up for a car if possible.
I did rest and gain some ground physically during the first week. But soon after I arrived it became apparent, yet again, that what had been said was not entirely honest.
I’m not sure why people seem unable to take things at face value so often. Or why people say they agree to and understand things when they actually want something totally different.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m not even heard for some reason. Yet I’m really straight forward and direct about who I am.
Does this happen to everyone, I wonder?
How clear does one have to be to be heard? Or believed?
I mean… I was so f*cking clear that I had to apologize.
I keep calm and start looking for a solution as soon as I see the writing on the wall.
On day two at this place.
Once I would have avoided seeing this.
Once I would’ve avoided confrontation by staying in denial, or by convincing myself I’d misread or misunderstood something. I would do this to stay “safe” and avoid what might possibly go wrong if I took action to change things.
These days I know staying in a situation that isn’t healthy is not even remotely “safe”.
These days I know that long term exposure to people and environments that aren’t healthy can make even the most healthy person “sick” as well.
These days I know that the fallout of being in such circumstances, for extended periods of time, can take months, years, lifetimes or even never-in-a-lifetime to heal.
These days I put my health first.
These days I trust my instincts.
I can not, however, find anywhere to move.
I will have to stay “mindful” and manage the situation with the skills and tools I have available.
My nervous system is ringing with alarm by the second week of being in this place.
More so now that his behavior has become less covert.
He’s more passive aggressive now. A perpetual uncomfortable energy clouding the air. Words left unspoken. Retaliation comes in the form of total rejection and the silent treatment. Modems disconnecting. Or items left in strange places to send material messages.
A washing machine door left wide open for the first time. A stained dishcloth, from when I was cleaning his home to say thank you for having me, left incongruously hanging half out the door. By a man who has a place for everything.
This is his unhealthy reaction to any mistake or disobedience. Passive aggression, sabotage and now the expectation of surprise retaliation. The sense of something bad about to happen.
I know this.
This is familiar to me. I’ve been in a similar situation before. There is a brief pang of “shame” when I see the cloth. As though I’ve been “bad”. But I know this is only a remnant of my childhood.
I shrug it off again as quickly as it appears.
I know who I am now.
I know I’d already planned to replace the dishcloth. I know I’m a decent person who wouldn’t not replace it. I’m mildly annoyed at the immaturity and cowardice of the gesture. At the lack of respect for the effort I put in to deep clean a f*ck knows when this was done last bachelor’s apartment.
And the assumption about me and everything else. Of course.
Once upon a time the sight of this dishcloth, and the unspoken message it conveyed, may have triggered me into “depression” or “anxiety”.
Now I know what the primary trigger is.
And it has nothing to do with a dish cloth at all.
I choose to ignore it and calmly get on with trying to find a solution to get out of here. I’ll replace the dishcloth when I order next because the shop down the road was all out. He would have known I’d already tried if he’d only told me it bothered him.
This is codependency. I know this because I was once too afraid to tell people how I really feel as well.
This is not my stuff to carry anymore.
His drinking begins at around 5pm each day.
He is, like most people in active addiction, aware that he has a problem. He’s also, like most people in active addiction, in denial about how much he’s using and how serious his problem is.
He told me, early on, that he doesn’t drink much. It was around the second day of being there that I saw things clearly. But that’s probably less mindfulness than my own personal experience and learning.
On day two he admits he has a problem but claims he’s a “functional alcoholic”.
Show me a functional addict of any kind and I’ll give you five million dollars.
I nod at his self diagnosis and say nothing.
He isn’t ready to hear me anyway, if I do.
He’s quite nice when he’s sober.
Every night after the second drink, however, his personality shifts and darkens.
This is alcohol.
A legal drug we deem socially acceptable. Or even “cool”.
It’s my absolutely worst drug to be around.
My father was a “high functioning alcoholic”.
As soon as the second glass of whisky or wine is finished he becomes arrogant and mouthy.
This is alcohol.
Possibly the least mindful making substance on the planet.
He speaks of his days of partying, his irresponsibility and high risk behavior as though it’s too cool for school. This intelligent, well educated and highly sensitive man becomes a childish thug within a few drinks.
He becomes aggressive if I try to engage or disagree with him.
I sit in polite but awkward silence while he boasts about how clever he is.
Watching his descent.
This is “home”.
I know this.
He stops listening.
It’s not even a conversation anymore.
I get bored quickly, politely thank him for the dinner and retire early. Dinner stops after our second attempt to eat together.
The one evening, close to the end of my stay, I make dinner for him despite already knowing the outcome. I assume I can handle one evening of it to thank him.
Watching me prepare the food seems to activate something and his drinking increases. There’s also been an obvious power struggle for some days by this time and I’m not picking up what he’s laying down.
I guess staring down six foot police captains in uniform makes a gal pretty immovable. I’ve long since abandoned respecting people in positions of authority because of uniforms, money, gender or fancy certificates.
I’ve seen too many of them being only human as well.
These days respect is earned around here. As is trust.
These are no longer givens.
By the end of the meal he’s in full tilt and begins to roll a joint as well. He wants to party tonight. Before he gets it rolled I, once again, thank him for dinner and leave. But I explain, this time, that I don’t enjoy being around this anymore.
I’m triggered as well now.
This is my father again.
I’m cruel and blunt with fatigue and frustration.
Now I am my mother.
I know this.
The consequences of him feeling rejected and judged are withdrawal the following day and more silent treatment.
I’m treated as though I’m invisible.
This is “home”.
This is my father and my mother.
When I’ve disagreed or disobeyed.
I know this.
The space has quickly become toxic because of our respective histories and, although I’m mindful of what’s happening, my nervous system is now running on constant high alert.
Sleep becomes less peaceful and consistent because of the adrenalin and cortisol. My appetite wanes in turn.
But I know why my parents had all of these specific reactions, and subsequent unhealhty coping mechanisms, and I’ve long since forgiven them for their own trauma and humanity.
With this knowledge the situation is uncomfortable but not frightening or even that distressing. I’m just mildly annoyed that someone is trying to pressure me into participating in their own theatrical acting out of their own stuff again.
I’m calm and steady enough, with the twists and turns of life and people, for him to be surprised when I let him know I’ll be moving on in a few days.
His expression reveals that he thought he had me comfortably stuck. Or that I was going to put up with his behavior because I had nowhere else to go. Or needed him to get there.
But I no longer rely on anyone, you see.
Because only human.
I’ve organized things quietly, while he was still “unconscious”.
A day before I leave.
I offer to give him some free information and suggestions and let him know, in no unclear terms again, that he has a severe addiction problem and it’s this that is exacerbating the mental health challenges he shared with me when we first spoke.
He explodes.
That’s okay. I’ve done what I can and I can do no more.
I was honest about who and what I am when we first spoke.
Sometimes, I guess, we aren’t able to hear each other through the noise of our own personal history and dream. He has not been able to be honest. I’ve offered what I can bring to the situation to help him. I can’t make him accept it.
I suspect he’s not dreaming, now, as I pack. He stays in bed, refusing to get up or to come out of his room. I’m almost ready to leave and he still hasn’t gotten up to say goodbye or let me out the security gate. It’s close to lunchtime.
I wonder briefly if this is another subtle power play and whether I should wake him to let me out. I decide against it. I wonder if I should wake him to get my belongings out of his storage, but decide against it.
After seeing the passive aggressive behaviour when he’s triggered, I decide to keep the keys for the gate to ensure I’m able to reach him for the belongings left behind.
Once I would have trusted a person to simply “do the next right thing”.
These days I know people do the best they can with where they are on their own journey.
As I finish packing and carry my belongings, in a few repeated trips to the driveway, the Uber driver accepts the ride.
I message him to let them know this is not a regular trip. It’s a move. I still have enough to carry to make it a hassle and I let the driver know this so that he has time to drop the trip. I also offer him an extra hundred to take the ride.
It seems both fair and polite to do this.
I’m calm, mindful and present even though I don’t feel entirely safe after these last days. Even though I’m tired again now. Even though I have a history of trauma with men. Even though I have a history of panic attacks, anxiety and depression because of this.
I haven’t once felt the desire or need to use anything to avoid this situation.
I’m mentally and emotionally sober.
I feel powerful and capable despite it all.
I am strong now.
I am recovered.
Harry, the driver in question, responds happily that it’s not a problem at all. He’s done such things before, he says. He says he’ll be here in a few minutes.
I sit down in the shade outside in the driveway, keeping an eye on my belongings, waiting for Harry’s arrival.
His car pulls up and I say hello to what will become my own private driver, and kind of a new friend, for the next part of the journey.
