It’s been over a year since I’ve managed to upload anything
to this blog, but that is not saying that I haven’t wanted to or tried. Nor am
I saying that I have been too busy working on one or more of the books. The
truth is that the last twelve months (it’s now closer to eighteen) haven’t been
easy. Granted, nowhere as bad as millions of other people around the globe but
I’ll fester in my first world problems for a moment if you’ll allow me.
After eleven years of stable accommodation and six years of
The Housemate being the best human I’d ever shared a house with, I was evicted
without grounds. Fortunately, I was offered a room in the same postcode, where
I managed to get myself and Guard Cat settled before crossing The Ditch to visit
The Maternal Unit. On my return, I discovered that my new abode had also
received an eviction without grounds notice.
Evicted twice in twelve months isn’t fun and I’d been there
before but finding another place had never been so hard. I was priced out of
the market. Then I got a call from The Maternal Unit to tell me that she had
advanced ovarian cancer which had been missed by her former GP a year prior.
With homelessness once more on the horizon and nowhere to
move into in Brisbane I was lost. Without a car to sleep in and more
possessions than can fit in a backpack going back to couch surfing or sleeping
rough wasn’t really on the cards so I bit the bullet and asked The Old Man if I
could move into his place (in Mackay) because he’d decided to go to Aotearoa to
become The Maternal Unit’s primary carer.
At great expense (his) I got Guard Cat vaccinated (no need,
as it turned out, but the pet transport demanded it yet didn’t bother to
confirm), a plane appropriate cage and a ticket for her that cost more than
mine. A storage unit for my library and other belongings, paying for
removalists as well as compensating other friends for the petrol they had used
ferrying me around while I was trying to get everything sorted and then I was
off. A thousand kilometres north and away from my support network.
Moving is never enjoyable but starting a new life in a new
place makes it worse. I’m still struggling to have all of my medical
information transferred up here and don’t really know anyone in Mackay. As a
result, I find myself spending days on end alone, sitting on the couch watching
re-runs of detective shows. Guard Cat is some comfort, but she’s never been
much of a touchy-feely cat so physical contact is something I’m missing.
Lack of physical contact, however, is not the worst thing
about being socially isolated, it’s the flashbacks. Too much time in one’s own
head is not a good thing for Post Traumatic Stress. Without the distractions
offered by being in the company of others, one finds themself being triggered
over the smallest little thing.
I was having a smoke the other day when I realised that my
feet were hanging over the concrete of the patio at almost the exact same
length as they were when I was negotiating a cliff face in Viet Nam almost
twenty years ago and all of a sudden I found myself staring at the rocks
several hundred metres below me.
What I find interesting about those flashbacks in particular
is that they aren’t about falling off the original cliff but the times when I
could have fallen off different ones later on. To be honest the first fall
wasn’t too bad. I only broke one finger on a ten to fifteen metre drop so there
isn’t much trauma there, it’s the times I didn’t fall that give me trouble.
I am occasionally asked if, as a result of my experience, I
am afraid of heights and the answer is ‘no’. I’m afraid of falling. There is a
strange place in The Universe where one can come to the realisation that taking
just one small step into The Void could end it all.
Everything that has been and everything that is yet to come.
Being forced to confront that moment when you could have
easily ended it all twenty years ago as you lie in your bed is not enjoyable.
I never had an intention of stepping off a cliff and
tumbling to my death, nor do I have one as I write this but I think that is
what fuels my fear of falling. I edged my way along a ledge that was only a few
inches wide with my backpack on my front and my palms pressed against the cliff
behind me.
That’s it. Had I fallen to my death from that cliff face it
would have all been over and there might have been a story at the end of an
Australian news bulletin reporting on my demise, maybe a sobbing relative or
two but no one would be holding their breath for that.
But I didn’t and there was no story and now I have no one
other than Guard Cat to share my troubles with. She is not the most affectionate
cat but even if she were, I don’t think she’d give me the time of day to moan
about my life, despite me spending mine listening to her detailed account of
the trials and tribulations that are currently affecting her.
Having now lived in four human dwellings spanning two states
and three climatic zones, she is not particularly pleased with her current situation
as she is unable to access the outdoors without a doorman (me) present.
Given she’s half feral, I figured she’d be fine shifting
north to the tropics but I was mistaken. Despite being born in the Northen Rivers
Region of New South Wales, which, in my experience, is one of the most drizzly
places in Australia followed by a significant residency in the humid sinkhole
that is inner Brisbane and the regular afternoon storms over summer, she has
failed to adjust to actual rain. For some unknown reason even the lightest of
rainfall now sends her into hiding.
Now that we’re in The Dry she’s taken to coming outside to
sunbake while I have a smoke, but given the recent drop in temperature, she has
decided that spending all day on my bed is a pretty good option.
It’s now been over two years since I posted anything here
and after boring you with the cat’s troubles, I must admit that I haven’t been
having the greatest time myself.
The Maternal Unit’s condition has worsened and after all the
chemo and operations I received a call in December telling me to pack my shit
up and get on a plane across The Ditch because she was about to kick it.
Turns out she wasn’t.
When The Old Man picked me up from Dunedin I was informed
that the hospice was kicking her out and she had to be transferred back to the
hospital she had come from. That sounds easy, but when the Ambulance didn’t
show up multiple times, an executive decision was made to drive her back up
into the highlands in her own car.
The physical isolation of The Maternal Unit’s house is a
whole new level compared to the social isolation of Mackay. It’s the kind of
place where no one will hear you scream. Not that I wasn’t socially isolated as
well, it’s more that if I want to leave the house in Mackay, I can just walk up
the street and see people. Not people that I know necessarily but living,
breathing people nonetheless.
Having decided I had performed my role as a dutiful son, I
have now been sent packing back to warmth. Regardless of what season Aotearoa
claims to be in, that place is fucking cold. Single digit temperatures in
January for fucks sake and when it hits twenty degrees Celsius, they all start
whingeing about “the heat”.
As I write this, airborne over the tasman sea, I remember
what The Maternal Unit said to me after I bade her farewell. She told me to
sort my life out and get a job. I had to bite my tongue. The vast majority of
my issues stem from decisions she made regarding my upbringing and I have a
fucking job that pays fuck all but I like it. In fact probably the main reason
I’ve been struggling to write for the last two years is because she asked me to
write her eulogy. Two Fucking Years Ago.
Here’s a pro tip. If you have been diagnosed with a disease
or illness that will most likely be the end of you sooner rather than later and
you happen to know someone (or even worse are related to them) who happens to
be a writer or a competent public speaker. Do not fucking ask them to write
your eulogy until the grave is being dug or the fires have been lit. It’s
fucking selfish. Odds are the person you ask would do it anyway, so just fuck
off and don’t pressure them.
So with the last two years worth of writing time fucking
wasted, I’m going to end this here. If you bothered to read the whole way
through, thank you and sorry for wasting your time. I could have spent this
wasted time on important issues, like how Australia voted overwhelmingly
against an advisory body of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders that had no
fucking power except it couldn’t be disbanded by the next Johnny “Knob Jockey”
Howard like he did to ATSIC. Then I could have written something constructive
so that Queensland didn’t turn a really good government into the clusterfuck
that the LNP will deliver.
But most importantly, THERE IS A FUCKING GENOCIDE OCCURING
IN PALESTINE AND HALF THE FUCKING WORLD SUPPORTS IT. I know it isn’t the only
genocide currently occurring but this is the only one to have the backing of
half the fucking world. This is not complicity, it is active participation by
the United States of America (good luck with Trump V2.0 fuckers), The United
Kingdom, The European Union, NATO and because we’re obedient little lapdogs,
Australia.
To say I have wasted two years of my life is probably an
understatement but I’ve finally gotten this shit off my chest and will go and
write something useful (after I get home, one hour to touchdown).
Thank you again and sorry for wasting your time.
P.S. The Maternal Unit ceased operation before I posted
this. Might be a little while before I post anything up here again.
