STEPS

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO Sharing and caring

I recall speaking with two friends, telling them my story only twelve months ago. Sitting on the beach and letting it spew out as though reciting a story told in turn to me. Conversation initiated around parents, we three as parents, and as children. "What the hell," I thought. "Let's see this play out." I launched the words, recounting history in detail. There was the anticipated shock, disgust after my narration, followed by the expected question:

"Why didn't you ever seek professional help?"

Why indeed. I said, "No need, I have it covered." Chuckled even. "Fuck them," I added, "they didn't destroy me, I am tougher than them".

Tougher indeed. Ten years now assuming the role of protector. Carer for the rest, strong... carrying four lives. The friends looked at me with obvious doubt. They knew the recent history. I could see it, their mental adjustment to the revelations, slotting them in, re-evaluating the circumstances leading to the afternoon at the water's edge. Perhaps - and despite my reassurances all was well - it all became clear to them finally. The lies, the borrowing money, covering up distress and desperation with endless fucking declarations: "Not my fault!" Blaming husband, father, mother, any circumstance available to me at the time - every time.

I realised my mistake of course. Now they had their label for me. I was identified, despite my protestations. In their eyes, I'd assumed the role of victim. In their eyes too, I was flawed, imperfect. I had lost the veneer of the tough 'I am woman' and presented now the vulnerabilities of 'any woman'.

I regretted the experiment. The pity enveloping the tag, colouring our future conversations. No way to take back the words, their new awareness between us. Yet I tried, presenting an articulate, more sensible exterior each time we spoke after the revelations. Distancing myself from them, hoping this would bring to effect a re-labelling from them in time.

The feeling dead inside? Not even feeling? Knowing I am hollowed out, my substance gone? This is my private realm, no one else privy to it. The facade functioning, breathing, talking, external animation masking any and all inner exhaustion, depletion.

Where did an entire decade go? Ten years of visible activity, performance. Yet nobody suspecting the yawing cavern, the emptiness. Only I aware of living outside them, a bystander watching lives mingle, always in pairs. Everyone finding someone in time, some other person they are convinced completes them. Their other half - soul-mate and sharer in the process of living.

... I so miss Nikk. Never a day I don't gaze at his photo. Assuming him my kindred soul, if such a thing exists - the closest anyway. Because we never fucked perhaps... Fooled around as youngsters but never sought to preserve our continuity through sex, relying only on words to keep our intimacy going, growing. He knew most of my secrets. I knew his secrets too. Incessant hours exploring each other's inner substance; seeking validation, some purpose to our shared dissatisfaction. The time lost in the woods when I panicked?

He said, "Follow me; I'll see us out of this." He added too, "I'll always be there for you." He was. Until he fucking died.

He wanted to tell me not to marry the first time. Wanted to stop me but let me proceed in the end, fearing my dissent. My distancing myself from opposition, even from him, as was my custom then.

What did he say? "You're going to fuck William and fuck your life." He spoke like that. I respected his honesty yet proceeded anyway. The runaway train fuelled by irrationality unstoppable even by those closest to the engine, to the brakes.

His death my deepest tragedy. Keeper of my words, when the hole swallowed him up, he took them with him. Not only had I lost my writing, I furthermore lost through his death the only link to their existence outside of myself. He knew William, knew the Prince. The insignificant others I brought in, scrutinised and shrugging shoulders, pushed on paper, dismissed from the mind.