The thoughts come thick and fast; my brain is fevered. When I get to the computer, I can’t type quickly enough.
That lady said it would be like this! my mind says, excited.
I nod, agreeing with her, distracted though by the sheer volume of ideas, their intensity. Their evaporation risk, too.
My fingers fly. I don’t worry about mistakes, I just need to get it down.
Write! Write! my mind urges me.
Remember! she hisses.
I nod again, and at this, she’s satisfied. She quiets, letting me work.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Another voice. His. Laying down the gauntlet.
You sold yourself as a party girl.
A strange and mean-spirited thing to say, I think. It’s not like him. He’s generous-hearted, kind. The suggestion of the flutter of a wingbeat of hesitation - my mind, stirring. I ignore her - she can be malevolent. She persists, though.
Why, then, she needles, why did he say it, this crude and insulting thing?
I grant her a pause. I mull it over. Trying to get a reaction? That choice of words, it’s too deliberate - and he, too smart. The logical, rational part of my brain tells me it was to get a rise, to make me feel something, to stop detaching. But my mind - the emotive, prideful part of me - twists and squirms, rails and churns. She rejects these words, appalled. She disregards my pleas, my defence of him: that they were fabricated words, designed to maim, said in an argument, not truly meant and thus, meaningless. She’s enraged, that’s the thing. Awoken from the great, blind slumber of masking, she’s free - and dangerous. She lashes out at things in her path.
Saskandas. I think. Was that the word?
Let it go! I tell my mind, sternly.
Letting it go is a new thing we’re learning. It’s hard, but then so is not letting things go.
My mind can’t resist dwelling on that ugly sentence though, she is drawn to it like carrion.
There must be something in it, she pesters, he can’t have said it for no reason!
She toys with the string of seven little words, and her eyes narrow, a cat with a half-dead mouse. I will need to watch her closely in case she does something rash. Something irrevocable.
Suddenly, the adrenalin wears off and I feel tired. Sullen, and sorrowful. Torn between sadness for him and for myself, the thought that I could have been duplicitous nagging at me.
Oh, to rewind time! I think. I would save him, from me. Would I save me, from him?
We are not compatible I think, him and I. And yet we love each other; we are inextricable, codependent. The words of Vladimir and Estragon flit through my head:
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me!
And the most powerful ones of all, that always make my heart lift with hope:
Stay with me!
And,
Did I ever leave you?
My fickle, callous mind flits to something else.
How long is it we’ve had him? she goads.
7 years. I tell her. Or is it 8?
I feel her raise an eyebrow. And still not fixed?
No, I say coolly, still lashing out at things in his path. I raise my eyebrow right back at her.
It’s time I write about him, too. I think.
and, with a sudden rush of optimism:
I’ll fix him!
and
I’m ready.
and
He’s my H is for Hawk.
I don’t want to write this book, I know that. I rail against it. It’s too personal, too visceral. Jayco, our dog, is only a small part of it. My husband, another. It’s about much more, it’s about a myriad of difficult things.
I don’t have a choice though. This book wants to write itself. It insists to. It’s here.
It will be hard, I protest.
I don’t want to write it, I say, petulantly.
But she won’t relent. She blanks my paltry reservations. And, after a pause, whispers to me - a best friend who knows all my secrets:
This is the one!
And though I’m scared, I’m excited too, because I know she’s right. I nod.
I can always publish under a pseudonym, I reassure myself.
And: Maybe I won’t publish it at all. If it turns out to be too raw, too real. Which I know it will be, I already know.
She said it would be like this! she says. She’s delighted, manic.
Don’t go too high! I warn her. After a high comes a low, fact. We know that, she and I, it was a painful lesson. I don’t miss those days. I am much more measured, now. I value myself more, now.
My hand hovers over the phone, but I remove it. I remind myself that all the messaging, the scrolling wastes my time.
I am in charge, I think. Little triumphs.
I sit down to write, to write this book about the strange year I’ve had. And I know it will be painful. Painful to write, to relive. To expose, to birth. I want to strangle it, to stifle it, but its arrival is inevitable now. I accept this, and as I type, my mind quietly monitors.
Wow. Wow again. What I just read gave me goosebumps. It's so beautiful, I find something new as I reread it. You have impressed me, Emma! Thank you for sharing this. Something so personal It is so beautiful. You have won me over, I will wait for your book to read more about your experiences. I am so proud of you and your perseverance, as well as the fact that you share your experiences and your feelings so openly. Such a great start to the day.🧡🧡
Crikey, what a visceral, powerful read; and boy does it resonate. I want to read more, to get to know Jayco. Wishing you all the best in the competition and beyond, Emma.