Closing Pandora's Box

Last year, I was asked by a friend to write on the topic of love for the King’s College Maestro Magazine and so I agreed. Below is my short story that was published.

*****

I had been watching as she came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel that hung from her bosom and curled around her thighs. She walked briskly to her room, her moist, naked feet leaving prints on the wooden floor. She was slightly behind schedule but I knew she wouldn't be late. She never was. It wasn't often we got to do this, with the pressure of second year university and work keeping us occupied. But despite that we made sure to spend some time together, at least once a month. Today was the 14th of February. It was special because it was her birthday. And tonight was going to be perfect.
When she was born her mother had held her in her arms and through her teary eyes exclaimed, “I will give this girl of mine all the love in the world.” It was a shame really, for it left everyone else with none to give. I continued to watch as she gently towel dried her red hair. Using a hair dryer was not an option. Her skin had always been sensitive and during her early years at school she had suffered from seborrhoeic eczema that resulted in greasy yellow coloured scales on her face and scalp. The emollient she used gave off its own unpleasant smell which the young children around her didn't like. They found it repulsive. They found her repulsive. One of the boys in her class had cut her hair with a pair of safety scissors during an art lesson to the amusement of the others. I had watched as she ran home that afternoon with tears of humiliation gushing down her angular face. But they could not wash away the pain she had felt that day.
Next, she put spots of moisturiser on her forehead, nose, cheeks and chin before massaging them in with the tips of her fingers. This was a routine that had not changed since high school and one that always brought a smile to her face. Though she was not beautiful, her supple skin was envied by many of the other girls. She craved for boys to look at her and love her, but their eyes were bought by the rich blonde who covered herself in expensive skin care products. If truth be told, I too stared longingly at the blonde girl. I patiently watched as she applied foundation and changed into her ruched stretch-jersey black dress. It had been a steep acquisition, considering it was paid for by her student loans. She had insisted and there was no way I could change her mind, it was for me she had said, for our special nights together.
She had never been one for makeup and so it took her three frustrating attempts to put on eyeliner. The mascara was relatively easier. Though she normally wore glasses, for special nights such as this she would put on her chocolate coloured lenses. Her deep grey eyes; eyes that had longed to see better days once she started university, were instantaneously transformed. People at high school had spoken of university as a new beginning full of hope, new friendships and new adventures. But the truth of the matter is that high school never ends and nothing changes but the faces, the names and the trends. And as for life, we’ve only got the one. Her luck didn’t change at university either; well not until I met her.
There wasn’t much left for her to do. The table had been set some time ago and I had lit the scented candle just before she entered the shower. The flame danced for us in its unique manner, casting shadows around the dimly lit room. She sprayed herself with her perfume and put on her Revlon super lustrous lipstick Fire and Ice. It was the same one she was wearing the day we had our first kiss. We had been standing in the lunch queue, waiting to order food. I caught her eye in the glass container which had the cakes within and smiled. She later told me that when she returned the smile, it was because she had remembered something her mother had always said to her. That night while we sat and talked, I noticed her beauty for the first time. Her once oddly angular face was now sleek and refined. Her body, once lanky and thin with bones jutting out in different directions was now curvaceous and complete. And her smile, hiding behind it one of the saddest stories I knew, was mesmerising.
She was ready now and I watched as she walked towards me, hunger in her eyes. But as always, this hunger was not the type to be satisfied at the candle lit table. The flowers sat alone as she kissed me. Her lipstick left a mark on the cold surface of the mirror.
“If you can’t love yourself,” her mother had said. “You can’t expect others to love you either.” She had finally found love.

_________________________________

With special thanks to AG and SR for teaching me about colours, makeup and the ways of its application.
Italicised words are taken from the song “High School never ends,” – Bowling for Soup.

“Exhausting,” he said to her. “Kids are such work. I can’t wait to have kids of my own, but sometimes thinking about it is scary.”

“Hmm I feel the same way sometimes,” she replied. “Then I slap myself and shout silently ‘How can I bring such beautiful innocence into THIS world.’”

“When you look at the world what do you see? I don’t know about you, but I look at the world, I see it through eyes dark and colourless. It's a bit like blue jeans. No matter how blue they are to begin with, those areas that are constantly stretched and rubbed and poked lose their colour over time. Especially at the knees. Just before they’re about to rip and leave a gaping big hole, they turn colourless. Same with these eyes of mine. Death, failure, loss, destruction, persecution, sorrow and hurt. You name it, they’ve seen it all and they too have lost their colour. The thing is when something loses its colour, it catches other colours around it much more quickly. Like a plain white piece of paper can be painted any colour whereas a bright red one will not show all of them as well. And at this stage, these sunken eyes of mine notice the beauty, notice the hope, notice the love, notice the sacrifice and notice the good, no matter how small it may be. Indeed, there are vast areas lacking light, but if you look hard enough, in the right places, you’ll see it too. Look inside yourself, deep down where the soul resides and you’ll notice that no matter how grimy you may be on the surface the light within continues to burn burn bright. A street lamp gives the same light as when it was new, except the pollution of the cars and the dust deposited by the wind may make it seem otherwise. Now imagine that light multiplied 7 billion times. It would be blinding. The problem isn’t that there is no light in the world. The problem is that most people don’t know how to find it. When I have kids one day insha’Allah, if I fail to teach them anything else, I hope I’ll be able to teach them these two things: I’ll teach them about their light that resides within them. And I’ll teach them that if they share that light of theirs with others around them, it’s the best they can do. Even if the layers of grime and filth on a person’s surface is so thick that it only lets a small pinpoint of light, in the darkest of areas, that too can be illuminating. Remember that, and find your light my friend. If you lose your way, then I’ll share mine with you.”

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Photograph of streetlamp in the sunset, taken from personal photography [link].

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
When death comes and takes all the bright coins to buy me,
and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes like measle-pox;
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

“When Death Comes” – Mary Oliver

*****

Then…

There were times when I screamed out to God. It’s ironic isn’t it? When we are happy and have no need whatsoever of calling Him, some of us are inclined to think of His presence as an intrusion. Go to Him then and He would take you in with open arms and make you feel welcome. But going to Him when all help was lost and you’d be faced with a closed door and silence. Such loud and echoing silence, that could drive you mad. All you would hear was your own voice, full of desperation and need being thrown back to you. Was He ever there?

Then something happens, or I hear something, or see a picture, or visit a place and memories flood back like a gushing river. Every single particle of ‘rationality’, ‘logic’ and ‘common sense’ is swept away by tears of grief. Clean and honest tears. Bathing myself in self pity is something I find so disgusting. It makes me cringe to think to think the bubbly Charley I remember, whose happiness was contagious and who was always overflowing with life has now become someone who brings nothing but sorrow. If she were to see me now, what would she think? And that brings me onto my next point.

Promises made with the dead while they held our hand, walked beside us and shared the same air to breathe as us are all well and good. There are many promises I will never forget, promises that I will keep with me forever and  will try my best to fulfil. But there are times when this so called ‘respect for the feelings of the dead’ brings me doubt. Sometimes when people say “is that what Charley would have wanted?” or “Charley wouldn’t have liked you doing such and such,” I wonder whether it is really just them using her name to say a piece of their mind, to vent their frustration at my never-ending sadness, or to have their way. I know it’s wrong of me. Their intentions are pure, they don’t mean it that way. But that momentary flash of desperation, of exhaustion and annoyance in their eyes makes me wonder. I hope I never am guilty of saying it that way to anyone.

At the beginning I used to be so afraid of going all those places Charley and I used to go, the walk through the parks or taking in the view of London from the top of Shirley Hills. But over the last year, I’ve visited the park many times in the depths of the night, and despite a few early incidents it wasn’t as bad as I had expected. Her absence wasn’t any more intense there as it was in other places; it’s not confined to a particular place. Her absence is like the distribution of air, it’s spread everywhere. It’s like that, I feel it while I’m sitting alone on the bus or I feel it when I’m feeling sad and in need of someone to talk to for example. But even that isn’t entirely true. There is one place where I feel it the most. Me. I miss her hugs.

*****

Now…

Tomorrow will be exactly one year since she passed away. ******* Cancer. I was speaking to a friend recently and they said to me, ‘How do you think Charley would feel knowing she was the reason behind your grief? Do you think she would want you to suffer endlessly because of her death?’

That made me think. Yes, I still do miss her, yes I still feel the emptiness from time to time, but it’s time I let it go. It’s time I came out of the shell I have been hiding in, wallowing in my sorrow, and felt the warmth of the sun on my skin, felt the refreshing rain and tried to truly enjoy happiness and all the other wonders of this life. On new year’s I was recovering from a very long day, getting rid of all that exhaustion that I completely forgot about Charley. When I finally realised, finally remembered, it was much more than a fading memory. It would not be right for me to call it a meeting (that’d get me locked up), but it was as if the armour of sorrow which had confined me for so long was removed. So much easier to breathe, so much easier to move. There were no tears, and that I think that is why I could see properly. My eyes still need time to adjust but it’s a beginning.

Have you ever said, ‘tonight I must get a good sleep because I have a long day tomorrow,’ and found you sleep very little? Have you ever said ‘let’s talk. Now’s the time’ and noted how silence ensues? Maybe if you desire something too desperately, you may not be able to get the best of it. Is that the same with the death of a loved one? Wanting so much to keep their memory alive, to remember each and every detail you find yourself looking into a dark and dingy hole which drags you in. A bit like a black hole. In the same way, I’m led to believe God was there all along. It was my own frantic screaming which stopped me from hearing that voice of help I had relied my last hope on. God gives to only those who have the ability and the willingness to accept. I was not ready to accept, I was not ready to listen and it was my mistake.

A few days before she passed away, Charley asked me find and print out the poem shown above. Another patient who was reaching the end of his life had told her about it and said they’d discuss it together when she had read it. They never got the chance, he passed away that night. When Charley finished reading the poem, with tears rolling down her beautiful face she said, ‘It doesn’t sound so bad having read that. Are you afraid? I wont leave till you say goodbye’. But I never got a chance to say goodbye. I was reminded of the poem while at the weekly hospice training, and it brought back sore memories. Am I ready to say goodbye yet? I don’t know. =/.

Reach – S Club 7.

We used to sing this song at school back in year 6. It was our song. It is now the first song on my playlist and I thought I’d share it with you.

I read this quote a few days ago, and it really hit home and really made me think:

If you focus to much on those you have lost, you’ll end up pushing away those that are left. – Unknown²

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Title: Iridescent – Linkin Park.
Picture 1: I have had this picture on my computer for a very long time, and so no longer have the link to it.
Picture 2: Same with this picture.
²Quote from http://www.boardofwisdom.com/

Many hundreds of people walk through our lives each day but only those who love us, and whom we love, and those that care for us, and those for whom we care leave their footprints engraved on our heart.

What does it feel like many people ask. Sometimes it feels so very much like fear. That same fluttering in the stomach I get while standing at the top of a very tall structure and looking down below, the same agitation and that same restlessness. Sometimes there is that dry mouth because the swallowing wont stop. Sometimes it makes me feel so detached and so alone, as if there is an invisible barrier between me and the world. The words people speak, the things they say just doesn’t seem to register. Or maybe it’s just hard to want to understand, it can be so uninteresting. I fear the moments when I am alone.

Some days a little voice inside me shouts out from the depths and tries to assure me that it really isn’t that much of a big deal. After all, people come and go, so what is different about death? I was happy before I met Charley. It happens to everyone and people move on. As I contemplate, I am left ashamed listening to what my mind says. On the other hand it does speak sense. But then something happens, or I hear something, or see a picture, or visit a place and memories flood back like a gushing river. Every single particle of ‘rationality’, ‘logic’ and ‘common sense’ is swept away by tears of grief. It is then you are left sitting alone on that park bench with nothing but darkness and cold surrounding you. Just so alone.

This is the park bench Charley and I used to sit on. I took this picture of the snow covered park while on one of my midnight walks – 2^nd Dec 2010, 01.55am.

*****

Over the years, many people have tried to explain ‘grief’ to me using all sorts of analogies. While at the hospice training one day, we were discussing this matter and the coordinator explained a few different models of grief. I’ll explain one of them here:

This first circle (left) represents you, me, him, her and everyone in their normal ‘grief-free’ state. The greatest worry or problem we have to deal with is what pair of jeans to wear in the morning or what sandwich to buy at lunch. Life is okay with no major drama but being humans we still complain.

The flaming red and orange in the circle on the right is representative of grief. Grief felt after the ending of a long term relationship or the bereavement following the death of someone very dear. It is totally overwhelming and takes over us (the whole circle of ‘us’ is full of it).

Most people assume that over time the grief due to a bereavement or loss for example, will lessen and there may even come a stage when it completely disappears. In this ‘assumption’ we don’t really change as a person, it’s the grief which changes. After all, time is a great healer is it not?

In reality however, the grief doesn’t change. It is always there. We just grow around it, learning and developing ways to cope so that it hurts less and less each day. This is how I like to think of it. The human brain is an amazing thing. The way it can store, recall, sort and process information is just mind boggling. I think grief is like constantly playing music; it’s always there in the background but your mind learns to block it out. If you’ve ever sat in a classroom with a road just outside, you’ll initially hear the cars going past. But as the lesson progresses and you get stuck into your maths or English or whatever, you no longer hear the cars. You’ll only notice them when you look out the window and concentrate on them. Grief is the same. After some time, which may be a few hours, a few days, weeks, months or even years it becomes like music playing gently in the background.

*****

Tomorrow (18^th Dec 2010) would have been her 21^st birthday. On her 18^th, standing in the freezing cold at the edge of the river Thames, we made so many plans and so many promises for the years to come. I remember holding a warm cup of coffee in my shaking hand and telling her, ‘Whatever you plan for your next big one, just make sure it’s somewhere warm. I’m giving you three years to think of something.’ But there wasn’t to be a 21^st, there are just memories.

Though we all take trips to the city of memories, we have no choice but to come back because unfortunately they are only trips. In our remembrance of the dead, we can not forget the living. Today is the birthday of a lovely friend of mine; Rosaline Lifeo. May the Almighty grant you a long and healthy life. May it be like being on a ferris wheel, dominated with that indescribable feeling of limitless happiness and awe when you are the top. But when you are at a low may you have the strength, the faith and the belief that it will only be temporary.

Come to think of it, life isn’t that much different from a ferris wheel. The only difference being we buy the ticket for one and are given the ticket for the other. Otherwise, both the rides have their ups and down and regardless of what happens, they both go on.

*****

 

They make it look so easy, connecting with another human being. It’s like no-one told them that’s the hardest thing in the world. I’m left not with what she took from me but with what with she brought. Eyes that finally saw me for what I am. And this certainty that nothing, nothing is set in stone, not even darkness. – Dexter, Season 5, Episode 12.

We meet new people each and every day wherever we are. Some of them we stop to talk to. Others we go out of our way and make the effort to talk to. Connections are laid and a relationship is made. The hardest thing I think is maintaining those connections and keeping them living. In my remembrance of the dead I must not overlook those whose footprints are engraved so deeply on my heart that time shall never be able to erase them. In my remembrance of the dead I must not hurt those who give me a reason to live. In my remembrance of the dead I must never forget those who teach me how to keep going. I will not forget them. <3

(I hope you understand this person with no name, this one is for you and all those who I know are grieving or have grieved. I will not forget you)

“Have you ever had that orange coloured fruit which is really juicy and sweet but after a few seconds it really dries up your mouth and makes it seem like there’s cobwebs growing in there?” I asked the two sitting next to me.

The thinking look came onto the General’s face, "Hmmm…”

“Are you talking about tangerines?” asked Dum.

“Noooo. Tangerines don’t give you oral cobwebs. I don’t know what it’s called.” I replied. “Wait let me google it.”

“I think I know what you might be talking about,” said Dum with his distinctive enlightened ‘oh’ look.

Googling ‘What fruit dries your mouth?’ came up with a yahoo answers page link. “According to this, it’s called a persimmon,” I informed the others.

“Suck this 12 inch baby dry!” shouted Dum randomly, pointing in between his legs. Oh dear, here comes the guy talk.

Which other thing is made to a 12 inch size? “Bloody hell man, that’s the size of a normal 30 cm ruler!” I exclaimed rolling my eyes.

“It would be okay if it was that size when standing up. Otherwise all that blood…” added the General.

“It’d make you faint. Imagine that, you see some one really hot  and just swoon because of all that blood being directed away from the brain.” I said.

“Haha! Gives a whole new meaning to how long can you last,” said Dum.

“But you know, it’s not like we’re 12 any more when it used to randomly just pop up. I think he’d have a bit of self control now… I hope,” General said giving Dum a scrutinising look.

“All you need now is that wooden stump thing that pirates have and you’ll officially have yourself a third leg!” I said laughing.

*****

“Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you. But if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” – Thoreau. (sent to me by bubblegum)

What is happiness? Why is that when we are happy things are easy to deal with and it all fits into place? But when sorrow is upon us, we can’t wait for it to end. I attempted to answer that question in one of the parts of ‘The Story’ and so would like to shift the focus somewhere else. What do you do when happiness seems to have left your life?

I’d like to present to you another quote which was said to me by a good friend of mine while we were discussing this issue of happiness a week or so ago:

“There are some things in life that don’t come running to you. You gorra get up off your stinkin’ sofa and go get ‘em” – RP.

At first glance it may seem that the two quotes above are contradictory in the message they give. The first tells us that we should wait patiently for happiness to come to us whereas the latter seems to imply that happiness is something that we have to go and actively find ourselves. I agree with both and think you can employ both methods without any conflict. They are, I believe, two different stages of the same process, one coming before the other.

If you want gold for example, you must first seek where gold is. There’s no point looking for it in the kitchen cupboards or in a chemist shop and if you were to do so, you’d never find it. It’s the same with happiness I think. If a person finds themselves bereft of happiness but does nothing but sit at home thinking about the injustices of life and the bad things that have happened to them, their negativity will lead to depression and or other psychological problems. The butterfly of happiness isn’t everywhere, especially in those places that are bound to bring back tear-jerking memories or feelings of anger and hate. First you have to find where happiness is, and then you can wait patiently for it to come to you.

Just before starting this post, I asked a friend of mine of their views on this topic and they said, “happiness is always there in the back of our mind, but we’re so caught up in our sorrow that we don’t pay attention to it.” It’s true isn’t it? When we’re overwhelmed by pain or sorrow we tend to forget the little stars that are shining for us day and night, sparkling around us like little butterflies bringing us laughter and smiles every day.

The gift of happiness is one that we all have the ability to give to someone. It’s cheap to give, but very weighty in it’s value. A simple joke, just giving someone a hand or sitting with a person and talking about random things can bring the light back into the eyes of someone who is looking for a reason to smile. Next time you see someone with a tear in their eye, remember they could be waiting for a butterfly to come to them and that butterfly could be you.

I like writing. It's my pressure valve which I can use to relieve the excessive build-up of emotions and feelings that sometimes threaten to blow me up. It's a way I can put down onto paper things that are eating me up on the inside so that I can face them and deal with them.
There is one such piece of writing, which when I showed to a few friends of mine they suggested I should share it with others for reasons you'll find out when you read it for yourself. I started writing this back in February, a few days after my birthday and it's only just recently that I have completed it. Many of you have been waiting to read this 'story' for a long time and at first I had decided to put it into one pdf file which could be easily downloaded. But seeing as how time consuming that is, I shall now upload each part as I finish typing it. This is where it begins...