Trials and Tribulations

Midway through April and the weather is finally on the turn.

Today, mid-way through April, the skies are weeping heavy torrents of tears and the wind is blowing in great vociferous gusts, shaking the bones of the city. Yesterday, it shook the harbour bridge, well not exactly but my journey over the bridge to the foreign land of North Shore City, included a hair raising ascent of the bridge behind a caravan whose door had blown open and shattered glass all over the bridge. The driver boldly carried on up and over the bridge with the door flapping in and out, crashing and bashing its way over the bridge, hitting the struts as its bobbled on its way, with me following waiting for the door to fly off and demolish my car. It didn’t happen much to my relief and the battered vehicle managed to pull off to the side on the other side of the bridge.

This was my first expedition away from home in a while, as I have not ventured far over the past few weeks, months really. I have been on a mission to coat the cedar walls of the house before the weather turned. I have nearly achieved this and a couple of more sunny days should see this task completed.

The solitary process of spending hours in the sunshine, staining these wood grain boards, restoring them from faded blandness into a warm toffee/caramel vibrance, has been soothing and rewarding. The boards seemed to gleefully lap up this protective coating and I became lost in the process of ensuring a smooth and even coating that would show off the beautiful wood-grain patterns.

There have been unexpected benefits from performing this manual task. As well as the satisfaction I now get from admiring my handiwork, and hopefully a few strengthened muscles and shed grams of fat, it has been a calming and meditative process. Soothing to all my senses with only the occasional swear word thrown in as I teetered on the top of the ladder, paint tin and brushes in hand or at the odd spill or splatter of paint that escaped the walls. (Quickly mopped up I might add!!)

It has been my retreat. I have been able to embrace my love for music again, and have had the stereo blaring out my favourites for the six hours or so I have painted each day. I have been lost in the music and the tiny detail of each piece of wood, my eyes drawn in and focused on the task while my mind has voluntarily roved the depths of my soul.

There seems to be a correlation between the layers of stain going onto the wood and the layers being stripped bare from my soul. I became more exposed emotionally with each covering-up stroke of the brush. Just as the skies have opened today, my tears have flowed over the past few days. Silent tears, not sobs, just uncontrollable silent, torrents of tears falling as I sat in the sun and kept painting. This is the process of my grief. It has not been unpleasant, it fact it has been a very “connecting” process for me.

I am wondering if I could franchise this as the new “secret”. How to find inner peace by painting. I could charge huge fees, get people’s houses painted for
free and the painters, “clients” would pay me huge sums of money to me, to participate. Boot camp therapy? Of course, my controlling nature would have to vet their actual painting skills, no matter what sort of mental state they were in. Fair is fair, the job would have to be done properly. Oh well, it costs nothing to fantasize!!

The reality is that I have been on the brink of needing to make some changes and I guess time out from “paid work” and all that goes with it, combined with the “free thinking” time I have enjoyed has precipitated some of these.

In August I touched on the topic of alcohol in my life. I have managed to continue this debate with myself, while making no changes. Not uncommon I am sure. For whatever reason, I have decided that now is the time and I am into my third alcohol free week.(Hold the applause!!) The funny thing is that it has not been hard, so far at least. What was hard was making a decision. My head became so full of all the reasons not to let go of this crutch, my crutch. I spent one week like a headless chook, not wanting to face up to the fact that this task was pissing me off. I didn’t want to be a person that didn’t drink alcohol, I couldn’t imagine what I would drink instead!! It was unimaginable for me to contemplate, to see this as a reality in my life. It is early days yet, but I feel solid in this commitment.

I think my biggest fear has been the fear of what might emerge from me, minus my self-medication. I have been frightened of my grief, of the depths of my anger and sadness. I imagined this would emerge like a horrible sci-fi monster snapping teeth and drooling blood and venom out into the world all accompanied by scary sci-fi monster movie music. (I am a person who has to leave the room if a scary movie comes on the TV, or even if the scary music starts, let alone any pictures to go with it!!)

The truth of my experience so far has been nothing like that. There has been a huge relief, a weight has gone from my shoulders, and I have much more free space in my head!! It is not consumed with worrying about how much I drink, have I drunk too much, not caring if I have and about keeping the supply up. For me it is a good thing. I am not sure if it is for life but it is for now, each day at a time.

My grief is certainly more present, there have been much more tears but much more talking about it too. I want to honour and hold Shelley in my life, in her brother’s and family’s lives It is more painful, it is almost as if I have woken up from a deep sleep and again have to start to deal with Shelley’s murder. I feel closer to Shelley. I have her consciously with me. I know this is a reality of my life, I have know that since 7/7 but knowing how to live the rest of my life with this reality is a different matter. I still don’t know but am open to whatever happens. Eyes wide open


There is a trial taking place in London, of associates of the bombers. Three men charged with conspiring to cause an explosion, contrary to section 3(1)(a) of the Explosive Substances Act 1883. i.e. between the 17th November 2004 and the 8th July 2005, they unlawfully and maliciously conspired together and with Mohammed Siddique Khan, Shezhad Tanweer, Jermaine Lindsay and Hasib Hussain and with others unknown to cause by an explosive substance an explosion or explosions of a nature likely to endanger life or cause serious injury to property in the United Kingdom.

Jermaine Lindsay was the successful suicide bomber who murdered Shelley and 25 other people on the tube between Kings Cross and Russell Square and injured hundreds more.

I am not sure if the case will be successful in achieving a conviction. I am not sure what I think about it all. I receive daily updates from my Family Liaison Officer via the Metropolitan Police. There will be screeds and screeds of information. I am simply saving it to a folder and will read it when I can. I started reading some of it the other day and just wept. That’s ok. And it makes me angry and sick in my stomach. But that’s ok too. It will not make me want to take a drink. And that’s ok.

Some of the bereaved families and victims are attending the court daily. My heart goes out to them all. I am not equipped to write up the details or to comment on the political plethora of race relations, the conspiracy theorists, the action/inaction of the powers that be.

I am reading Rachel North’s account and that is good enough for me. I am thankful I am not there, watching the hideous suicide bomber’s videos. I would vomit.

Eyes wide open. I know that I cannot undo what is done. I cannot right all the wrongs in the world. My life goal is to live as best I can with Shelley’s death. To enjoy, support and love my family and friends. To do no harm. That is enough for this one soul.

Kia Kaha
Arohanui

KG
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