We drove along the esplanade after our evening walk, my friend Whippet and I were discussing the shittest and bestest houses along the way.
“That’ one’s cool?”
“No that’s shit”
“and that one”
Realising we both have opposite tastes, mine clearly being the best,
I glance up and barely get to read the sign, but I do, Second Ave, the street it all began 25 years earlier.
I’ve driven past this street thousands of times before.
He abused me there, then, but now I’m here, there. . .
I’m sitting here in my almost dark lounge room.
I am alone with the light of a finished movie that I had watched with my son’s earlier, the light is shining down on me like a spotlight and on my lap sits a overheating laptop, warming my thighs. My fingers flitting anxiously over the tabs and pages that I have open on my laptop.
One of those tabs open is a tab with his name, “R**** B****” followed by the word “Pedophile” in the search window. I do this often when I am alone and I hate it. I’m looking for a way, to bring him down, so that he can suffer down here too, where I do.
But I know in the depths of my heart, that this isn’t helping. This clouds my head.
It’s almost like I want to hurt sometimes.
I think I hope to find something to link him to anything, to another woman like me perhaps seeking some kind of refuge in the idea that there might be someone else out there just like her, a desperate need to have him caught, to brought to justice, but everytime I search, it ends in internet silence. And even if I did find something it would probably still be nothing. Nothing.
In the other tab my email is open with a weak exasperated almost finished email to the Police Contact asking them to call me so I can go higher up than I have, so that I can complain about the fact my case went no where despite the disgusting acts that he carried out. This is an email I’ve written and never sent many, many times before. I never send it because I know that this time I won’t be strong enough to handle the rejection all over again.
In the other tab is the contact page of Oprah, because I want to thank her for opening my eyes all those years ago when I realised what was happening to me was wrong, I won’t send it because she probably won’t read it but it’s nice to get it out anyway.
The other tab is the contact page for The Project with another half assed weakly written desperate plea for them help me do something about this unjust system.
My other tab open is my Facebook where my fingers linger occasionally over my online friends names, I want to try tell them how I feel right now, but I won’t because I’m so over talking about it. I’m so over not really knowing how to say “I’m hurting randomly right now” again because I do it so much already. I don’t even know what would help me anymore, I’m over writing back “I’ll be ok” with tears brimming my eyes. I’m tired of myself.
I never send them, I know the world has bigger problems.
I feel physically weak, crushed and numb at the same time, like a cloud has positioned itself over my body showering me in thick wet drops of sadness in a steady flow, drops of sadness, of hurt and the occasional actual tear drops onto me. They slide down over me, dampening my clothes and making me feel 100 times heavier than I am, eventually I might as well just fall right in and let my clothes slowly drag me to the bottom, where I can sit on the bottom, look up and watch the world go by in shimmering silhouettes.
Down there, it wouldn’t matter if I cried because I am already drowning in salty water, an ocean of my very own tears.
I need to cry but I can’t get the already brimming tears to flow because I think I feel like if I do that; then I’m done and I will back at that same dark place I was only 6 months ago, on that bottom looking up.
I never want to be there.
I don’t want to be there.
I feel like there is closer than it has been before, now that I know where there is. Like a well traveled trail, the path is worn in, making it easier to get to.
No one can take the pain, no one can change it, he’s done what he’s done and now I have to somehow try and fix this heavy thick mess in my head and heart.
Will I be here forever on and off, when does it stop?
I feel so often, then and I am so often there. It tires me.
This will be there forever, I will partially be there, it’s part of me, part of my history.
So I’ll sit here in the dark alone, close the tabs that I can and again I’ll wait for it to pass.
Morning will come and I will start again.
But some tabs never close.