The Clock Upon the Wall...

"It's an ever changing time

I see, that clock upon the wall
Well it don't bother me at all
It's an ever changing time

And me, ever changing time
Everything is going so much faster
It seems like I'm
Watching my life, and everything I do
Wonder if the dreams that I believed in
Still come true"

Aretha Frankling & Michael McDonald - Ever Changing Times

 

 

This song has been a favourite of mine from a was a very young girl. I don't know, maybe the rough times we had made a bit more aware, but I always FELT this song.  It spoke of the only certain thing in life - CHANGE.

 

I am homesick.

 

This conclusion was derived after weeks of flashbacks of living in Cable Beach, memories of walking to the foodstore, the kids having more things to do and a sense of comfort and stability that encompassed me when the memories descended.

 

I had no idea.  I was lost. I couldn't figure it out. There were no flashes of Foxdale, no flashes of life as a housewife when I first started having kids and I was learning more of life that I loved and some I didn't care to know.

Journaling furiously, it came to me.  I am homesick.  You see, my apartment in Cable Beach, the western area of New Providence, was as close to island life I had at the time.  I didn't have traffic and hustle and bustle to deal with.  The foodstore was walking distance away, the kids had things to keep them occupied, school was one bus away when the car was down, they had a friend in the neighbouring apartment, I would have both doors open, screen door closed, I rode my bike to work, I had conversations with minds that had traveled and had experiences I admired.

What this apartment also represented was a fierce sense of independence that I didn't somehow have in my previous abode.  Yes, I did what I needed to do financially to make that abode mine, but the overwhelming presence of mummy, daddy, siblings, memories of my marriage, all overshadowed birthday celebrations, family gatherings, getting married, bringing brand new babies home from the hospital...

It just wasn't purged, I guess.  Maybe, if the purging I had started had been completed as intended and I had stayed, it would have felt different.  I don't know.  I actually don't care to know.  When I moved, I felt free. Unfettered.  I felt like I could do anything, yes, even though I had three children to prove that I could go through much and stand triumphant after.

My mother was the free thinker of her family.  Her mind was more open, she had begun to live and speak her truth the older she got.  She also had a lot of prudish and conservative habits.  This is where she and I clashed, but never actually clashed. I lived in her house, and out of respect, there were many things I just didn't do or try.  We had our section, but it was still her house.

After she died, I was left with many more options to some things, that I wouldn't have had had she not.  As a sentimental being, she held on firmly to many things.  For that she could not be blamed. The house and commercial building became symbols of success we had had in the past, symbols of love that daddy provided for us, and she could not bear to let them go. This became wordlessly instilled in me and when I was faced with financial dilemmas, I followed her footsteps.

I don't know how or when, I learned to let go.  I just knew WHY. I began to fear it would kill me. I had two scares where blood vessels burst in my eye, a year a part, that landed me at the hospital choking on fear.  Sitting in the A&E, terrified and having images of her on her gurney waiting on assistance as I was ordered out because my five minutes were up, I cried.  People around me comforted me, spoke uplifting words.

However, I realized that it was a cycle I wasn't willing to continue.  I wasn't willing to continue this stressed behaviour in order to "survive".  My two babies needed me. And I couldn't put that feeling on them, that she had put on me when she departed.

I have been in a state of introspection for the last two months.  I opened a new business and literally at some point shut down.  I had begun clock watching, timing things, worrying about things, noting the calendar, forcing myself into boxes I never intended to.

What it is, is that, I walk around with this gaping hole in me. As I approached eleven years old, mummy solaced me with treats.  To fill her guilt at being away from home dealing with daddy being so sick, she would let me pick something out of store to eat.  I traced this as the start of my eating my feelings.  This is something I have battled for thirty plus years.  Eating my feelings is so much simpler than finding someone to listen, and not just listen, comprehend them and support my search for alternative healthy ways to cope.

So, this gaping hole that I didn't wring into submission before I left New Providence, got bigger when I hopped islands.  Out, in the middle of no where, knowing no one, not sure of anything...well folks. Sigh...

Introspection.  The last two months. On a very heavy level.  Consciously tuning out the clock, caring for a toddler, refereeing two teenagers (yeah, two, 11 is a just a freakin' number), I delved into various articles I looked up on topics bouncing in my head.  What do I believe? Why do I believe it?  Why am I so irritated by certain people?  What can I do to calm MYSELF instead of popping off?  What can I do to let this moment of eating something when I am not truly hungry pass me over?  Why won't I go outside?  Will I ever make a success of this studio?  Why do I get satisfaction in cleaning and placing in order?  How come the kid being kids makes me SO ANGRY? How did I manage to leach my negativity into this man and now he's irritated and agitated more than he's positive and uplifting? How do I move through things not knowing my daddy's history or family?

Well, journaling lead to pockets of epiphanies.  Clear moments where it just clicks and makes sense. I got derailed from my studio because I let outside influence sway me.  Remember that hole?  It felt good to discover someone creative as well.  It felt good to hear that they turned nothing into something.  But, I didn't draw a line in the sand and I let them overwhelm me with ideas that weren't mine, more shit that I don't have anywhere to put it, and suggestions that crowded my mind.  I managed to get through my moments of feeling the need to eat my feelings and  have been seeing amazing changes in my body.  I can see my feet, I no longer look pregnant in my favorite dresses I wore during my pregnancy last year.  I traced some things with my mother, what I knew about daddy, started on my mother's mother, and began meditating to center my thoughts to subconsciously steer away from those fears.

I am in a stage of meltdown, but not a meltdown. This screeching halt came because, I cannot be the mummy I know I can be, if I am not happy.  I become 'screechy "what the fuck is your problem" mummy' just because one of the kids is breathing too loud.  I then become a "yeah I'm okay, baby, why?" wreck to this man of mine.  In this, I have also cleared off our bureau twice, gone through the kids room several times, scoured out our microwave, scrubbed the top of our refrigerator, removed and rearranged furniture, reaffirmed each child's personal spot and that the other isn't to interfere with out invitation or permission, taken on the task of potty training this toddler who knows just what's going on, gotten the mass of clothes we don't need to where it can be used (way before this hurricane season got stupid), kept our laundry at bay, started making the kids take more of an active role in cooking dinner and bathing their baby sister.

Despite all of that, I have also laid in bed for days binge watching Netflix, scrolling facebook and searching many topics and avoiding.  Avoiding what, I am not entirely sure.  Maybe the corner of things from New Providence that I am not quite finished scaling down, but is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay smaller than what it was when it was first accumulated in New Providence, and then moved to our apartment in Cable Beach.  It fits into a corner of our apartment, about eight bins and a few boxes.

Maybe I am avoiding defining my art studio again because my assigned book for it has that done so many times and each time I am derailed.  Even by my own thoughts.

I don't know.  But, I do know, that I am so tired of watching that clock on the wall.  Because of that clock on the wall, I slipped into preferring to be aware of every change and milestone and most activities of my children because we are all only our age once.  I want them to be able to know I am here the way I knew my mummy was there.  

 

Yet, I also have to find that moment and space just for me, because that makes me happy and centered.