The BitchSlap

•May 26, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Sometimes I think I’m being driven by anger.
Anger towards the world, anger towards life, anger towards anyone who wasn’t in that room the day she died.

I’ll warn you, this could get graphic. I think I’m finally ready to really write about it, so gtfo this page if you’re squeamish.

I love my mother with a supernatural force. Honestly, it’s stronger than myself even. And I must say, I’m a pretty strong person. Note also how I didn’t use the past tense. I love her still, with the same amount of force. Only now it doesn’t seem to have a recipient.

I was in Scotland when things went south, the details aren’t important, but the day after I heard she was in hospital again I flew back. During the hours I was on my way to her, she told my sister she kept having the feeling I was sitting next to her hospital bed. Makes sense, as I was thinking of her intensely.
Four days later she was dead.
She fought for her life for more than 18 hours, breathing heavily, almost choking in the blood coming from her gums. She could barely talk at all, her pallor was ash grey and darkness had set into her face.
She was making jokes up to a few hours before her death. She kept picking at her bleeding gums, pulling bits of congealed blood out saying “ew, it looks like a slug!” God, I love her sense of humour. It reminds me so much of myself😦

I would sit and talk with her for a few hours, excuse myself for a cigarette when the grinding of my teeth could no longer suppress the tears. Then I’d run outside the hospital grounds and sit on the kerb of the ambulance drive-through and cry my eyes out like a small child.

The day she died, my head was buried in her bed next to her left arm, my arm wrapped over her. My sister opposite me in the same position.
She was very frail. I had helped clean her and take care of her, together with the nurses, for days. I was there with her in the most degrading moments, holding her close, reassuring her I was with her. She was the best mother in the world. I would have done anything for her. I still would.

At one point, they sent us outside for some reason and she had a brain haemorrhage. She was scared, disoriented. She was panicking and hyperventilating. I rushed to her side and held her in my arms, whispering softly in her ear. This happened another three times, her gaze sinking deeper every time. Her breathing was heavy and distressed, yet every time I spoke to her and held her she seemed to relax. In her last moment it happened again, she clenched her jaws, foamy red blood came out of her mouth.
Her eyes went dead.
And that was it.

She turned cold within minutes, my sister and I peering at each other from opposite sides of her dead body, bloodshot eyes, traumatised.

It was the worst fucking day of my life. I have never felt so much pain in all my life.

A lot of people who know me don’t even know this, this is the first time I’ve ever spoken out about it. I don’t want fucking pity from anyone.

Because I hardly ever speak of it, a lot of people ‘forget’ or simply don’t know what I went through. I dare say I’m handling myself quite well, but it doesn’t mean I’m over it. It doesn’t mean I’ll ever be over it. It doesn’t mean it hurts less.
I’ll be really obnoxious about this: Anybody else would have lost the plot. Anybody else would have crumbled into dust.

Well no, not I.

All I can think of is: Fuck you, you ass-holes, nothing can stop me now. There’s nothing you can do to me that will be worse than this. There is nothing that will ever be worse than the day I watched my mother die.

Therefore I can’t help but feel anger towards people complaining about futile things. I know you can’t compare pain, I know it’s all relative (har har)
But god-damn it, Get over yourself! You can handle so much more than you think.

I’m no stronger than you. I can just keep my shit together. Apparently.

All I can say is my mother raised me well.

but I’ll tell you, some days I want to crash and burn so badly I almost ram my car into a wall at 130km/h.
I’m not afraid of death any more.

I sat with it in a room for Four days. I slept in the same room, hearing it’s heavy ticking in my ear, I looked it right in the face and said “You bastard. I’ll get you for this.”


•May 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

The days are getting longer now, stretching themselves over my memories.

My mind-frame is such that I just keep walking, often without even realising where I am. A rare few have seen the inside of my pain. And even then, it was diluted by protocol. It’s usually at night, when the shadows sway quietly, that the beast inside my head rips up my dreams.
But in the waking hours, I survive. I’ll be fine until I walk past a coffee house we sought shelter in one rainy afternoon after going shopping.
The gentle way she put her teaspoon down on the table. Her smiling eyes.
And all my courage sinks into the deep and I feel I might be swallowed by this cold and heavy feeling in my veins. Biting my lower lip, frowning at the pavement. These memories come sharply, knowing where it hurts.

It’s a sad thing to realise this is all I have left of her now. Bits and pieces here and there.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who knew she even ever existed. Cars keep rolling by, somehow gravity is still in order, the trains still don’t run on time, everything seems so eerily unchanged. When nothing is as it was.

The Aftermath

•April 10, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It’s been six months now.

I went through the darkness. I went through the fits of hysterical crying. I went through the actual physical pain of her absence.

And I’m still here.

I passed my exams, I’m getting good grades so far. Incredible really.

Automatic pilot took over, I went into a surreal warrior-esque type survival-mode, hacking and slashing at everything around me, questioning, battling, resisting. And surrendering.
The sting of blood very present in my nose, caressing an obscure aggression lurking beneath the surface.

I’ve started questioning my own mortality, and everyone around me. I’ve become harsher, crueller. More down to earth.

Mister Skull: “Everyone’s going to be ok.”
Me: “Really?”
Mister Skull: “Yes. Really. Everyone’s always going to be ok.”
Me: “… Untill they die. In your face…”
Mister Skull:*lolled* “It’s true, yo”

I used to look people in the eye when I passed them in the streets. Like I was trying to prove something. To everyone. Since she’s gone… I don’t look at anyone anymore. It’s like they’re not even there.

It’s like she was never even here.

I have a sister like a rock. A father like a traveller and a sortof elder figure whom I love more than I can express. And although everyone who ever met my mother loved her immediately, I feel like there’s just us that remember her. And all I have left are scraps of dreams, memories and her belongings.
All she is to the world is an echo, all she is to me is all this love I still had to give her. This unmeasurable plain of pure love in my soul, that’s being returned to sender. No address to mail it to. No supernatural connection to upload it onto. No trans-dimensional liaisons to link it to. Just this great big nothing.


I miss her so fucking much.

It’s so unreal.

So, it happened

•November 18, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Last Thursday, my mother died in my arms.

I’ve been a bit too traumatized to speak of it. Even now, I feel a tremor in my bones when I venture to recall it.
So I won’t.
For now.

I’m sure it will spill out in the end though.

I think I hit Denial somewhere around noon yesterday, along with a whole new dimension of emptiness inside. It’s only been a few days and already I feel like I’ve crossed an ocean of sadness.

Keep thinking the next wonderful thing that happens to me -getting my driver’s licence, passing my exams, graduating, achieving my dreams- is going to come with a twang of pain. Because she’s not here anymore.


I never thought I’d be planning my mum’s funeral this year.

I promised myself a while ago I’d never get lost again.

Guess how that one worked out…







Disclaimer: I lifted the Easy-On-The-Cursing-,-Dude Rule at 2:05AM on the 12th of November. I’ve sworn so much since that day, it’s sheer blasphemy

Someone once said Happiness is the Art of the Encounter

•April 28, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Don’t remember who, though.

Might have been one of the crazy old biddies who used to randomly start talking to me in the supermarket. That was weird. Lasted for about two weeks o.O
(Seriously, a gang of about 3 grannies would alternately talk to me and one of them was always magically in the supermarket when I was. Any more and I would have sworn I was on some Evil Secret Ominous Must-Harass BlackList compiled by a pack of sad old ladies. Tragic.)

Then again, I can be outrageously paranoid.

Anyway, about 3 years ago around this time of year, I was sent to the Capital and Beyond by Mister Man, who insisted I go and ‘fetch the binders’.

I worked as an assistant in a studio in disarray. I didn’t have a car so had to go on a 2 hour train ride to BumbleFuck and then go to some lawyers office and pick up a stack of documents. Fed-Ex, anyone?

-Apparently that wasn’t fast enough-

That day and that trip turned out to be crucially pivotal in retrospect though. The waves of which are still crashing over me.

Let me elaborate..

Around that time, I was living with Mister Scar in the city. Our relationship would gurgle on for another three months, but I was lost inside it. Mister Stripes had been showering me with everything I had been lacking. So sly.

Miss Wotsit had caught on. And was envious.

She had advanced on him with great force, successfully. It later turned out he was already cheating on 3 other girls at the very same time.
Sometimes I wonder why we all bother with monogamy. Everyone just fucks each other over in the end. Innit.

That day started like any other in those days. Dazed, lost in my thoughts. Sunk deep in hurt and questions. I’d lived with Mister Scar for almost two years, but the tide never seemed to roll in. I was sure the tone in his voice was more amorous when he talked about her. She sure is prettier than me. So suffocated. Can’t let go.

Once I got to the Capital and got on the second leg of my journey to BumbleFuck, I suddenly felt inspired and fresh.

And once IN BumbleFuck, I felt happy. The sun was shining, the surroundings were lush and green and picturesque and I got utterly and totally lost looking for this lawyer’s office. but I didn’t mind at all.

In fact, I don’t think I have ever gotten so lost in all my life. At the station (more like, two rail tracks and a house) I got on a bus which would take me to the right avenue. However the ride took so long, I fell asleep and woke up in the next city:/
Before dozing off, I remember seeing a young boy on that bus who looked extremely remarkable. I could see *exactly* what he’d look like when he was older, it was really bizarre. As if I’d meet him again, older.

So, after having gotten on another bus taking me 5 villages back, I got off at the wrong stop and had to walk the remaining 2 villages. (Which was a 2 hour walk…)

One year later, I found out my beloved Mister Skull lives in the middle village ^^ and I drive down the entire stretch of road I walked that day almost daily now.

A bit like a pilgrimage, in retrospect =) Along that very road, Mr Stripes all over my phone saying I’m the only one. PLEASE. Nothing had even happened between us. Everything was bullshit. I told him to get right fucking bent. On the realz.

At the time, I knew Mister Skull vaguely, he was my friend, but I didn’t know exactly where he lived. Who would have thought he’d be the one to pull me out of the shadow.
I would have walked that road twenty times over and more to have found him.

Eventually I did actually find the damned office and the damned binders and got back to the Capital in one piece, where I then got lost again..

I normally never get lost. Ever. My geographical orientation skills are ace. But as you may have twigged, it was a very peculiar day.

I asked a friendly-looking old man in beige shorts holding a camera for directions to the city centre (hoping he might have a map, if no better knowledge of the city).

He turned out to be one of those fascinating encounters… a photographer whose origins lay in the West of the country. He’d lived and worked many years abroad, in fashion, in documentary, in war. He walked with me in order to guide me to where I needed to be and in the meantime told me about his life and his experiences. And then, out of nowhere, he said “Here you are” and stood still, smiled at me and walked away.

And I was where I needed to be. 5 hours late and I still had to get back to the studio, but whatever.

I suddenly remembered him vividly the other day as I’ve been considering studying photography.

I’ve been thinking about this day for a whole week now, and how everything positive in my life has sprouted from such a deeply saturated dark time. Just goes to show you eh.

The Fetching of the Binders also went down in Epic Lulzy History among the animators and I…

Phase One:

Phase Two:

Phase Three:

Good Times.

Mister Scar and I broke up, it was ugly. It strengthened us though, he’s a good friend.
Mister Stripes stuck to one of his crosses.
Miss Wotsit hasn’t changed.

How things come together

•April 19, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The warm breeze has been pushing me forwards into unknown ground.

I’m tearing down everything. Everything I used to think, everything I used to believe, everything I used to do, everything I used to be.

It’s a long and lonely process, gunning down every wasted sentiment in the never-ending parade of fail in my head. A past saturated with guilt and sadness.

I can SO not be arsed to please other people anymore.

I’m quite a blunt person, in thought. I’ve got the makings of a high-speed super bitch. I just can’t stand the look of disappointment in people. I usually try to tone down what goes on in my mind to spare people’s feelings.

Not any more.

The truth is, I’m a battle-axe. If I set my mind to something I don’t stop until I’m there, if I commit to someone I’m loyal to the core, if I get bitch-slapped by adversity I keep my head down and get on with it. If I didn’t have such a problem with authority I imagine I’d be a good soldier. And as a result, I can not stand the whining and self-pity my surroundings are soaking me in.

I can do it better than you can, a soft voice said.

So. Go on then.

La Vie en Mauve

•April 10, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I bought a pair of sunglasses the other day.

I lost my favourite pair last summer. In a field. Having drank too much hard liquor with Miss Terror.

Mister Skull annexed them the next day, arguing they suit him better.

I didn’t really care, I’d been eyeing these purple tinted ones anyway. Not having bought them at first because I thought they might make me look like a SuPaFlY..

but I’m rocking those purple shades, yo!

Aside from that, it’s one tempest after another.

For one, I’m trying to get my driver’s licence. After years of pedestrian and cyclist dimensions, finding myself in a metal motorised box is quite unfamiliar. But I can definitely see the makings of a speed-devil, an impatient drifter and an absent-minded cruiser… and it tingles my brain in places I never knew existed


Such totally different planes the mobile world contains…

Must get over fear of highways. Not every truck is out to ram your face into mash. Just like every non-blinking lane-changer is not the antichrist incarnate.

My mum’s fighting breast cancer. Just like everyone else, right?

She looks so frail it shreds my heart every single time I see her. This, most of all, is laying heavy on my mind. Can’t lose my mum, man.

I’m also trying to get my shit together… I’m involved in music projects, screenplay projects and short film. But none of it seems to be coming together. Now, more than ever, every force within me needs to be applied and focused. But what the fuck do I know about anything?

I’m just passing through, mate.

I can’t do things your way. I never have and I’m starting to accept I never will.

Which is why I’m still standing.

Isn’t it.