Dante says that above the gates of Hell there is a sign that reads "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
I reckon the same sign should be placed outside of the emergency ward of St Vincents hospital - where I spent yet another thrilling day in the emergency ward Friday. It's the second time in just over a year that I've ended up in the bowels of this hospital, for pretty much the same thing - suspected appendicitis.
For the second time in just over a year, I was sent home after half a day with an inconclusive result, some painkillers and instructions to take it easy and come back if things get worse. Though at least this time I've been reassured that I wont have to follow up on treatment and the pain should go away in a few days.
These hospital trips get me thinking a lot - and counting my blessings.
To catch up on things, for the last few day I've been feeling a bit ropey. I was a bit uncomfortable when I went to the opera on Tuesday, but I put that down to nearly three hours in the nosebleed section of the Arts Centre where Em and I took in a wonderful Don Giovanni. I went home with an aching head, limited energy on Wednesday and I noticed a pain in my side a Thursday - also got told by a few people that I wasn't looking that well - I put that down to Christmas as you do. I think the pain is musclar due to the exercise I do and don't think much of it. It took a visit to Pinochet, hoiking a weights for ten minutes on Thursday night where I ended up in a heap on the floor in tears of pain to get me to the doctor the following morning- who sent me straight to the emergency ward to be checked out for what could be appendicitis.
Somebody at breakfast after meditation yesterday put it well - St Vincents is where you see the flotsam and jestam of society. "It's where all the ferals go when they get a cold." It's also where all the severe car accidents, the inner city drug overdoses, the broken bones, the spewing, the mewling and the puking go to seek assistance and all times of the day and night - but every emergency ward is like this no matter what country or city you're in.
When I suggested to my GP that I go to St Vinnies rather than the Freemasons or Epworth, she turned up her nose. My reasoning was twofold. I go to St Vinnies, I'm in their system already and it's a public hospital. I go to the Epworth or Freemasons - they charge me two days pay for the privilege of sitting for hours in their emergency ward. Where ever I was going to end up, I was going to have to wait anyway. The wait at the private hospitals would be an hour or two less, maybe. It was going to be purgatory - may as go with the cheaper option.
Getting home from the GP, I gathered my emergency bag, just in case. Toothbrush, knickers, t-shirt, a nightie,books, phone charger, hairbrush, spare house keys. I've ended up in foreign countries with less. If I have to stay over, I'd be set for a day or so. That's the thing about being on your own, you know what you need and where to get it quickly - the thought of friends going through my stuff finding things doesn't feel great. I ring my mum, tell her what's going on and put myself on a tram for the ten minute trip to the hospital - I figure it's quicker and easier than getting a cab. The tram drops me at the hospital door. It's after peak hour - I got a seat.
Emergency rooms are hellish in so many ways - the smells, the poople, the chairs, the lighting - all designed to keep you away and reconsider why you came in the first place. Thankfully, and being ten on a Friday morning, it's not too bad. It's only half full, there is nobody obviously too sick or suffering or smelly in the place. Everybody seems quite polite - which was a change from the last time I was there, when security got called on the odd occassion.
After an hour, they've asked me to piddle in a cup. After two hours they've drawn some blood and fed me some minor opiates for the pain which takes the edge off my nervousness more than anything.
Jonella came and sat with me during her lunchtime, which is appreciated more than she will ever know. The only time I teared up when when she came in. Up until this time I'd managed to remain strong. A bit of support and sympathy and I crumble.
Friends were marvellous as well - texting and calling over the day to make sure I was okay. I'm so very fortunate to have them.
After four hours they'd found me a trolley in a cubicle away from the rabble of the waiting room, got me into one of those fetching backless gowns and told me the good news - blood tests cleared me of appendicitis - the daft dangle of bowel gets to stay. Just needed an ultrasound for final clearance and to see what was going on. Another two hours of lying on my trolley doped up on Panadeine Forte, reading my book in my slinky backless cotton number, I was taken for the test.
There's something surreal about these ultrasounds. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to get used to these - there's ovarian cancer in my family - I've been told I have to get one of these anually from now on. They're not that pleasant - though they could be worse. At least they don't hurt and the technician was pretty sensitive to my privacy and dignity - every time I've had one of these, the radiographers have been excellent - gentle and sensitive. Still, it doesn't rate highly in the things I like having to go through. I think I prefer the dentist.
As crappy medical tests go, it's a matter of lying back, thinking of something pleasant and not focussing on what is going on down in your nether regions. The ceiling tiles don't inspire anything lyrical to ponder. Lying back and thinking of England isn't really appropriate - remembering cathedrals, pubs, bad food and soft- skinned, steady-handed, gently insistant Englishmen isn't really appropriate under the circumstances.
After a heap of literal poking and prodding, the technician made a few grumbles.
"You're rather boring." he said.
"Of course I'm boring. I work in IT and come from Adelaide."
"No, everything's as it should be. You're in great working order. Everything's normal. Your appendix in normal. All your bits are working. I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but there's nothing noxious here."
"Well that is something."
"Do you mind if the student has a drive of the camera?" he asked.
It's a teaching hospital - what are you supposed to say?
Five minutes later I'm back in my cubicle, wiped free from the ultrasound goop, waiting once again.
They let me go an hour later. The ache in my side is probably a small busted cyst going by the ultrasound - the pain should resolve in a few days - take it easy, no exercise until the pain goes - everything else is fine.
After a welcome cup of tea and a biscuit, I got dressed and waited for my release papers.
"How are you getting home?" the nurse asked.
"Tram."
"Nobody's picking you up?"
"Nobody to pick me up."
"Why don't you take a cab?"
"Because the 109 is outside the front door and it will drop me at my front door and it will be faster. Besides, there's nothing wrong with me - the doctor's just given me a letter to say so."
"Can't argue with that logic."
The day's second bout of tears came when I got home. With an ice cream in hand, I got in the door and started to cry.
Now is when I want somebody about, even if it's to make me a cup of tea and go fetch me some dinner. I can cope for a day in the Danteseque hell of St Vinnies Accident and Emergency ward, keeping my sense of pride and humour intact (though there is nothing dignified about a hospital gown - which is why I tied a sheet around me while walking to the xray department for the ultrasound. The orderly commented that I couldn't be too ill as I had the sense to do that) Get home to an empty flat after a day like this and I crumble.
I'm normally alright on my own - only when I'm poorly do things go pear-shaped. Just to have that support and comfort at home at times like this would be a blessing. Last year when this happened, Reindert made sure I got some dinner and saw me home - but he's on his way to Patagonia at the moment. It seem stupid to ask somebody to come over and give you company when there's nothing wrong with you. I'm stronger than that.
Rustling up some beans on toast, another cup of tea and another round of Panadeine Forte, I made my way to bed for a night of deep, dreamless sleep.
Two days on, I'm back to my normal self. The dull ache in my side is still there, lessened by the rest and the knowledge that it's nothing serious and I'm not going to get worse. I've had a nice quiet day yesterday - went to meditation, had breakfast and the rest of the day was spent reading, wrapping Christmas presents and watching television. I went over to Blarney's last night and sat the twins. Maow Maow gives the best healing hugs - but being a warm night, the cuddles were short lived. Never to mind, he's coming to stay for a few weeks on Tuesday.
I count myself lucky. There's nothing really wrong with me. It's a little bit of pain that will go away. I'm not dying, I don't need surgery, I don't have to be on drugs for a long time. It will resolve in time. I know how fortunate I am to be in rudely good health.
If all of this means spending a day in purgatory to find out that all will be well, then that is the price that needs to be paid. What is harder for me to face is all the other dramas that being out of sorts brings up as a consequence.
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Harnessing the Inner Hippy
"Hello. My name in Pandora and I am a sugar addict."
"Hello, Pandora."
"It's been eighteen hours since my last sugar hit."
There is a round of applause. The throng nod in aknowledgement, muttering support and encouragement.
I'm coming to terms with my sugar addiction, made more painful and prominent after a trip to the naturopath yesterday.
A bit of history - I suffer from hypertension, or high blood pressure. I've had this condition for years and it's something that I keep an eye on. It's a bit of a pain, but it's also not normally a problem. It's when it gets out of control it's really inconvenient, which it has been over the last few weeks. Getting symptomatic is a pain - normally I'm not like this, the hypertension has no effect on my daily life. However, being symptomatic, the hot flashes, the headaches, the lethargy, the palplitations - it's crap.
The last time I got symptomatic I went and saw the doctor. After a day attached to a sphygmomanometer having it go off every half hour and getting the diagnosis of mid-range hypertension, I was put on blood pressure medication - and there the horror stories start. The first lot my doctor tried me on made be feel comatose and it gave me a dry, hacking cough. The second lot of medication made me out on three kilograms in two weeks and my legs felt like somebody had run a couple of litres of water down my legs - it was dreadful. It stopped my life - I couldn't exercise, I couldn't think, I couldn't concentrate. She offered to try me on some other types of meds, but I promptly told her where to go. Nicely, of course.
On gaining her begrudging consent, I went off all medication and went to my naturopath, who brought the blood pressure down to acceptable levels in a few weeks with the use of herbs and some natural remedies.
We worked out that most of my hypertension triggers are stress, saturated fat, shock, salt and alcohol.
Eliminating as much salt and alcohol has been okay. There are lapses. It's the main reason I drink in strict moderation (along with the fact that too much grog starts depressive cycles). I try to manage my stress and suceed for the most part. Shock is a bit harder as there's no control over this - and my aunt's death a few weeks ago is one of the main reasons for this episode.
Calculating that the last time I got symptomatic, my uncle had died, things were crap at work, I was smoking and drinking too much... cleaning up my life, giving up smoking, curbing my alcohol intake to less than a glass a week, exercising more, losing weight. You get the gist. After a month, things were back to normal.
Two weeks ago I went back to the naturopath feeling like poo. The hot flushes were driving me up the wall - I was sleeping under one blanket in the middle of winter - just getting too hot at night. Other nasty things were happening too. After a salty, cheesy meal cooked by a friend, with a glass of wine, I was up with palpitations for most of the night. Stuff like that - it's horrible.
Two weeks back on the herbs - not much difference in the blood pressure but the symptoms have gone away. So it was back to the naturopath again. So now is time to go hardcore.
Part of me wants to berate my naturopath, Marta, for being a heartless hippy. Then again, I know what she says will help me. It also makes a modicum of sense what she says.
For the next month I have to follow the following regime:
I told you my naturopath was a heartless hippy.
Actually, she isn't. Really, it appears I have a hypersensitive system that needs some TLC.
It's a recommendation to keep me off of the blood pressure meds for the long term. If I can get on top of the triggers it will be better for me. And in her defence, I can still eat fish and chicken, yogurt and some low fat milk is okay and I can have my daily cup of caffiene - just one cup, but she's aware that I need a vice - and coffee is my vice.
But no ice cream! My one staple comfort vice has been taken away from me. I did manage to con one macaron off her a week - but generally the rule is to eliminate as much sugar, sodium and saturated fat for the next month.
I know I could take an easier route. Go to the normal route and go to the "proper" doctor, go on the meds and eat what I like. I can't do that to myself - not after the last round of meds. Besides, once you're on them, getting off them is next to impossible. I don't want to be on medication which the long term effects aren't really understood, with side effects that are revolting. Stuff it. This is the way I have to go.
On the good side, my weekly grocery basket is a lot cheaper. I went to the check out today with such goodies as quinoa, freekah, aduki beans and lentils. I can have a tablespoon of honey a day - that's allowed. At the checkout I looked at my stash and thought that I wouldn't be out of place in a health food shop. I even bought a cauliflower. It's not my favorite vegetable - up there with zucchini as a pointless vegetable.
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I still have no idea what I'm going to do with the cauliflower - there is no dripping cheese sauce to go in it - but I've made it my mystery vegetable for the week and we will see what happens.
Dinner tonight was chicken chilli con carne with quinoa - the spice mix which worked well was a blend of cumin, coriander, a spot of smoked paprika and black pepper, garlic, bay and oregano.... just no salt.
Lunch will be taken to work for the most part. I have a few dinners to go to in the next month where I'll have to either be the restaurant client from hell or just order a side salad and eat later.
It will work out. I'm adamant that it will work out. I'm doing everything right - bar the ice cream.
My biggest surprise has been how crabby I've been about having to give up ice cream. I feel deprived, upset and just plain shitty about this. I know I crave it. I know it's easily available. It's my drug of choice.
It also appears that it may be a drug that I've overdosed on and it's slowly wrecking my internal health.
Wish me luck - and be pleased you don't have to follow me into the bathroom.
So along with all the dietary changes, I have to come to terms with the fact I'm an addict - a sugar addict.
Let's hope the come down isn't too bad...
"Hello, Pandora."
"It's been eighteen hours since my last sugar hit."
There is a round of applause. The throng nod in aknowledgement, muttering support and encouragement.
I'm coming to terms with my sugar addiction, made more painful and prominent after a trip to the naturopath yesterday.
A bit of history - I suffer from hypertension, or high blood pressure. I've had this condition for years and it's something that I keep an eye on. It's a bit of a pain, but it's also not normally a problem. It's when it gets out of control it's really inconvenient, which it has been over the last few weeks. Getting symptomatic is a pain - normally I'm not like this, the hypertension has no effect on my daily life. However, being symptomatic, the hot flashes, the headaches, the lethargy, the palplitations - it's crap.
The last time I got symptomatic I went and saw the doctor. After a day attached to a sphygmomanometer having it go off every half hour and getting the diagnosis of mid-range hypertension, I was put on blood pressure medication - and there the horror stories start. The first lot my doctor tried me on made be feel comatose and it gave me a dry, hacking cough. The second lot of medication made me out on three kilograms in two weeks and my legs felt like somebody had run a couple of litres of water down my legs - it was dreadful. It stopped my life - I couldn't exercise, I couldn't think, I couldn't concentrate. She offered to try me on some other types of meds, but I promptly told her where to go. Nicely, of course.
On gaining her begrudging consent, I went off all medication and went to my naturopath, who brought the blood pressure down to acceptable levels in a few weeks with the use of herbs and some natural remedies.
We worked out that most of my hypertension triggers are stress, saturated fat, shock, salt and alcohol.
Eliminating as much salt and alcohol has been okay. There are lapses. It's the main reason I drink in strict moderation (along with the fact that too much grog starts depressive cycles). I try to manage my stress and suceed for the most part. Shock is a bit harder as there's no control over this - and my aunt's death a few weeks ago is one of the main reasons for this episode.
Calculating that the last time I got symptomatic, my uncle had died, things were crap at work, I was smoking and drinking too much... cleaning up my life, giving up smoking, curbing my alcohol intake to less than a glass a week, exercising more, losing weight. You get the gist. After a month, things were back to normal.
Two weeks ago I went back to the naturopath feeling like poo. The hot flushes were driving me up the wall - I was sleeping under one blanket in the middle of winter - just getting too hot at night. Other nasty things were happening too. After a salty, cheesy meal cooked by a friend, with a glass of wine, I was up with palpitations for most of the night. Stuff like that - it's horrible.
Two weeks back on the herbs - not much difference in the blood pressure but the symptoms have gone away. So it was back to the naturopath again. So now is time to go hardcore.
Part of me wants to berate my naturopath, Marta, for being a heartless hippy. Then again, I know what she says will help me. It also makes a modicum of sense what she says.
For the next month I have to follow the following regime:
- No processed sugar
- No red meat
- No salt
- Nothing processed - or if packaged, with as little sodium content as humanly possible
- No eggs
- No ham
- No cheese
- No alcohol
- No artificial sweetners
- No starchy foods - white rice and potatoes are out
- No additives if it can be avoided.
I told you my naturopath was a heartless hippy.
Actually, she isn't. Really, it appears I have a hypersensitive system that needs some TLC.
It's a recommendation to keep me off of the blood pressure meds for the long term. If I can get on top of the triggers it will be better for me. And in her defence, I can still eat fish and chicken, yogurt and some low fat milk is okay and I can have my daily cup of caffiene - just one cup, but she's aware that I need a vice - and coffee is my vice.
But no ice cream! My one staple comfort vice has been taken away from me. I did manage to con one macaron off her a week - but generally the rule is to eliminate as much sugar, sodium and saturated fat for the next month.
I know I could take an easier route. Go to the normal route and go to the "proper" doctor, go on the meds and eat what I like. I can't do that to myself - not after the last round of meds. Besides, once you're on them, getting off them is next to impossible. I don't want to be on medication which the long term effects aren't really understood, with side effects that are revolting. Stuff it. This is the way I have to go.
On the good side, my weekly grocery basket is a lot cheaper. I went to the check out today with such goodies as quinoa, freekah, aduki beans and lentils. I can have a tablespoon of honey a day - that's allowed. At the checkout I looked at my stash and thought that I wouldn't be out of place in a health food shop. I even bought a cauliflower. It's not my favorite vegetable - up there with zucchini as a pointless vegetable.
Dinner tonight was chicken chilli con carne with quinoa - the spice mix which worked well was a blend of cumin, coriander, a spot of smoked paprika and black pepper, garlic, bay and oregano.... just no salt.
Lunch will be taken to work for the most part. I have a few dinners to go to in the next month where I'll have to either be the restaurant client from hell or just order a side salad and eat later.
It will work out. I'm adamant that it will work out. I'm doing everything right - bar the ice cream.
My biggest surprise has been how crabby I've been about having to give up ice cream. I feel deprived, upset and just plain shitty about this. I know I crave it. I know it's easily available. It's my drug of choice.
It also appears that it may be a drug that I've overdosed on and it's slowly wrecking my internal health.
Wish me luck - and be pleased you don't have to follow me into the bathroom.
So along with all the dietary changes, I have to come to terms with the fact I'm an addict - a sugar addict.
Let's hope the come down isn't too bad...
Monday, June 13, 2011
A Letter to Seb
There's been a lot of talk about dealing with baggage of late. It would be remiss of me if I didn't clear some of my own.
Being a long weekend, I've managed to put a heap of stuff on ebay, send a bag down to St Vincents, do a bit of tidying and get things ready for what looks like a busy week. As Ah-Sole, my work nemesis, is being let go at the end of the month (yes, the Project Manager saw sense) my workload is about to increase so it's a good chance to do all this and have a bit of a rest before all hell breaks loose .
Then comes the other junk that has to be dealt with. The hard stuff.
Something came up last night which gave me something to sort. And sort quickly.
Whilst chatting to a friend on facebook last night I did a bit of looking around, as you do. I'm no cyber-stalker, but there are times, once in a blue moon, when I'll have a quick look around and see who's about from my past - just look, I'd never contact the people involved. I'm not the sort to make too many waves.
So last night, I tapped in the name, Sebastian Smith, not thinking that anything would come, but there he was on facebook, small child on his hip, smiling for the camera. Current location, Sydney, Australia.
Sebastian, or Seb, is the only man I've shared a home with. Three torturous months in a North London share house. Twenty years ago. Once I left the flat we remained in contact - a sort of friends with benefits arrangement - for another three years, seeing each other fairly regularly until we both moved house away from the district. The last time I saw him was on a tube platform in 1997.
With all the navel gazing I do, I almost never revisit the Sebastian years, or the relationship with Sebastian, even though he was the guy who was in my life the longest. Some of it has been effectively blocked out - and the rest I'm pretty comfortable with. It wasn't a good time. It wasn't a great relationship. He no longer blights my psyche. It wasn't him. It wasn't me - it was just never meant to be.
Besides the arguments, the acrimony, the not wanting to go home, the tears and the tantrums, there were good things about Seb. He could be kind, he could be funny. He was really intelligent. And despite the torturous relationship, he always held me while sleeping - which looking back, was lovely - and probably the thing I remember about him most fondly. He's also the reason I fell into banking, discovered the Pixies and the Violent Femmes - so I have that to thank him for.
I spent the rest of my last night having a chat to my former self. My twenty-four-year old, tortured, miserable, prickly self. We needed to have a chat. Over the past ten years, inner child work has really helped me. This time it was more work with my inner young adult - time to get to the bottom of some stuff. The poor girl was a wreck - but we had a great chat. A lot of it was talking of the future - soothing her frayed nerves, giving her something to look forward to. It was okay. There was no need for tears.
But to clear the last of Sebastian, I thought of writing him a letter - more to clear my own head than to reach out to him. What would I say to him? What would I want to say?
Well, here goes.
Dear Seb,
It's over fifteen years since we last saw each other and this is very out of the blue. I've often wondered where you ended up. Last time I saw you, you were still talking of returning to South Africa - though from the gamut of South African friends over here, it seems to have become less a viable option. To see you're in Sydney - hope you've made it home. From the photo, you look happy. Cute child.
I rarely think of what happened twenty years ago - there isn't much point in rehashing the past. It wasn't a good time and there was a heap of stuff going on that I had really no idea about. But I will get to that later.
Since seeing you last - from memory that was somewhere around the mid-nineties, lots has changed. I now live in Melbourne. I now work in IT as a Technical Writer, Quality Analyst and sometimes Change Analyst - yeah, go figure - me who hated computers. I've had short stories published. I've travelled the world a couple of times over. My proudest moment have been running a couple of half marathons - yeah, I know, go figure that one too and starting to get my writing out there. I've never married and I have no kids - but I see this as a good thing as well.
After wracking my brains, wondering what I would want to say to you, all I could come up with is to say sorry. Sorry that you had to know me when you did and sorry for what I must have put you through. Undiagnosed depression is a bitch - I have to apologise for having to submit you to that. I know I was a nightmare to live with. I had no idea what was going on - I think you had more of an idea but there was no way out then. Thankfully, after some great help, sought too late in some ways, but just in time in others, the worst of that is under control. I'll always have to manage the depression - but at least it's now under control and recognised. It makes me a lot nicer to be around.
Of my life now - I'm content enough. I have a great friends, a good lifestyle, lots of variety and travel. For a woman in her forties I can appreciate it for what it is. It's a freedom I didn't have in my twenties. The ability to take on opportunities.
I don't dwell on what would have happened if things were different - I'm not even looking to get back in contact. I just needed to get that off my chest.
May life be treating you well - from the photo, you look happy - and you really can't ask for any more than that.
Best wishes,
Pandyx
I will never send this to Seb. I know that I was contacted by an ex-flame seeking forgiveness for the stuff he put me through as he was in the middle of a 12 step program for sex addiction. I flung back an email which read "Thank you for your email. Now fuck off and never contact me again." Seems I'm willing to forgive some, but not others. This bloke was a complete waste of space.
As I said, I don't want to make waves. I did ping him a small message which read "I occasionally pondered where you ended up. I can see that you look happy. Cute kid."
I think that I've laid the ghost of Seb to rest. I feel at peace.
Being a long weekend, I've managed to put a heap of stuff on ebay, send a bag down to St Vincents, do a bit of tidying and get things ready for what looks like a busy week. As Ah-Sole, my work nemesis, is being let go at the end of the month (yes, the Project Manager saw sense) my workload is about to increase so it's a good chance to do all this and have a bit of a rest before all hell breaks loose .
Then comes the other junk that has to be dealt with. The hard stuff.
Something came up last night which gave me something to sort. And sort quickly.
Whilst chatting to a friend on facebook last night I did a bit of looking around, as you do. I'm no cyber-stalker, but there are times, once in a blue moon, when I'll have a quick look around and see who's about from my past - just look, I'd never contact the people involved. I'm not the sort to make too many waves.
So last night, I tapped in the name, Sebastian Smith, not thinking that anything would come, but there he was on facebook, small child on his hip, smiling for the camera. Current location, Sydney, Australia.
Sebastian, or Seb, is the only man I've shared a home with. Three torturous months in a North London share house. Twenty years ago. Once I left the flat we remained in contact - a sort of friends with benefits arrangement - for another three years, seeing each other fairly regularly until we both moved house away from the district. The last time I saw him was on a tube platform in 1997.
With all the navel gazing I do, I almost never revisit the Sebastian years, or the relationship with Sebastian, even though he was the guy who was in my life the longest. Some of it has been effectively blocked out - and the rest I'm pretty comfortable with. It wasn't a good time. It wasn't a great relationship. He no longer blights my psyche. It wasn't him. It wasn't me - it was just never meant to be.
Besides the arguments, the acrimony, the not wanting to go home, the tears and the tantrums, there were good things about Seb. He could be kind, he could be funny. He was really intelligent. And despite the torturous relationship, he always held me while sleeping - which looking back, was lovely - and probably the thing I remember about him most fondly. He's also the reason I fell into banking, discovered the Pixies and the Violent Femmes - so I have that to thank him for.
I spent the rest of my last night having a chat to my former self. My twenty-four-year old, tortured, miserable, prickly self. We needed to have a chat. Over the past ten years, inner child work has really helped me. This time it was more work with my inner young adult - time to get to the bottom of some stuff. The poor girl was a wreck - but we had a great chat. A lot of it was talking of the future - soothing her frayed nerves, giving her something to look forward to. It was okay. There was no need for tears.
But to clear the last of Sebastian, I thought of writing him a letter - more to clear my own head than to reach out to him. What would I say to him? What would I want to say?
Well, here goes.
Dear Seb,
It's over fifteen years since we last saw each other and this is very out of the blue. I've often wondered where you ended up. Last time I saw you, you were still talking of returning to South Africa - though from the gamut of South African friends over here, it seems to have become less a viable option. To see you're in Sydney - hope you've made it home. From the photo, you look happy. Cute child.
I rarely think of what happened twenty years ago - there isn't much point in rehashing the past. It wasn't a good time and there was a heap of stuff going on that I had really no idea about. But I will get to that later.
Since seeing you last - from memory that was somewhere around the mid-nineties, lots has changed. I now live in Melbourne. I now work in IT as a Technical Writer, Quality Analyst and sometimes Change Analyst - yeah, go figure - me who hated computers. I've had short stories published. I've travelled the world a couple of times over. My proudest moment have been running a couple of half marathons - yeah, I know, go figure that one too and starting to get my writing out there. I've never married and I have no kids - but I see this as a good thing as well.
After wracking my brains, wondering what I would want to say to you, all I could come up with is to say sorry. Sorry that you had to know me when you did and sorry for what I must have put you through. Undiagnosed depression is a bitch - I have to apologise for having to submit you to that. I know I was a nightmare to live with. I had no idea what was going on - I think you had more of an idea but there was no way out then. Thankfully, after some great help, sought too late in some ways, but just in time in others, the worst of that is under control. I'll always have to manage the depression - but at least it's now under control and recognised. It makes me a lot nicer to be around.
Of my life now - I'm content enough. I have a great friends, a good lifestyle, lots of variety and travel. For a woman in her forties I can appreciate it for what it is. It's a freedom I didn't have in my twenties. The ability to take on opportunities.
I don't dwell on what would have happened if things were different - I'm not even looking to get back in contact. I just needed to get that off my chest.
May life be treating you well - from the photo, you look happy - and you really can't ask for any more than that.
Best wishes,
Pandyx
I will never send this to Seb. I know that I was contacted by an ex-flame seeking forgiveness for the stuff he put me through as he was in the middle of a 12 step program for sex addiction. I flung back an email which read "Thank you for your email. Now fuck off and never contact me again." Seems I'm willing to forgive some, but not others. This bloke was a complete waste of space.
As I said, I don't want to make waves. I did ping him a small message which read "I occasionally pondered where you ended up. I can see that you look happy. Cute kid."
I think that I've laid the ghost of Seb to rest. I feel at peace.
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