Stories I Can't Tell

Like "I didn't know it would be difficult"

I arrived home this Monday. I live somewhere now. After seven months of moving on, from one place to the next, I now have a place to leave and return to. It feels nice. I cannot promise that I will no longer wander, but there is a great comfort in wandering for a pre-determined amount of time, and then coming back home. I think they call it a ‘holiday’ and it sounds fun.

Let me tell you about my new home. It is right at the top of a hill so there is a lovely view of the surroundings from both the front and the back of the house. There is a garden, with trees in it, and the birds sit on the branches and sing and the wind rustles the leaves and I can hear it all because there are no aeroplanes, or trains, or helicopters, or even many cars really. I’ve heard the occasional lawnmower and a dog barking and there’s a church next door with a bell that rings at random times, like 11 pm, but it doesn’t offend me. This is what I signed up for. I’m here for it.

The bottom of the back garden

The move brought back memories. Old stories resurfaced in my body, the stories I don’t have words for yet. I could give you the facts. I could outline the bones. There is no flesh.

I could tell you “A child died”. It is a fact. I cannot weave a story with depth and emotions and structure. The depths are too deep. The emotions are too big, too unfelt. A structure cannot contain it. But the story lives in my body and packing and repacking my things reminded me of it somehow, even though it’s been nine months.

I could tell you “It was my wedding day. I was a bride. The groom couldn’t be there and I came downstairs to greet our guests and meet his family without him.” I could tell you “I flew to my honeymoon alone. He came when he could.” These are the facts and the story is stuck behind the feelings; feelings I haven’t felt. It lives in my body and packing and repacking my things reminded me of it somehow, even though it’s been four years.

I could tell you “A young girl left India, her home, because it was too dangerous for her family to stay and nestled in her ovaries was the egg that would one day be my mother.” It didn’t happen to me, but still, it is a fact, and there are feelings I haven’t felt. It’s not my story. But it is. It lives in my body and packing and repacking my things reminded me of it somehow, even though it’s been 76 years.

So on Monday, I alternated between rage and grief from the moment I woke up in London until the moment our plane touched down at Milan Malpensa. I was furious at my husband, mainly for being such a terrible mother. I needed a grown-up to hold me and rock me, so what on Earth was he doing casually brushing his teeth? I was exasperated at the inadequacy of humans, generally. Except my sister, because she brought me a plate of fruit.

The thing is, in my anger and despair and desperation what I was trying to say was “I didn’t expect to feel this sad. I didn’t know it would be difficult, to leave my sisters and my language and the closest thing to a home country I’ve ever known. Again. I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t know.”

These were the facts, but I couldn’t find them in my own story. Nobody could hear me, because I couldn’t say it. It was difficult.

This whole last year has been quite difficult if I’m honest. I did it though. This week has been quite difficult too. Now I have done it. That bit is over. I can do difficult things. You can too. Don’t forget.