Author: Ellen Bell

Why is it that returning home is such a tiring thing? Is it just the unpacking, the putting of everything away, or is it something more? Is about a transition from one space, or place to another and all that that involves. The escaping home is never what I hope it will be. There is always this coming back to what I left behind, the unfinished, messy stuff that is mostly unresolvable. Is that the tiredness? Or is it just journeying – passing from one grimy service station to another, trying to ground myself and failing? I am blessed, fortunate, one of the lucky ones, I know this and still I grumble. It shames me.

I saw it happening before it did. And it went everywhere – over the walls, my printer, my files and the floor. It took me a while to work out how to even begin to clear it up. I did, and, mercifully my printer is seemingly still functioning. It was a stupid thing to do. A book was being returned to my tray and it caught my tea cup. Stupid. Stupid. And such time was wasted. What did I learn? Not sure yet.

They are growing dim. The optician told me yesterday that cataracts are assailing both eyes now, with the right one becoming increasingly short-sighted. What am I choosing not to see? The bigger picture? Probably. This poor vessel of mine with its now too straight back and dimming sight. I will carry it for as long as I may and welcome the long sleep when it comes. Sooner or later.

Yesterday was a scratchy one. There was antagonism between us. He wrote a note about it last night saying that it was almost as if something had taken him over. I understand. It could’ve been the moon. Who knows? He is sorry and so am I. The calm afterwards is nice.

We talk about philosophers over breakfast, Heidegger in particular. He doesn’t want me to read the actual text but resort to idiot guides to make sense of what he is trying to say. I want to read the text. He gets frustrated. I never did, he says. I need the immersion. I know this. Let it be, my love. Let me try.

The upcoming full moon is playing havoc with my dreams. They are graphic and intense. Last night, I dreamt that I was working in an institution for children and adults with learning difficulties, and during much of the dream I was wearing someone else’s trousers. They were white with a lacy pattern embroidered into the fabric, too big and too short. At one point I looked at my bottom in the mirror to see what they looked like. Terrible, but I kept them on.

Some might call me a puritan and possibly they would be right. I do edge towards the austere, the pared-back. But this is purely medicinal. I want to get better, feel better inside and out. A rice fast might work. I’ll try it. It is simpler, less fiddly than my usual food. Just three days. That’s all. But no tea.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck and my body is stuck. Stuck in a fug of fear. And it makes me, as he told me this morning, “bad company.” I know this, only too well. I suggest he goes away for a bit, visit his brother. He says he doesn’t want to. If I could, if it wouldn’t unsettle my work regime, I’d go. I want to take this cross little body of mine away. I want to nurse it, tend it, and refind my courage. Would escaping help? Probably not. I fantasise about going with a bag of books and reading alone, the day stretching ahead with noone to do for but myself. A fantasy, I know. Live here, now, in the fug and find your way out.

How do we dwell in this world where starving people are shot at as they queue for food? How do we dwell in this world in which children are abused and hurt? How do we dwell among those who are cruel, mean and callous? How do we dwell here, on this earth, with all that we are? I just don’t know.

I long to go. Go anywhere but here, that is, here in my head with all this fear. But I can’t. And if I did it would only make the fear worse. I need to sit it out until it passes. Do the work, face it and be brave. Find my courage and trust that all will be well. He believes it and so should I. Let it be, Ellen. Let it be.