False Start

CW: Themes of suicidal ideation

The sun cascaded over the hilltop and spilled down into the valley. Sweet honey for his eyes and for his soul. He fancied he heard a defiant cry from the night as it angrily clutched its cloak of darkness and fled the land it was only ever a visitor in. A temporary interloper seducing life into a drunken stupor that it always awoke from. The myriad greens upon the hillside were testament to the sun’s reign and nowhere was as full of life as this remote spot nestled in the bosom of the hills.

The solitary cottage was of the land. Stone built with slashes of slate that had weathered over the ages. Nature gradually and inexorably taking it back to its primal state. A battle that was always destined to be lost, but in the loss there was winning. He’d fallen in love with the location even before he saw the small cottage itself. His heart sent out tendrils of belonging and he was rooted in the place as he switched off the ignition of his battered Land Rover and climbed out to survey his new home. His weary bones finding renewed purpose as his heart was lifted back to where it belonged. For the first time in a long time, he smiled trying the expression on for size. It didn’t hurt as much as anticipated, and he thought he might get used to using it once more.

The key scrabbled about in the lock for purchase, the door begrudgingly allowed him entry, scraping a half-hearted moan along the worn quarry tile floor. Those tiles awoke memories within him. Ancient relatives in decrepit farm houses. Rack and ruin matching the deterioration of once hardy and vibrant folk. No younger offspring around to provide the upkeep of a home that was an echo of its former self. Farming no longer in vogue. A disconnect that would become a void of ignorance. Self-sufficiency deemed backward and ugly. Now meat came prepacked, magically appeared on the refrigerated aisles of supermarkets. Consciences were salved in this way. There was no death here. A neat and tidy contrivance for inwardly looking minds.

But with no death, there could be no rebirth. The denial of death was a cruel and callous endeavour, it deprived a person of life. Wrapped them up in a sweat-blanket of fear and cushioned them from reality and experience. They drifted aimlessly down the river of life. Ending before they ever began.

There could be no denial here though. He’d known that as he entered the house and felt the land all around him. It’s presence haunted every stone in the walls and every oak beam above his head. He’d leant against the central oak post and took it all in. The rough-hewn texture of the wood spoke to him and brought him home. Back to himself. He’d placed a hand upon one of the cold stones and had become all the more connected. A connection he’d craved for a decade or more. A need he’d been born with; to be and to love and be loved for that being. Only after a while, as he leant into that old and familiar wood, did he understand that he’d been sobbing. His face soaked in the baptism of his release.

He crossed the small room to the back door and in opening it, he brought more of the majesty of the countryside forth. He was outside without knowing how it had come to be so. Only that this was where he should be. Gently conveyed as he almost buckled in the wonder of it all. The sight of the valley rising up gloriously to the hills filled him with an inexplicable fear. He was small and he was lost. Could he dare hope that here was his salvation, or was this just another seduction hiding a bleak lie. Another false start on the treacherous path he’d strayed along.

For some while, there remained an element of that learned mistrust. A concern for his place here. An eternal need to be worthy of the land. That felt right somehow. This doubt of his drove him to be more worthy and to give thanks for his part in a life far greater than his own. He was temporary. The land would be here long after his passing to pastures new. There was a constant reminder to experience everything on offer and make the most of his finite time. To bathe his senses in the world around him and become more for his willing vulnerability. His openness to a nature that was both beautiful but necessarily brutal in the spectrum of his limiting perceptions.

He smiled as he recollected that first meeting. His return inside. Exploring the few, small, simple rooms with a childlike delight. The kitchen a promise of hearty meals and comfort. Everything simple, but never spartan. Sitting on the bed and knowing he would sleep well here and in that sound sleep was healing.

That night he lay with his new lover, listening to her sighs and moans. The caress of the breeze and the settling of the oak. Becoming accustomed to her love language. Not daring to let sleep take him for fear that she would no longer be there when he awoke. Realising she had sung him a lullaby as he opened his eyes to the light of her. The birds heralding another day in this new found paradise. This was a honeymoon that could never come to an end.

The following day he’d dressed himself. Questioned this automatic ritual, and in answer performed another ritual of shedding his clothes, but with a habitual care to fold them and place them neatly on the chest of drawers, he’d stood naked yet unselfconscious. There was no mirror in the bedroom and he never felt a need for one. What he did next was a natural movement. A lovers instinctive response. Feeling the cool and damp grass beneath his feet. Taking his time at first as the gentle breeze embraced him and he became one with his surroundings. Before long, he was running. Running with an abandon he would later think he must have lost in the midst of his childhood. Had it beaten and shouted out of him by parents too frightened of the future to help him chart a course for one of his own. He’d then aided and abetted them. Staying within the confines they had blindly defined for him. Unsure as what he should do next, and so doing something that always amounted to nothing.

And that was how he had lived his life until life had grabbed him in its jaws and shaken him out of his self-imposed exile. He knew he could not blame any of his partners in crime during that wasted phase of his existence. The responsibility was his alone. And yet he’d purchased this joyous home on a whim of escape. This was supposed to be his bolthole. Never had he been more alive than when he came here.

The first time the agreed duration of his stay had expired, he’d lain in a cooling bath. His book discarded. Slipping under the surface of the tepid water again and again. Imagining how it would be to remain in the unreal world that the water presented. To breath it in and solve all his problems with one cowardly act. No note. No fuss. Exit left. The rest of the show would go on without him. He knew that. He had no place in the world other than here. There may be the artifice of a welcome when he returned to what should have been his home, but the reality of his loneliness could no longer be ignored. He was more lonely with her than he had been when he was alone. The absence he’d worried away at was far more than that. It was a hungry void that would not allow him to connect with anything. A gaping maw that would continue feeding upon him long after he had escaped it. Her dark gift to him. An insane game of tick, only she also remained it. Madness was contagious. Of course it was, it eagerly seeped in through the gaping wound of disconnection. Vengefully feasting upon that which it could never have or understand; the light of life and of love. A truth that it smothered in fear and confusion.

When at first he’d glimpsed it, he called it a dog in a manger. Considered it one of life’s many obstacles. Been gung-ho in his repeated attempts to overcome the adversity of his life. Thrown himself into a betterment that could never land. Because it always took two. He took this to heart and blamed himself for his inadequacies. And he was encouraged to do so. Invited to step into the dark a little more at a time. To follow his heart’s desire. Whatever that lie may be. A lie he supplied himself. He did it all. He did it to himself whilst she sat back and watched, partaking of his pain and anguish. Draining him of his will to live.

This place had been the wake up call. A sanctuary that asked of him a multitude of necessary questions. His rehabilitation was to live again. Only properly this time. The way that was always intended. The only way. Being true to himself. A self that he saw in the reflection of the land that he held dear. This landscape devoid of all the distractions towns and cities provide so that people can go through the motions and avoid a perception of pain that is the biggest lie going.

And now the divorce. A parting that was a long time coming. The use by date expired before they began. Even in the face of the reality of his situation he’d tried to make it work. To make amends. The way he was made was to be with that one special person. Those were the examples he’d been steeped in. The rules he must live by. He knew it could be tough. Seen that. Experienced it. You never gave up. That was how you lived. That was how you loved. Love was not a feeling, it was a life-long vocation. You made it worthwhile. You chipped away at it. Honed it. Then polished it until it shone. A beacon to others that helped them steer a course through the storms. The greatest connection. The only connection.

Every time he returned to his place in the valleys he remembered. He returned to himself. This was a return to who he always was and always should be. The push and pull of his two existences mirrored the pain and torment that his marriage had become. Giving up on it wasn’t easy, even as he saw more clearly that there was no reciprocation. Possibly never had been. Surface level acts focused on the immediacy. His acknowledgement of this caused him untold pain. Pain he had to work through in order to find acceptance and in the acceptance was the door to another life.

Letting go sounded so easy. A tennis ball of a problem that would fall away. Bouncing a protest that could readily be ignored. Letting go of her was a process. A journey to locate the shackles and file away at them until they fell open. Cutting the sensitive flesh underneath as he worked away at his freedom. Asking himself over and over again how he’d arrived at this sorry state. Kicking and biting himself with recriminations. Reminding himself of his failings. Making sure that he learnt from everything that had passed. Learning that he’d become addicted. To her and to a tormented path of self-destruction.

Healing in his renewed living. Looking beyond the madness of subtle conflict and secretly inflicted confusion. Seeing all the more when he escaped to life and felt the beating heart of it all around him. Negotiating again and again with the part of him that wanted to play it safe and remain. The addicts lament. A siren call to rocks that would scrape away at him until he had nothing left. Explaining the fear away as he faced it. Reassuring himself with prayers of life. Taking the necessary punishment in order to be whole again. More whole than he ever had been. Finding a way towards a destiny that had awaited him patiently despite his wayward desires and numerous sins. Finding the wherewithal to forgive himself for the ignorance that led him by the nose into a situation that promised heaven but was only ever hell.

He'd sought chemistry, and here it was, nestled in this valley. Elemental forces that coursed through him and resolved him into a state of peace. He’d made of her something that she never was. Convincing himself that what they had was the chemistry he craved, when all it was, was the drug of anxiety. Freezing as messages of fight or flight made butterflies beat in his stomach and led him to confuse sex with death. The little death. A dalliance with an inevitable conclusion. Poking it and glorying in the victory of temporary escape. A hyena nipping at the flank of the lioness and quickly running for the hills when she looked his way.

He knew he must have a care as he travelled the rest of the path of his life. His dreaming had not translated well. It wasn’t that something had been lost in translation. It was the translation of him. Easy prey for someone more lost than himself. Easily led further away from where he was required to be. The blind leading the blind into eternal darkness.

He thanked God that he was finding his way again, which was to say he thanked Love. His gratitude lay in everything around him. The seen and the unseen. He was a part of something beyond his comprehension and he took comfort in that. His sorrow and woeful choices were drops in an ocean. It was only for him to keep swimming.

She had blamed him throughout, and always would. The blame growing with her every breath. Consuming her. Never allowing her to be. He pitied her selfishly imposed torment and thanked her for the lesson that she was. He now knew more than he could ever have imagined and would know more still. He was only just beginning. There was so much living to do. Even as he sat in this tiny garden that was made huge by its surroundings. Taking it in. Going with the flow. Grounding himself in the contemplation of the vastness of being.

And now he must say his goodbye.

This was not how he had envisaged things. This was to be his forever place. The loss of it should have hurt him. He had experienced his fair share of loss and the quality of this loss was not so bad. There would forever be a part of him that contained this place and he would always belong here. That is how it was to love. In giving freely of yourself, you received so much more. That was what he could control. That was what he could do. And in doing, he was.

He smiled as he took in the place that had saved him just by being. And in being, taught him how he should be. Made him face the painful reality of the situation he was in and the need for him to move. Frozen for so long. Going around and around in descending circles.

Now he is free and he is grateful for that and that alone. He will return to this place. He knows he will. That is a promise he intends to keep. He will keep all his promises. There are other places though and at last he feels them whispering to him. Urging him to keep going so that one day they will meet on the path that he must travel. He fancies there is the faint aroma of salt and the tingling of it carried on the wind. He looks up at the hills and sees himself standing in such a place and gazing out beyond the land. The promise of lands beyond this one.

There is a reluctance in his step. He looks longingly at his stone built heart. It will continue to beat even when he is gone. His knowledge of its existence is all he needs now. He pauses before firing up his Land Rover. A battered piece of the landscape coming to life to convey him to his next chapter. A new adventure that he has a newfound confidence in.

The weight of the keys to the place he loves is ever present on the drive back to a place that was supposed to be home, but never was. He is resigned to what must be done. Those keys are hers now. He rehearses the moment that he hands them to her. Dropping them into her outstretched hand. A final act of giving which is his way of letting go of a past that held him back from living for far too long.