My name is Caitlín

My name is Caitlín. I keep a lot of secrets. But I won't tell them.

In elementary school, we were taught the traditional seanfhocail that "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me". I always wondered who came up with that phrase, and more specifically, why. Was it to comfort themselves? I never did care to further delve into its origin because, to begin with, I never did care about it. It was by far the stupidest, most untruthful proverb I had learned. I can envision how this age-old mantra might become a refuge for those caught amidst tears, striving to shield themselves from the barrage of hurtful words. Yet, truth be told, the stark reality unveils itself – the tears persist and the words, relentless, find their mark, unyielding in their impact. Whoever said that phrase was a master of deception. As shocking as it may sound, I prefer the shattering of my bones over having to endure the searing pain of words. Like sharp daggers, words possess an unparalleled capacity to inflict profound suffering. They do not make you bleed, but you nevertheless bleed, internally, not blood, of course, it's the bleeding of the soul, the bleeding of your very being, and that can be a thousand times more excruciating to bear.

I remember my younger days, my sister and I fighting. The vivid memories of the fierce battles waged between us. Those skirmishes could at times transcend mere disagreements, veering into nastiness at times. We would descend to the floor, grappling and leaping like wild untamed lion cubs, learning how to confront life with all its difficulties. I laugh now when I think of them because they somehow became synonymous with growing up. It was amusing how not even ten minutes could pass before we found ourselves conversing once more, embracing each other, and resuming our playful camaraderie, peace resumed in our relationship. Those childish fights might have been painful at the time but their effect was not long-lasting. Meanwhile, words are worst than air. You cannot escape them. Escaping their impact proves futile, for they assail with unrelenting strength, clutching onto one's emotions without release, a process of parasitism. They destroy your confidence, your self-esteem, they destroy you as if you were made of glass, piece by piece until you become a rotting corpse who walks the streets dizzily and unknowingly because these words destroyed in you the will to keep moving forward each day, dismantling your courage, leaving you adrift in doubt and despair. It all revolves around asking the question, why? Why me? The worst part is being unable to reply back and being forced to swallow those words with no way to spit out the hatred that steadily begins to develop within you, like a deadly infection.

There was a time when I was not so hateful. The other day, my sister and I found ourselves revisiting our childhood home, tasked with cleaning, organizing, and collecting all that remained. We had resolved to sell the house, for those chapters of our lives were over, and it seemed wiser to forge ahead, leaving behind the past. In the aftermath of the funeral on Tuesday, chaos ensued. Distant family members, appearing like flies drawn to honey, descended upon us, eager to engage in gossip, offer their condolences, and share copious amounts of ráiméis (a fancy term for meaningless chatter), all of which held little importance to me. The entire affair revolved around endless handshakes, serving drinks and snacks, and enduring hours of insufferable tales. We were obliged to listen attentively to foolish anecdotes and even had to arrange accommodations for those who refused to book hotel rooms in the city. As if they didn't have enough money to mercifully save us the trouble of hosting them. My sister shouldered the burden of engaging in the sweet and sorrowful conversations while I spent most of my time speechless and motionless in a secluded corner of the room, briefly saying “Thank you” and “I know” to those who approached me. I hated every second of that ordeal. Whoever said family was a blessing was utterly and miserably wrong. Another despicable liar. I detested those present there. I loathed the obligation of having to maintain a façade of politeness and respect, driven by societal expectations, even when I was well aware that these individuals had gathered merely out of morbid curiosity, seeking nothing beyond the spectacle of death. I wondered what feeble excuses they might have concocted for their indifference before this situation reached its climax. Family teaches you early on the true meaning of hypocrisy. But it was finally over. A day or two left and the house would be restored to order, prepared for sale, and ready to transition into new hands, embracing a fresh chapter of life, much like my sister and I would be doing. I was wishing to be back in my comfortable and quiet apartment in central New York, cherishing my solitude, the eternal curse that seemed to have taken a liking to me, faithfully trailing my every step. I had attempted to date before, but like most of my relationships, it had rapidly disintegrated, when I discovered my girlfriend’s infidelity with another woman. Obviously someone nicer, prettier, more intelligent, someone who was overall a better person than I could have ever been. I'm certain she grew weary of my incessant self-criticism, which eventually extended to encompass others and the toxic manner in which I treated my paranoid tendencies. I tested her patience almost every day. Our relationship lasted for three months, and fortunately, the day we parted we did not exchange any words. I do not think I could have coped with words then, and I remain uncertain of how I might have reacted. At that moment, I convinced myself that everyone else had been right all along. I must have always fancied men, and that these feelings had been nothing more than a passing phase. I thus went on a blind date with a man who spent the first hour of our meeting discussing astrology. Upon reaching his room, he began undressing, planting kisses on my body, and we stood on the precipice of making love, naked, vulnerable. It was then I was consumed by overwhelming fear, and I abruptly fled, leaving him bewildered and speechless. With only my underwear on, I dashed through the streets, unable to proceed with the very natural act that unites men and women. After these failures, I never did try to date again nor had the urge to seek companionship. A poor battered bitch was my sole companion. The wretched dog was almost fifteen years old, blind, deaf, and always needing to drag herself in order to urinate. She died three years later. And while we could barely communicate, In her presence, I learned the essence of non-judgmental love. The other person who has really ever understood me was my sister. But after she married, quit her job, and started bearing children, our mutual visits became more seldom and mainly took place at given holidays like Christmas and Easter. I also moved to the States and after that, I certainly did not expect her to spend that much money just to come and see me. 

My father’s demise reunited us after five long years. With her children too young to partake in the funeral arrangements, she came alone, and I was grateful for that. We spent our first day together, catching up on news. She told me all about the páistí, her in-laws, and the rural way of living she had adapted to, for her husband was a farmer. I shared with her the little intricacies of my love life, my work, the city. Wasn’t it grand to live in New York? I told her it was nothing special. The most appealing attribute of the city was, undoubtedly, the veil of anonymity one could maintain, like a protective shroud, every day. I had longed to become an anonymous person since I was a child. To stroll through the streets without anyone halting me, asking about do mháthair agus d’athair, and whatnot. And if I looked sad then why was I sad on such a gorgeous morning and if I wore a smile, then why won’t you share the craic? It was an abominable nightmare, at least for me. New York granted me a sanctuary where I could vanish like a specter or fade into oblivion without eliciting a second glance, for in that bustling city, no one cared whether you were alive or dead. Everyone too busy trying to assemble their own existence, forgetting about those sharing that fragment of life with them. Strangely enough, my sister and I did not delve into the past. It was a day for us, about us, about completing that space of time we had been away from each other. I told her about my girlfriend because I knew she would understand. As the eldest, she had always known I was not quite like the others. My sexuality was one of the many aspects that distinguished me from my peers. I was sixteen when I confided in her my love for Catríona. She held my hand, stared into my eyes, smiled, and said nothing. It was always better to remain silent.

Four days later the last pieces of furniture had to be removed. That is when I saw it. It lay on one of the windowsills in the downstairs room, the very room my parents had intended would belong to my brother Tadhg. It was a room small but comfortable, facing west, granting entry to the fading rays of the setting sun through its glass panes at dusk, which enveloped the space with magic, hope, and beauty. Now everything was covered in dust and cobwebs, the light an insult to us, cruelly highlighting our negligence, turning its attention to the cot that lay untouched. When my mother returned from the hospital, her countenance bore the weight of sadness and weariness, accompanied only by an empty blanket. At that moment, we knew it was time to close the room. Tadhg never came. Tadhg never got to witness nor enjoy this chamber. Tadhg never had the chance to play around with his toys nor dream of faraway lands and gallant knights as he laid wide awake upon his bed. He never got to wake up each morning to the soft singing of the rain pattering upon the window, nor behold the first blossoming daffodils planted in our garden. We closed the door never to open it again. We were told not to. Only once did I saw my father enter it and cry. His tears were unlike any I had seen from him before, his face concealed between his hands, his body rocking to and fro, and long painful wails escaping from his lips. Afterwards, he left and the name Tadgh seemed forever banished from his speech. My sister and I, we did break the unspoken rule. I used to go to my brother’s room at night, when everyone else was sound asleep, walking silently across the empty echoing corridors. I would bring with me my favorite teddy bear, Mr. Finn, so we could play together. I always imagined he was there, with me. The brother I never had, and the brother I never got to see. Although I could perfectly picture him in my mind, his thin lips parted in a cheeky smile, his freckled face, his almond eyes, and his golden hair. After having confronted two university rejections, a last-minute admission letter arrived just before the semester commenced, prompting me to hastily pack my belongings and embark on my journey without leaving much thought to what I was leaving behind. I must have forgotten the teddy bear on the windowsill. It was as timeworn and dirty as the rest of objects adorning the room. With its head tilted downwards it appeared to hold down the nostalgia of bygone days and the sorrow of uncompleted memories. I locked my gaze onto it, before turning to catch a last glimpse at the cot. My sister could have very well taken it for one of her newborn offspring. I debated whether to take the teddy bear or not. But the room required cleaning, required a transformation to make it new, to make it different. It would be unfair to haunt the next family with the tortures of our past. I clutched the teddy bear tightly, cherishing it for one final embrace before calling my sister. With unwavering resolve and devoid of remorse I tossed it into the ever-growing pile of garbage. What use was a teddy bear to me? And did I want to throw Tadhg away too? Oh poor heartless monster that I had become!

The nameless words attacked me like arrows, ringing through my ears as if I had never escaped them, as if the voices of the past were voices of the present, and would forever be the voices of my future. We were instructed to remain silent, making silence our witness. The burning sensation in the throat, the briny taste of tears, and a numbing sensation in the legs. I felt like I was spiraling into a dark, dark tunnel, a labyrinth of no return. "Love thy neighbor as you love thyself". I pity everyone then. For I do not love myself - how can I start loving those around me? Their well-meaning gestures, laced with compassion, stir not warmth but rather a cold repulsion, for I loathe their attempts to aid me. I hate them for trying to bury me. How can the harm be undone? How can the words disappear, vanish into the inexistent state of being, a reality in which they were never spoken? How can I forget the words, the pain? It's impossible. Love thy neighbor as you hate thyself makes more sense.

I am back in New York. Back to the same anonymity I treasure. Away from family and acquaintances. Away from the rugged shores of Dún Chaoin where I stole my first kiss. Away from Tadhg. Away from the white-washed walls of the sanatorium at school, my safe refuge from invented illnesses and dramatic coughs. How I despise words! They mean nothing, and yet everything. They give life and take it away. Words are miniature deities, with a power far beyond the limits of our imagination. They are cruel, beautiful, sardonic, unnecessary. They are the fruit of my life and the offspring of my death. My name is Caitlín. I keep a lot of secrets. But I won't tell them. I'm tired of going to confession. I have grown weary of bearing shame and sin. May New York embrace me within its enchanting grasp, allowing me to disappear amidst its freeways, walking with hands tucked in my pockets, oblivious to the world around me. Everything is absurd. I should have been called Saoirse (pronounced sear-sha). All I desire is freedom – the liberty to wander far from the confines of words, eternally unbound.