When women were warriors

"Death is our destiny, and nothing matters. In the depths of the abyss the end of all things lies. Death is too small a word. It is annihilation ... of everything that lives and of the world itself. In the end the whole world will fall." - Catherine M Wilson, "When Women Were Warriors"

Before my hospital stay I was writing. Nearly two years ago my past history had deeply desolate me, and I wrote www.itsokaytobeangry.com and, later, www.reibus.com.au. In Reibus I used some description about words, and it wasn't until I read this again, after leaving PA, that I felt okay about writing poems, stories and even manuscripts. However, since coming home I couldn't write what I wanted, let alone be able to do what I wanted. I finally wrote a poem about my feelings. I didn't feel like a Warrior.

Late story

If you're awake, let me tell you all about
how I am feeling, how I am living it out
And how I can't talk most of the time -
just rolling my life in the wasted grime
If you're awake, let me tell you of all my life;
you'll listen, I'm sure, without your reply
You'll nod your head, you'll look at me,
you'll make a 'tsk' or 'oh dear' or 'gee'
Then you'll turn and go when I can't leave
from my own house; it's frustrating, believe
If you're awake, let me tell you how much
it's not fair in my life when I can't seem to touch
It's awful, and hard, and makes me feel
so silly, so stupid, no obvious 'real'
When I'm at home on my own, I find it so
much easier to be alone, be unable to go
I don't want to blame you, you're okay, just cool -
carry on and live your own life, no rules
Me? I'm okay to be on my own
I just say that, because you have to be gone
I have no history, I thought I remembered,
but this time it's disappeared, backed off, tempered
If you're awake, let me tell you about my past
because it's gone; I have no recent to last

I felt complete about this, even though I have had up and down feelings.  When I feel very dispirited I can understand everything that I included in my poem. When I am high - having good, positive thoughts - I can deal with my poem, because it's real. Sometimes, then, I feel that I am a Warrior!

Today I have written a very short story, which is about a women who is questioning her medical letter. This subject is so close to me, but I think I'm just a bit too timid. Am I a Warrior? Perhaps one day...

No alcohol

No alcohol, she was told. It was not compliant with her medical prescription. She was told.

Or at least, she was told in her medical letter. Patients were “advised to abstain from alcohol” until their own doctor allowed them to drink.  Trouble was, this had come since 1950. Into 2000. Now 2014. Surely that wasn’t right? She’d checked out some websites, found out what she thought, found some truth.

She looked at one of the bottles which had sit in her cabinet since before she went into hospital for whatever she had had to put up with. What was it – some surgery? Oh yeah. With a mistake. Leading her into some lock ward. Kept her for too long, and no-one really wanted to release her. But she’d finally talked herself out of there.

She looked again at the bottle. It seemed to talk nicely to her. “Open me, girl. Have a drink, I’m sooooo good!” She smiled. She knew. And besides, her letter was – supposedly – only “recommendations”. Was this alcohol, small, not often, to repeat patient conditions? She thought not.

She unscrewed the bottle lid and took a deep breath of the scent of the red wine. Oh yes, it was sooooo good. Why would that be non-compliant with her medicals? She wasn’t even on medicals. Now. She’d stopped them a couple of weeks ago, and felt so much better now than she had been when she was on them. She pulled out her medical discharge letter again. “Do not consume alcohol for a minimum of two years.” Why? What would alcohol do to her body which some stupid surgeon had done? He’d made her un-wrong, un-normal, sort of…. different. Why would her alcohol be some real enemy? Wasn’t he?

She fetched a glass out of her cupboard, a proper wine glass, large.  She poured half way into it and sat it in front of herself. She didn’t feel completely good, as if she was doing some bad practice. After all, wasn’t she doing something that her letter told her not to do? Or wasn’t this not illegal?

This was silly though. She wasn’t really taking any medicals, especially not the stuff that was supposed to interfere with her whether or not she was going to drink. So if she wasn’t on medicals, why couldn’t she drink? Occasionally. Once or twice a week.

She picked up the glass, smelled inside it, felt good. She breathed deeply, taking the smell deep into her lungs, licked her lips, tipped the glass just a tiny bit. Until she got a small sip. Oh, that tasted so good, felt so good, casted away her memory of her letter. She rolled the sip around her mouth, over her teeth, down her throat. She closed her eyes, breath deeper. She remembered her wine, drank so well. Now again.

She was doing the “okay” thing. Yes, she thought. She put her recliner out and listened to her music, while she had a – small – glass. Only one.

One day, perhaps, I will be a Warrior. I'm pretty sure that would be okay for me.