Last night I dreamt of alpacas is the first line of no book; but Manderley has never featured in my nighttime wanderings. The alpacas were a happy respite from some of the less-welcome intrusions during my sleep hours. I've always had a vivid dream life, and often recount them to Bob, my husband, who rarely remembers his dreams.
When my youngest and I were living together, just the two of us, we would start the day by telling one another what had happened during our sleeping hours. But when staying with a friend, and I began to tell her my dreams, she looked at me, appalled. I thought, ‘Oh, other people don't do this.’
The alpacas were understandable, as we had picnicked en famille that day at Grain Coast Crafty Alpaca Farm. It had been a busy week, with the granddaughter having ended four consecutive days of performances of My Fair Lady at school. I had also been doing more than usual, which isn't the best for someone with chronic fatigue syndrome. You'd think, after twenty seven years of ‘all this’, I'd have learned that pacing must be observed, to even out activities, especially on days when you feel you could do more. There are no overdraft facilities at the energy bank, and the charges are hefty. So now, having learned my lesson (until the next time), I am resting. But that Sunday, we all felt relaxed and recharged after a couple of hours communing with alpacas, eating and drinking, and looking round the artists’ open studios on site. I was told that the doors to the pottery cabin had to be shut as the alpacas were trying to come in. If only I could shut the door to bad dreams.
The next night, the horrid dreams returned. I don't mind the dead coming back to me at night, but the troublesome living can, frankly, do one. I've had shouting dreams, where I am the shouter. I've had the troublesome living acting like I don't exist, and sometimes the troublesome living with the troublesome dead arriving unannounced and carrying on in their troublesome ways. All are symptomatic of matters that will never be resolved. I could shout till I'm blue in the face, or try to be properly recognised, in dreams, as I have in life, with no results.
Regular readers will know of the hard road I travelled after the sudden death of my older brother, John, between Christmas and New Year 2022. I am now estranged from my three surviving siblings. I'm generally happier than I have ever been, and my lifelong severe anxiety has all but gone. Days like that Sunday with my daughters, granddaughter, Bob and the alpacas are golden. I have a good life, good close family and friends, lovely in-laws.
Relationships in my family of birth were toxic, our childhoods traumatic. The scapegoating and gaslighting of me by my siblings was unbearable. Estrangement was the only way. And yet … I long for an apology, a recognition of the wrongs that have been perpetrated against me. I know it will never come, so I demand it in my dreams, and shout for recognition.
There is a memorial on a lamppost and wall in Strood, a few miles from where we live, for someone who was killed at the spot over four years ago. There are permanent plaques and photos affixed to the wall. The artificial flowers, hearts, ribbons and messages climb ever higher up the lamppost, with fresh ones appearing each time we pass. I've wondered whether it's healthy to publicly mourn someone with such a physical display for so long, to revisit the spot of a traumatic death, rather than where the loved one is buried or scattered. But who am I to tell people how to mourn?
As for me, though I found out where my brother's ashes were scattered, the spot is tainted by the scattering happening without my knowledge, only finding out two and a half years on. And then only because I refused to sign off the accounts for my brother John's estate until I knew what had happened to his ashes. Even then, the knowledge was tainted further by a message, which came via my siblings’ solicitor, that they had attempted to contact me before the scattering. No phone call, no text, no email, no letter did I receive. It is simply not true. My solicitor passed on to me the location of the scattering on What3Words; it’s on Epsom Common, where it is illegal to scatter ashes. What remains of his remains will have been trodden on by dogs and humans. I have not been to the place. It would not bring me peace.
I've noticed in recent weeks that I am unduly annoyed at small things, most of these due to unanswered messages, slow progress in ongoing matters, and not being listened to. I realise that my irritation, my anger, is not so much to do with what is happening now, but what has gone on in the past. These small things will either be resolved, or I shall have to let them go. The old family stuff with the troublesome living and the troublesome dead cannot be let go so easily.
I've booked a top-up session with my therapist, to clear the mental decks before my holiday with Bob and my granddaughter. Writing this has done some work towards that clearance. And I shall be taking at least a week off posting; a summer break. Until I return, may your dreams and mine be full of alpacas.
Footnote: the opening of this piece is references Daphne de Maurier: the first line of Rebecca reads, ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again’.
I am the guest of Save As and Dead Hoarse Writers on Sunday the ninth of August, at the Cosy Club, Canterbury, from 6.30 p.m.. There will also be the ever-popular open mic. Hope to see some of you there.
I finally got some sales figures from my publisher, some 10 months later than promised. I am grateful to everyone who has bought or read a copy of Learning to be Irish. You are few in number, but big in my heart. Copies can be bought from the usual online places, or ordered directly from me, which makes me and Siglum, my small indie publisher, a few more pennies. Details here: Learning to be Irish.
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