How was your morning?

I dreamt of a towel brushing against the rusty old pot, an irritation.  I was annoyed.  I woke irritated again, but not knowing why.  Thirsty, but unable to get to water.  My head was hurting yet again. It was still dark, no energy to get up to deal with it.  The Valium that I took last night didn’t seem to do the job that it was meant to do, to kill this mammoth migraine. 
I lay for what seemed like an eternity, trying to will the pain away, or to will the relief to come to me.  Neither happened, no aid would come my way.  I peeled myself off the pillow gingerly and pushed 2 Panadiene Forte out of the packet, not the best choice, but the closest, and threw them down my throat.  At this rate, I would be stuck in the codeine rebound for even longer.  Another 20 minutes and I could visual the pain so clearly that if I was a surgeon I would just get my knife and cut it out.  I knew that I needed to get the real medication, my Zomig and Voltarin, and my sniff stick, the Vicks Inhaler, but this meant walking out of the bedroom, and to the back room, every step a vibration through the brain.  One vibration a little closer to relief, all of those extra vibrations adding up to heightened pain, to then hopefully lessened pain. 
I moved as gently as I could with my cup to fill it up again, squinting as I walked out due to poor vision, no glasses on, and the glare of the sun beginning to lighten the sky with a pink tinge.  Back in the safety of bed, I pulled out the precious tablets and swallowed, then burrowed back under the doona with sniff stick providing relief in form of distraction to the senses.
The pain of the pillows, the pain of breathing, the irritation of myself.  I knew that eventually this will go, but I must wait it out.  I just have to think of a time past here, past this moment of intense pain, where I cannot bear my husband to brush me with his toes, or for him to pull the doona.  I cannot bear the sound of the children running up the hall, which I knew they would do in about 10 minutes, then, I heard one of them stirring. 
I consciously dropped my jaw to try to relax all of the muscles around my head; let the balls of muscles slow down. 
Why do they have to stomp so loudly?
Why is my pillow so uncomfortable?
I wanted a coffee.  I knew it will help.  I know that some people say not to, but I know that a coffee does help when it is this bad.  I just needed someone to make it for me.  I just wished I could put up a flag so that they knew when I needed it.
Bang, thump, the next one was up.  I lay as still as church mouse hoping not to be noticed.  He came in and climbed into bed on my husband’s side.  The bed bounced and jiggled.  I stayed still. 
The first one up was now wearing my heels that I had left out the back, clip cloppeting around on the tiles and into our room.  My husband growled at him.  I murmured something, I am not sure what.  I wanted coffee.  I murmured, “Can you please make coffee?”  He was gone.
“What did you say?” My husband.
“I’ve got a stinker.” I replied.  There was an audible sigh.  He has lived with these as long as he has known me.  I guess they are tiring for him.
“What do you need?”
“I’ve taken everything.  I was just asking John if he could put on the coffee.”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting up.”  He threw off the doona, leaving myself and our youngest there.  I nearly had the bed to myself.  A silent bed.  My youngest stroked my head under the doona.  A lovely touch from a small soft hand; a feeling of relief, then he too was gone.  I crashed.
Coffee appeared silently, then English muffin with “Try something different”.  The pain had changed.  Moved from left to right, not as intense, bearable now.  I could communicate now.  I could sit, talk, and even get dressed.
I sat in bed for a little longer listening to the stress that I had put on the family as they pinged off each other.  My pain had become their stress.  We are not islands when we are in families, we all belong to each other.  Whatever happens to one, affects another.  Time to get dressed and help out until they all leave for school and work.

Make it Better...Write on Wednesday Exercise...Corner Store

Write On Wednesdays

I am joining in with Write on Wednesdays and this week is all about editing and offering & accepting constructive criticism, which are both vital parts of the writing process.  Pop over here if you want to join in.

The Write On Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the writing exercises - there isn't a right or wrong. Please do try to visit the other members of Write On Wednesdays and leave a comment of support and constructive criticism. 

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 18 - Look through your previous WoW posts (or select a short writing piece that you would like to work on). Read through your piece carefully and let's attempt to make it better. Look for redundant words, cliches or overused phrases. Chop and change. This is not an exercise in word count, it's not about simply whittling it down. Make it a better piece of writing. Post your original and edited piece. THEN, throw it to the*wolves. Ask for advice from WoWers. With  help you can make your writing shine. ** This article on criticism may help you get your brave on.

I have chosen Corner Store as a my piece to edit as I have only done one WoW post previously (and it was a one liner! Not much to edit!).  Please provide constructive feedback.  Thanks :)

Corner Store

I heard the bell jingle as he come in the door. My spine tingled.  Not that creep.  I didn't want him to see me.  I needed to escape before he saw me here, but that damned bell would give me away.  Where was Luigi?  At least if Luigi was here, I might feel safe enough, but no-one else was in here.  I just needed to try to work out how to get out of here without him noticing.

I refused to look around. I knew that it would be him, but I would not give in. I busied my hands as though it was really difficult to pick up a packet of chips. Not easy when there are only three packets there. Why the hell didn't they have more stock in this god-forsaken shop. 

The floor creaked as he moved from the doorway. My heart beat was now resounding through the entire shop. I could no longer swallow as my heart had somehow crept up into my throat. Great. I was now going to die here. Right here, right now. This dirty creepy old shop. I refused to look around. My fingers were getting colder and my tongue had swollen to the size of a footy oval. I really was about to die. I tried to remember if I had actually signed that Will, or if it was still just filled out in pencil. 

The floor creaked again. My heart did one enormous beat. Was it actually possible for a heart to do this? Beat fast in a throat, then do one enormous beat? Or was this what happen just before people had a sudden heart attack and died? No saliva left now. My feet couldn't move. Where the hell was Luigi? I took very shallow breaths so that my air did not move the space around me. I did not dare to touch anything for fear of making noise. I just stood there. Still. As a statue. 

Another creak. This time it came from upstairs: Luigi. Thank goodness for that. He must have heard the bell jingle. Why did it take him so long? Am I in a time warp? My neck was starting to ache from holding my head up. I felt dizzy. I could feel the presence behind me, creeping around, creaking the old wooden floor boards. I could hear him picking up dusty produce off the shelves and throwing them in a basket. What was he up to? I daren't turn. If I didn't move, I wasn't here. 

I could hear him getting closer. His movement was pushing the air into me like a semi-trailer barrelling down at 100km per hour.  My heart seemed to be creeping into my mouth. What would it do then? Would it actually sit in my mouth? My whole heart, throbbing in my mouth, blood and all pumping out of it? What if I accidentally spat it out on the floor here in this quiet, gentle corner store. My heart for all to see. Bare my heart, on the floor. Beating it's pathetic little irregular beats, budump, burdump, dudump, du, du, dudump, burdump. Luigi would see. He would see. Anyone could see.

I reached out with my freezing cold hand to the chip shelf and missed. I accidentally hit one of the three bags of chips, BBQ, yuk. I felt sick now. I had to move. He was getting too close. Luigi's steps were getting heavier as he came down the narrow dark staircase. I lifted my first foot that was now made of concrete, and then the other, pulled my hat down over my eyes with my whitish-yellow finger, now made of icicles, and tried to creep down the window side of the aisle.

"Celina," Luigi called, as he came out of the bottom of the staircase. I felt him turn towards me. I reached for the door with the bell and as quickly as I could, fled into the sunshine. 

Journaling...through good days and bad

journals = bullshit

I have kept a journal, or a diary as I used to call it when I first started writing, since I was about 8 years old.  I had one of those special little ones that came with a tiny key just for me and this was really important in a big rowdy house.  I was the youngest of 4 kids and we usually had at least one ring-in staying with us as well from Mum & Dad's youth group, or someone who needed a little extra care.  They sometimes stayed a night, sometimes 4 years, sometimes longer.  There was not much space for privacy, so that little key was really important to me and I hid it in my jumper drawer, right at the back where no-one would ever think of looking for it.

When I first started writing, I wasn't really sure what to write, but I was very excited about having a little book of my own that I could write my own little thoughts each day.  The days were already printed out on the pages, I just needed to fill in the detail of my day. The first year was not really very juicy; thoughts like, "Went to Jenny's after school.  Had fun.  Spaghetti for tea."

As the years passed by, and I fell in and out of love with boys, had fights with siblings, got annoyed with people in my house and my parents, I found that my diary was my friend.  Then came the terrible day when my parents were out and my brother and sister found my diary and sat around reading it out loud with one of extended family who were living with us.  The humiliation that I felt.  The depth of my emotion that I had written even at the ripe old age of 11 was too much to bear to be read out loud by anyone else.  It certainly wasn't for anyone else's eyes, it had only meant to be for venting my thoughts, without being judged, and here I was being hung by them.  I am glad still to this day that I had not really put my whole heart into the words by then.

From then on the diary became hidden.  It was not to be found ever again.  I could not bear to go through that again.  As far as I know, it didn't.

I continued to write, however, as I got older, I found that the diaries that had the preset pages with dates didn't work for me.  I didn't always want to write every day and I didn't want to be confined to a set space for that day that I wrote.  I moved to The Journal.

About the same time I guess I got a bit choosy about when I would write.  I began to use my journal as my therapist.  When things were not working properly in my life, I would nut it out in my journal, then it would clarify in my head and I would just get on with things again.  The gaps began to show.   Then I would only write about things once I sorted them out.

Last year I committed to write every day in my journal because we were travelling and every time I travel I have always kept a journal so that I don't forget the people, names, places, smells, and experience of the trip.  I have been home for longer than I was away now, and while I was away, I wrote 4 books of journals, however, since being home, I am still on the same book.  Go figure!  Do I really have nothing to say?

No, there is heaps to say, but, I just haven't bothered to write it down.  Instead I have ruminated about it (a slight tick of being a woman) and tied myself in knots and pushed myself down into a deep dark tunnel.  I have waited for each little hump to smooth itself out and then I write about it, or I write crazy angry words, there is nothing in between.  Last year I think I really helped myself by continually writing my way through life, rather than stewing my way.  I think that if I push myself to write, even if it is just a little, every day in my journal  it will help me and also stop my more recent journal seeming a little swayed!

Do you journal everyday?