The Migraine

For most women, the twenty-eight-day cycle involves, amongst other, an episode of PMS. For me, it’s migraines. Although I will not go as fare as to pretend that the former does not affect me, I will say for sure that if it does, it goes unnoticed in the torment caused by the latter.

Yesterday was one of those days. I am at work and there is no way I can go home. Suddenly a pain rip my head like a sharp letter opener through a tin envelop. Oh shit, a migraine! An aura of jagged light appears to the left of my peripheral vision. It’s going to be a nasty one. In no time, my field of vision has shrunk to the size of a pencil, everything becomes blurred, my computer screen glares at me; it feels like pin needles in the eyes. I feel nauseous. My head pounds to the rhythm of “We Will Rock You”. The lyrics cycle with each surge of blood in my temples. I try to massage them where the pain seesaws, a vain attempt at bringing them back to health. I feel my shoulders slouch and my mouth open like a panting dog. The noise around the office increases exponentially by the minute, my neck is getting stiff, I can barely move my head, not that I would even if I could, my lower back is starting to hurt and a film of cold sweat is forming between my shoulder blades. By then, I know I have about five minutes left in me. I get off my chair and sway towards the bathroom until something scorched right through my stomach and then, I break into a race. I get to the bathroom and threw up. Usually I feel much better after that, not this time. I get a bottle of cold water from the distributing machine and put it against my forehead. Swallowing hurts. I look like a sleepwalker, there is only one hour left before I go home. Obviously no more work will get done today. I sit down at my desk and watch the minute hand go around the clock.

When I got home, I fell into a blackout, the unendurable crest of pain, the electrical sawing, buzzing, drilling pain that must come from my neighbor’s apartment, as it would be impossible for the mere cranium to erupt with such force, impossible, alas true. For an hour or two, I laid on my bed without opening my eyes to the pain of the street light, unable to get up and close the blinds or kick my shoes off. Exhausted, I eventually lost myself to sleep.

This morning I called in sick.

Manmade Misery

The other day I was at Old Navy. I had found a bunch of fun clothes for Billy, Marco’s daughter, my elected niece. I was in the line up, waiting for a cashier to free up. Nearest to me, there was a woman who had been monopolizing the cashier for what it seemed like forever. Out of curiosity, I started listening in on their exchange. Her purchase amounted to something like $42.50. It turned out that the process was taking a long time because of insufficient funds on her credit card. It is so humiliating when that happens. The one time it happened to me, I ran out the store, mortified. But it wasn’t the case here; the young woman wasn’t the least fazed by it. Actually, after her card was denied, she produced another one, and another one, and another one until finally one got approved. She must have gone through fifteen credit cards. In her hands, she literally had a deck of credit cards ready to be tested for funds. I was stunned. Can you imagine the burden, not to mention the anguish she must be facing every month when the statements start coming in. Then again…

The Neighbour

I live in one of those charming older apartment buildings where the suites are bigger than in the newer ones, brighter, sunnier and have nice hardwood floors. Of course, it also means that the walls are paper thin and badly isolated. Fortunately, for the most part, the people living in the building are very quiet, all except my next door neighbour, Sandy.

Her apartment is adjacent to mine. We share a common wall which separates my bedroom from her living room. To minimize the impact, I positioned the head of my bed against the opposite wall. Never-the-less, she is loud. When I say loud, I mean earsplitting loud. She has no concept of what it entails to live in an apartment building and no consideration for others what-so-ever. Recently she started working from home; therefore, precluding us from any possible relief, save perhaps for the fact that she travels quite often. Everything about her is loud. She has a shrilling voice; she speaks loud, walks heavy, slams doors and blasts her stereo system to the max.

As of late, she switched her answering machine for a voice mail. Until them, I could have written down for her the name and phone number of every callers. I know more about her life than I do about my own friends. I can tell by the pattern of noise she makes, whether she has just met someone new or just been dumped. She doesn’t seem to realize that the noise in the building reverberates in every suite.

To make matter worse, Sandy is also sexually – enthusiastic -, but far from monogamic. Her performances would make Harry believe that Sally wasn’t all that good an actress after all. Sandy is the real deal, the triple x kind of vocal deal.

Worst still is her TV which is connected to a surround sound system. When she switches it on, the walls vibrate. Sometimes I can’t even hear my own TV, two rooms away. Over the years I have tried leaving gentle notes on her door asking for her to move it away from the wall, perhaps even consider lowering the volume, to no avail. I have tried knocking on the door, but she can’t hear it. Eventually I resorted to banging on the wall with both fists, sometimes screaming at the top of my lungs. It sounds rather uncivilized but it works, at least temporarily.

By nature, I am a sound sleeper. The moment my head touches the pillow, I am asleep. So I try to ignore the noise she makes for as long as I can and then I usually pass out. After all, one must choose carefully one’s battles.

Last Wednesday night though, she woke me up. Nothing ever wakes me up but she did. I looked at the clock, it was well passed midnight. I was fuming. I had to work in the morning. I got up and banged on the wall with all the fury I could muster. The music went down right away but she had visitors, so she probably felt compelled to demonstrate some indignation. I heard her shrilling voice through the wall: But I am never here! I am never here! Someone must have told her it was getting pretty late for a week night because she shut up right away. She seemed to assume that we are all allowed a certain amount of annoyance days and because she is never home, she could make them all happen at once.

Last night she knocked at my door while I was cooking dinner. I knew it was here. I was hoping for a confrontation. I had so much on my mind that I wanted to share with her. I opened the door; she was standing there, silent. She stretched to look over my shoulder, and pointed at the TV which was playing in the background.

“You watch TV too!” She exclaimed as though I had ever pretended otherwise.

“Well yes, but you can’t hear it from your place.”

“Well… it’s only because the volume is low…”

I looked at her and smiled. Mona Lisa would have been proud. “Gee… are you always that smart?”

She looked at me slightly puzzled. An awkward silence followed. It seems she was expecting me to say something. I was too hungry to think it through. I stepped back, closed the door very slowly and went back to my dinner.

I have the feeling I am not done yet banging on the wall. Worst still, I have the distinct impression that she has no idea why I do it in the first place.

Previously Enjoyed

I love reading and I read a lot. My choices are rather eclectic as my curiosity is limitless. Given the fact that the local bookstores tend to keep only very recent publications, I usually order online and often I have taken advantage of the used book section. It is always a gamble though if you really care about the condition of the book. I don’t. I hate when a book smells old or dusty, but apart from that, I like a book which has previously been enjoyed. It holds a reassuring element to it: at least one other person has taken the time to buy it, if not to read it. I also like to see what other people do to their books. I am the worst person you should lend a book to, unless you have no intention of getting it back. The first thing I do is break the spine. I also fold pages to mark my place, write on the pages and underline interesting passages.

Some time ago, I ordered a few used books. Two of them arrive at almost the same time with little extras. I was thrilled. The first one was a memoir from Isabel Allende. She has always been amongst my favorites, especially for her earlier work which colored my teenage with romantic political chaos.

As soon as I leafed through the pages of her book, I found a ticket for a concert featuring David Gray playing at Aggams Arena at Boston University on Saturday, October 8, 2005 at 7:30 pm. It was a pretty good ticket too, closest to the performing area, lower level, section 102, G row, seat 22. It was worth $40.00, the second most expensive seat section that night. The ticket had not been used. The stubs were still attached. I wonder why she had not attended. How did the ticket end up in the book? Was it hers? Who was she? What better plans did she have that Saturday night?

The second book was by Douglas Kennedy. A tale set amidst the optimism of postwar New York and the subsequent nightmare of the McCarthy witch-hunts. When I reached page 469, I found a thin and crisp visa receipt for the exact sum of $40.00. It was dated April 26, 2003. I wonder what one may purchase for that exact amount. The purchase had been made at Ace Hardware on West 4th Avenue in Ainsworth Nebraska. Her card had expired three years earlier. Her name was Patricia. As I read the book, I often wondered what Patricia had thought of it. Although American, Kennedy is not even published in the States, how did she discover the author, had she traveled to England?

I love these little trifles which trigger my imagination. They have the same effect on me as flying saucers on others: they are a proof that there are others out there, people living and dreaming and sometimes unbeknownst to them, sharing a piece of themselves with me.

The Status Quo

It has been more than a week now since I have told my dad about my being molested as a child. I have yet to hear from him again. I imagine that it might have been rather astounding news to him. It was for me, but then again, I was the victim at the time. There is little doubt that he must be reconsidering his role as a father and his shortcoming as a protector, however unintentional.

It is hard to deal with that sort of things at seventy. He is part of a generation who didn’t talk about these matters. Let alone consider that they could happen right under his nose, unnoticed. There must be a tremendous amount of guilt involved unless, that is, he really didn’t want to know what was going at home in his absence. But I am inclined to believe that he wouldn’t have let something like that happen or persist. My dad may be quite imperfect, often inadequate, miscalculated in his reactions, but he is not a coward or unjust. He was very loving in his awkward ways.

My dad was away from home most of the time. He worked hard to provide a good life for his family. His main fault was to believe that my mother was doing just the same. Little did he know that it was not the case. And my mother would certainly not be the one telling him. She probably believed that she was a good mother, that she was doing the best she could, and in some ways, she was. She just was not cut out to be a parent. She could never make abstraction of herself to the profit of others, and she never did. As a result, my dad was kept in the dark about almost anything concerning the family. He is just starting to realize that every time my brother or I complained about my mother, that perhaps there was indeed something really wrong going on.

Years ago my dad had read and cut out an article from a magazine which he carried carefully folded in his wallet until recently. He may still, I don’t know. And now would not be the right time to ask him about it. Anyhow, this article was written by a man talking about his children. He was stating something to the effect that his children had never asked to be born; therefore it was his responsibility as a parent to care for them until they no longer needed him, no matter how ungrateful the children were. It had made a tremendous impression on my dad. It may seem rather trivial right now, but it was as if someone had helped him justify the difficult career choices he had made in life. That clipping became almost sacred and he would pull it out and read it for himself or others quite often. The last time I saw it, ages ago; it was all yellow and torn.

Still, I cannot help but doubt his next move. He asked me several times during our last conversation why I had not told him, back then when it was happening. Clearly, should I have been able to do so, I would have. Realistically however, nobody would have ever believed a four-year old child with an overactive imagination, describing the most horrific sexual depravations. Although… My mother would have killed the conversation with a few nasty words as she often did. There would have been no room for discussion. She would have declared me fallacious, desperate for attention, and jealous of my brother. Worst still, no matter how superb an ally my dad was, the truth be told, he was never home long enough to make a real difference. Soon I would have been left on my own with my mother and my brother and their vengeance. And ultimately what would have happened to me if I had told him and he had not believed me? Was I not better off dreaming of his support than facing heart breaking deception?

I guess the real test is happening right now. Is my dad going to believe his forty years old daughter or will he assume that I have no other ambition than ruining my brother’s reputation? A lot will depend on his partner’s reaction, since there is little doubt that he will eventually share it with her, if he has not already done so. Will she be judgmental like my mother would be or magnanimous?

As you can imagine I have been trained early on to expect the very least from my family. Today is no exception. But it would feel real good to be wrong.