Episode 11 People are Complex...Love Is Simple...

Episode 11..

My Healing Journey Continues..

People Are Complex ..

Love Is Simple..

Feedback Very Welcome..

email  sleeplessingranada@yahoo.com

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:00

Hello and a huge big Scottish welcome. Episode 11, Sleepless in Granada. I'm sprawled on the couch, my two dogs laying comatose on the cool marble floor beside me. I have a story for you all. A woman, seemingly out of nowhere, leaves her marriage. Shock, horror. Everyone is dismayed, friends and family, even the husband, because on the outside everything looks fine, absolutely hunky-dory. But here's what no one sees. She's been quietly leaving for years. In fact, she didn't even see it herself in the beginning. The flight began the tenth time he tells her, shut the fuck up. The twentieth time she apologises for failing her thoughts. The hundredth time she says it's okay, just to avoid another confrontation. And the millionth time he gives her the silent treatment. But still she stays because she hopes she can somehow figure it all out. She can try harder. She can love him more. She can do better. Much better. She stays because she doesn't know how not to, because subconsciously she's been trained and financially she has no choice but to stay. So she keeps sacrificing her dignity, her time, her voice, her self-respect until there's nothing, nothing left to give. And then, even then, she tries to give. Even that, nothing, silence. She does such a great job pretending. She even convinces herself that this is what loving this is her duty this is what love and loyalty are until one day she looks around and realizes she's not living at all she's enriching the dirt of her own grave and that's the light bulb moment when she realizes not because anything has changed on the outside but because she finally looks down on the ground and she sees her truth she's buried herself to keep something else alive she's been suffocating for years but now she's done She no longer wants to be the dirt, so she leaves just like that. No explanations, no argument, no apologies. She's done all these things already. This is his day one, but it's her day 3,652. Every one of our timelines are different, but the ending is always the same. The man who never made space for her, suffering in pain, now wallows and drowns in his own. He's absolutely raging, so angry. She'll no longer comply or toe the line. He's so angry that he's lost control. He's absolutely furious that he's lost and so she gets trawled through the mud she shunned and branded the fiend in his story people only saw the decisions she made not the choices she had if she spoke her truth she would be deemed aggressive she's absolutely fine with all of this she doesn't even care because there's no care left to give you see it's all been taken from her she won't fight it she won't defend it she won't even look back to size up all the carnage that version of her doesn't exist anymore. Remember, she's six feet under, dead and buried. And guess what? Guess what she does next? She rises through all this devastation of a life that was meant to destroy her and she builds a life so entrenched in her own power that the past doesn't even recognise her anymore. I am woman, hear me roar. I am the woman in this story and there are millions of us out there. And we were judged. If I remain quiet, I'm cold. If I leave I'm the villain. If I stay, I'm weak. I spent my life pouring into everyone, breaking my back, trying to do the right thing, and still I end up so misunderstood. No matter how right I try to be for the people in my life, I was still put into a box that fit their comfort zone. I learned that if I'm going to be misunderstood anyway, it better be for living in alignment, for choosing myself, for choosing me, for learning to say no. No for doing what lights up my soul, not for what keeps everyone else cosy, because I don't owe my peace of mind to the humans who only love me for the version of me they can control. People don't always see the choices I had. I'm speaking about my experience and how I was affected, how I got through my hell and back to peace of mind. And now, a piece from my memoir. People are complex, love is simple. Slavutich, nestled in Norfolk, My home for four and a half years. The town was purpose-built to house the displaced residents of Pripyat following the catastrophic Chernobyl nuclear plant disaster in 1986. The city was designed with purpose, a witness to resilience in the face of tragedy and truly felt like a community born from necessity. Before the Russians took over the plant in the ongoing war, 6,000 people were employed in the town, working tirelessly across two shifts that spanned 24 hours a day. Despite this apparent bustle, the town had a neary tranquillity. I would often find myself cycling through the deserted streets, save for the occasional elderly resident tending to their gardens or small groups of children going to school. I was the only human around. Cycling about on my bike felt strange, as if I was transversing in a time capsule. An unsettling emptiness was in the air. In those moments Slavutich, while built for the living, often felt suspended in time. Chernobyl is the most radioactive place on the planet and won't be habitable again for 20,000 years. Today I had no reason to leave my cozy apartment. I looked out of my kitchen window as I waited for the kettle to boil. The snowflakes continued to tumble from the grey cloudy sky. It was December and the temperature had plummeted to minus 20 degrees. Ukrainian winters were notoriously harsh and unforgiving. Crisp and sharp, so dry the snow rarely melted. It would pile up in thick heavy layers until the ploughs roared to life. From my viewpoint I watched in fascination as the snow ploughs methodically pushed the substantial powdery snow blankets on either side of the road. With careful attention and expert precision the heavy duty machinery whirred and grinded as it carved out deep indents in the packed snow. snow, creating distinct, well-defined paths, allowing pedestrians safe passage. My favourite bluesy jazz played softly in the background as I busied myself with chores and prepped our evening meal. My signature dish, chicken teriyaki, was on the menu tonight. Singing to myself as I chopped the onions, ginger and garlic, the aromatic spices in my marinade wafted through the kitchen and the heady aroma filled the air. Feeling at peace as I diligently went about my daily tasks. The pain in my side started about 11am, appearing out of nowhere, a sharp, agonising spasm, progressively worsening. Panic gathered in my throat. He wasn't due home for seven hours, what would I do? The discomfort made me feel queasy. I tried to relax, anything to take my mind off the relentless ache in my side. I called him several times, no answer. With each passing hour, the twinge deep I sought distractions in the mundane. Frantic messages received no response. Desperation clawed at my mind. The walls of my apartment felt as though they were pressing closer. Glancing over at the ticking clock, its hands seemed to mock and taunt me with their firm, persistent movement, pressing down on me like a looming shadow. With each unanswered call, my anxiety surged. The little blue ticks telling me that he had read my message. They glared back at me defiantly from my mobile screen, highlighting the silence that hung in the air. Each tick stood proud like a neon sign. My situation played out like a horror film where I had the starring role. If he didn't come soon, I would have no alternative. I would need to go outside and shout for help. Think logically, I said to myself. All the neighbours are at work. The only person who was home lived next door. The eccentric, smelly cat lady who didn't speak English and rarely communicated with other humans. I saw her every day, majestically wheeling her feline gang, all eight of them in a pram. She was the last resort. The pain crescendoed. The fiery spike in my side stole my breath and clarity. Still, I clung on to the fragile thread of hope. He'll call soon, he will. In desperation, I called his PA only to get a voice message saying that she was on vacation and wouldn't be available till the next week. Shit, I couldn't call a time I didn't have a number and anyway I couldn't speak Ukrainian. I stared continuously at my phone screen willing it to light up, my fingers constantly hovering over the screen. My thoughts raced in a whirlwind. I could not grasp any calm. The sense of rejection and the reality of this indifference was drowning me in a chilling mixture of shock and betrayal. This deliberate act of willful neglect was akin to a sharp thorn digging deeper and deeper into my already broken heart. In my hour of need he chose yet again to abandon me. A knot of panic tightened again in my throat making me feel nauseous and helpless. Every minute felt like an eternity. Finally I was rummaging in my handbag frantically searching for my house keys but they weren't there. My heart pounded as with shaking hands I emptied the contents onto the work surface. The usual items, receipts, wallet, hairbrush, makeup. I shook the bag vigorously hoping the keys would magically appear. I slumped down again onto my chair. I felt utterly defeated. A deep sense of despair washed over me. The agony in my side surged once again, wincing I clutched my abdomen. I could almost hear his callous, cold voice as he dismissed my pain. Here we fucking go again. More fucking dramatics. The feeling of entrapment consumed me as I paced the floor, realisation that he had swiped my keys yet again. A control tactic that had become all too familiar. The stark truth hit me hard, another form of punishment that he dished out on a whim, feigning innocence at first. Oh sorry darling, I picked up your set-by mistake. Oh that old chestnut, the voice in my head whispered. In that moment his feigned ignorance played back on my mind. What options did I have? Swirling thoughts turned into confusion. I couldn't escape, I can't go out. It struck me suddenly, I won't be able to get back in. I scanned my phone again the little blue ticks continued to mock me you fucking monster you fucking cruel cruel bastard icy shivers overtook my body as frigid air began to seep in and penetrate the reality of my isolation which hung heavily in the air dense like smog the brutal truth of his coercive behaviour was an unyielding shadow visible in every aspect of my life why did he feel the need to control me the question haunted His actions seem rooted in a deep desire to dominate, to assert power over every choice and every emotion I had. He took my autonomy, slowly, strip by tiny strip. He suffocated me, turning our partnership into something toxic. I was left questioning whether he even cared about me, or was he simply motivated by the desire to purely call the shots. When I tried to assert myself and voice my opinions He reacted with hostility and resilience and then the throat clearing. Shut the fuck up. What do you know? Oh, his aggression left me disheartened and bewildered. I became trapped in a cycle of fear and submission. I dreamed of my freedom and to be myself without his controlling presence. It felt like I was fighting a quiet battle that left me increasingly isolated. I know I had left innumerable messages but still no reply. I realised that this was part of a wicked pattern and how he manipulated every aspect of my existence and stripped away every simple choice to go outside. It was now 7pm. I had been in agony for 8 hours now. I thought I was dying. My messages were now frantic. I was bawling my eyes out, screaming for him to help me. The sweat was lashing out of me. I felt so weak, light-headed. I thought I would faint. There's still no sign of him. I'll pass out soon I tell the wall. In a final message I said if you don't return immediately I will go outside onto the street for help. I hit send. My heart raced with fear. This time he picked up the call and said after what seemed like an eternal stretch of silence. What do you want? His tone smacked of exasperation. His words cut deep and pierced through my fragile defences. I need help. I've been in excruciating pain all day. Within five minutes he was home. He took one look at me and the gravity of my condition immediately registered in his eyes. I knew then I was in big trouble. My lip trembled and I could no longer stem the hot sticky tears. He was there. He came back. Relief washed over me like a warm tide. I closed my eyes for a moment trying to gather my thoughts. I fought against the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. Thanks for coming back. Called his translator and ordered him to get a taxi for us, urgently. I vaguely heard him speaking. He looked deathly grey, worry edged on his facial features. I couldn't fathom what was happening. The taxi arrived within minutes. I'm petrified, please don't leave me, don't leave me. The short drive to the hospital felt surreal. The landscape outside morphed into hazy shapes and snowflakes. White and orange streetlights flashed past. Suddenly, an agonising pain sliced through my side again, sharp and unforgiving. knocking the breath from my lungs. I clung on to him. Arriving at the hospital was very blurry. I remember the icy cold sting of snow as it caressed my hot face, the crunch of my snow boots as I stumbled and slid on the path, the way the bone-chilling cold nipped at my ears and nose. I was overwhelmed by a stark realisation. The setting resembled a scene from the past. Folklore music played softly in the background. I was flabbergasted It was like something out of the 1950s. Am I hallucinating? Am I dreaming? Had the morphine injection taken hold that fast? Had I been transported back in time? I remember a flurry of activity, then nothing, nothing. When I woke up, the medical staff all spoke perfect English and were delighted to have a patient with whom they could chat. They were all very professional and gentle, kind. Their voices were quiet and articulate. Questions raised through my mind each answer elusive the smell in hospitals has always made me nauseous an unsettling whirlwind of aromas sick people and urine the overpowering stench clung in the air an intense suffocating melange of a scent that could be disorientating the reek of antiseptic sharpness and disinfectant were aggressive reminders of cleanliness mingled with the perfume of bodily fluids and the sterile notes of carbolic soap. It enveloped me like a heavy scratchy blanket. The unmistakable sterile odor filtered through every corner of the poorly lit halls, stirring an uncomfortable knot in my belly. The cold clinical trolleys, work surfaces and harsh fluorescent lighting cast a cool glow and painted an uncomfortable picture of isolation. I longed to escape this unsettling space. What was happening to me? The Two smiling nurses dressed in what I can only be described as Victorian garb with white starched full length aprons and fitted scarves that neatly encircled their heads. The unceremoniously lifted me onto a trolley and wheeled me down an endless maze of hospital corridors that twisted and turned like a labyrinth. Each doorway and corridor felt like a rabbit web. A mysterious threshold leading to the x-ray department. What was unfolding around me? I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my nose. My body cried out for hydration. The nurses bustled around me. I felt a sharp stinging as the cold needle pierced my skin, followed by a warm rush of fluid when the saline infusion began to flood my thirsty veins. I was taken through yet another maze of corridors to my ward. The ominous silence enveloped me, thick and suffocating. The doctor in charge of my care informed me that, as a common courtesy, I would have a private room. My husband thanked him most profusely. My quarters were reminiscent of a relic from a bygone era. This gave me a sharp jolt. What possessed the decorators to paint the walls and ceiling a sickly shade of diarrhoea green? Yuck! The bed was creaky and worn under the weight of history, antiquated and uncomfortable. I shifted annoyingly in my lumpy closet The sheets were crunchy and scratchy to touch, while the medical instruments lurking nearby looked like artifacts from a cruel, outdated era that brought to mind images of medieval torture. Everything was so primitive. The austere walls gleamed unnaturally under the harsh, fluorescent lights that buzzed softly overhead. The measured beeping of machines provided a jerking soundtrack, shattering the stillness. The contrast could not be more jarring the warmth and comfort of my apartment faded into obscurity. I stayed in hospital for three days. During my stay, I didn't see or hear any other patients. That puzzled me. Was I in a time warp? A twilight zone? Had time stood still and nobody told me? It was nonsensical that an entire hospital and staff were on duty solely to look after me. Was this even a proper hospital? Was I simply trapped forever in the waiting room of time? I shiver I need to get out of here. extinguishing again. There was no laughter, no raised voices and the usual buzz of activity was strangely absent. There was no coffee shop open, no kiosks, no people waiting patiently in the vast empty waiting areas. Where was everyone? Indeed, I can't be the only patient in this cavernous structure. My diagnosis was renal calculus. I had a large kidney stone, a bacterial infection and severe dehydration Every morning, afternoon and evening, nurses strolled into my airless room, clipboard in hand. They took my blood pressure, prodded and poked my tender abdomen. Their expression was a mix of curiosity and concern. I was treated with the utmost respect as they plunged yet another syringe into my swollen veins. My favourite nurse exclaimed one day, when you're admitted to hospital you hang your dignity up on the coat rack and retrieve it when you leave. That made me smile. The pain in my side continued to throb, sharp and relentless, resembling a sharp twisting knife in my flesh. Uncomfortable against my skin, as I prepared for the next round of tests, the needles felt sharp and intrusive, drawing blood with each puncture and I could hardly shake off the lingering sting that accompanied them. My arm resembled a pincushion. Ah, it was the small things, the quiet moments spent with a nurse who insisted on sharing her lunch with me, homemade bread with cheese and pickle. She brightened my long days with her her sunshiny smile and her wicked sense of humour. That humble Ukrainian woman treated me like a person rather than a patient. Later that year I saw her in the local coffee shop and I insisted on paying for her coffee as a thank you for all her kindness. The snow continued to fall. Soft white flakes swirled in the late afternoon breeze. The sun paid me a welcome visit and broke through the cloud coverage before darkness cloaked her. I watched mesmerised as the snowflakes streamed down from the gloomy sky. Each one dancing, gliding, swirling in the air before coming gracefully to land on my window ledge. Each was unique in its form. The icicles hung from every structure. Magnificent, majestical chandeliers and the constant drip, drip, drip. They formed complex patterns that twinkled in the weak winter daylight. Prisms of crystal. I was enchanted. I continued to watch. My nose pressed against the cold window pane. Hot breath fog the glass. The atmosphere outside was still and calm. I smiled grateful for the small delights that Mother Nature had brought into my life. While birds cawed to their mates, their shrill calls rang out all over the dense, eerie forest. They fluttered about, their colourful plumes gleamed in the weak afternoon sunlight, scratching at the frozen bark of the skeletal Scots pine trees, searching for hidden mites and whatever delectable appetiser they may find. They pecked enthusiastic Thank you. Believe it or not. There was even a sauna and I squealed in delight. As I explored the apartment, he got a beer from the complimentary mini bar, kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie. I noticed that he was visibly relaxed for the first time in a long time. On our first evening, we dined in one of my favourite restaurants, The Last Barricade. The interior was an eclectic blend of old and new, sultry booths and quirky corners, ancient dusty maroon drapes cordoned off the private dining areas. The air was awash with excitement. The ambience was romantic and mysterious. Our laughter blended with the smooth jazz funk music that played quietly in the background. The soft, dim lighting cast a warm shadow. The pink champagne flowed as we indulged. It felt just like old times. We had reconnected and reawakened feelings that had lain dormant for such a long, long time. When he reached out his hand to touch mine, the electricity soared through my entire being. I looked into his eyes and saw a warm, happy glow. We spoiled ourselves and ordered the chef's recommendations from the extensive menu. Soon, dish after dish of the most incredible cuisine appeared, painstakingly prepared by the talented gourmet chefs, a work of art on a plate. The serving staff approached our table, moving with choreographed precision as they presented our and gigantic silver platters. I clapped my hands in delight. Bravo! Bravo! It was a theatrical performance. First act, the hearty, steaming, red-hot borscht broth with smoked cherries and dried pear. Courgette porridge with spinach and pumpkin. They all deserved a standing ovation. Beautifully presented culinary artistry. Finally, the twisted eggplant arrived, stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes and cream cheese. The starters were all snaffled, washed down with, yes, more pink champagne. The delicate flavours danced on our palates as we savoured every morsel. When the server brought out the dry, aged Ukrainian ribeye on a bed of creamy mashed potatoes and delicate baby vegetables, oh, I could have kissed him. The chef had seared the beef perfectly and it melted in my mouth. We relaxed in each other's company and we shared stories, laughing. It was so times again, and time passed so quickly. Just as we were about to order coffee, the musicians started playing. Lay down beside me, John Waite and Alison Krauss. They're playing our song! He simply smiled, his eyes crinkling mischievously. He held out his hand and said, would you care to dance? The familiar melody enveloped us in a passionate embrace, pulling me into a whirlwind of nostalgia. The moment felt electric. Time stood still as I took I felt the warmth of his touch seep onto my hot skin. We glided onto the dance floor and we swayed to the rhythm. I felt a rush of intense heat all over my body. I longed for his touch. My heart skipped a beat. His eyes sparkled, that same spark that had captivated my heart all those years ago. He leaned in closer, his breath a warm whisper against my ear, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. Our bodies moved instinctively. His hand rested on the small of my back, guiding me effortlessly across the floor. I love you. I want you so much, he murmured in my hair. The atmosphere crackled. A spark of longing ignited. Everyone in the room blurred into oblivion. I felt I had come home. I caught a whiff of his aftershave. The citrusy notes of grapefruit, exotic cinnamon and patchouli were intoxicating. I closed my eyes. Our movements were fluid. As we swayed, the heat from our bodies merged. I yearned to suspend in this moment for all time. I felt rejuvenated and happy. Was this the joy of living, I thought wistfully? Was this a new chapter? Had we finally turned a corner? He came crashing into my world like a stormy sea, smashing my fragile defences. He pulled me from the wreck of shattered dreams. He whispered in my ear all the words I longed to hear. I promised to love and protect you always. I gladly gave him my soul. We'd made it. Nothing could ruin our newfound happiness. Once more, our future together is filled with possibilities and plans. I had a sense of belonging. I slipped so quickly into the pace and rhythm of my past. Nothing could shatter this. Nothing, nothing. Thank you for listening. Please email me at sleeplessingrenada at yahoo.com. I would absolutely love to hear from you and any feedback. And if you have ever had a similar situation to mine, thank you.