Day 1 - continues. And a lot of blah about tears

Life, eh? For the last two weeks I have felt like crying most of the time. I have been feeling unbelievably stressed, out of control and confused. Like a yo-yo, as I swung between all the conflicting emotions I was experiencing. Anger, empathy, sympathy, sadness. And as though my marriage was on the rocks. (And as you all know, it's not the first time I've felt like that.) It's one thing to have a massive difference of opinion about something, but quite another for OH to plough ahead and make what he wanted to happen, happen, against my will, when it was going to impact on me so heavily. We were at loggerheads, equally resolute in our positions and both of us unwilling to shift, or able to discuss the grey area in between. He was determined that his brothers should come. I was equally determined that they shouldn't. This didn't leave much scope for finding a middle ground. Unless he was prepared to bugger off and live with them instead.

But unusually for me, I haven't cried. I think I have been too confused, numb - frozen, almost - to be able to express the whirlwind that was whizzing around inside me and turning my stomach to jelly every few minutes.  I have looked at the pavement a lot, to avoid eye contact or smiles that might set me off. I have chaired meetings I was afraid to go to in case I lost it half way through. I have wanted to avoid people on the school run, in case anyone asked how I was and thus prompted me to dissolve into tears of anger and frustration. I guess I have known that I needed to keep calm and hold things together for the kids.

It doesn't usually take much to set me off. It has be said of me that I'm over-sensitive, and that I haven't let go of past pain which is why I can get upset over something seemingly trivial. I like to think that I am quick to laugh and have a reasonable sense of humour that offsets some of the heavier stuff. And I have always thought of myself as a compassionate type.

And so it was that yesterday morning, when OBrother came downstairs wearing a crumpled suit, looking stiff and and tired, and treading with the exact same gait as OH's father, who passed away nearly three years ago, it took everything I could muster not to burst into tears on the spot. Tears of sympathy, pain, and pity I suppose. There are plenty of ways to interpret someone choosing to wear a suit, but to me it epitomized the gulf that lies between us. No-one comes to stay with a relative in another country in the knowledge that the reception might be frosty, and leaving loved ones behind, unless you are pretty desperate. I presume. But hells bells, we weren't just on different pages of a book, we were on different frigging books. (I was going to use a metaphor about different communications media here but my brain couldn't cope and I gave up.)(I am writing this with two televisions on in the house, each competing to drown the other out.)

I shook his hand, asked how he slept and how the journey was, and invited him to go and sit with the others in the front room while I made him a drink. And then I went through the kitchen and into the loo, sat on the lid and started to weep. I put my palms over my eyes to try and hold the tears in but the buggers were sliding about all over the place.

I don't generally view tears as a bad thing. With one exception, I suppose, and that's when they are borne of pity, and their object is within spitting distance and might see and understand how you're feeling. Especially that kind of overwhelmingly helpless pity that just wells up inside you when it all feels too much, too confusing, too impossible to solve. I haven't often experienced this but one memory comes to mind. I once visited a small community in Kenya with the NGO I was working with at the time, and at the end of my first day there, had to sit while a group of people danced and sang for us, celebrating the fact that we had come to visit. I couldn't take it at face value. I felt like an imposter. Like I shouldn't be there. It seemed ridiculous. I didn't see how they could have been genuinely excited to have us there, and I was worried that they were confusing our role as communications staff with that of funders, and that the effort was being made in the hope that more funding would be given. All the fucked-upness of the world came and rested in my lap. I knew that I had to look happy, pleased, and that anything else would cause real insult. A few tears of tiredness of life, really, were already threatening to leak out when I was asked to speak. Bloody hell. The shock stopped me in my tracks. I don't think anything else would have. Somehow I explained that this had been one of the most significant days of my life. I know I looked worried. Then I caught the eye of a little girl dressed in what was obviously a really special outfit, and I gave myself a huge metaphorical kick up the backside and asked if they could teach me to dance.

So. OH found me on the loo and looked horrified. And I said that I really really REALLY needed him to help me get through the next conversation that I knew I had to lead because he wouldn't explain to them properly what the score was here, and what the room was like and how much it would cost. And to my surprise, it wasn't that bad. They listened, they agreed to take the room but said they wanted to single beds not a double and we agreed to take our inflatable mattress if Khan couldn't provide them. They were visibly shocked at the cost and I agreed to pay the deposit. And then OBrother said, 'if we're going to have to live like gypsies, then we are going to have to live like gypsies because that's what we are.'

And then we left to find Mr Khan.