Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Archive for the tag “life after brexit”

What next?

What next?

I can’t sleep, so I get up and go to my office corner. Look around, as if what paper I write this on, and which pen I use will make the slightest difference. Because putting words down on paper makes it more real? Final?

What next?

What do I do now?
Fortified with drinks, the one he swore he wouldn’t, he finally talked last night. Not the conversation you want to have after midnight or even 3am.
I’ve been living with a stranger for some time, but the scale of it finally became clear. The duplicity is staggering. The audacity as well. I. Am. Shocked.
I’ve been a fool, but only because I thought the situation would turn around and improve. I didn’t want to give up. Over the years I thought at some point my love, kindness, and flexibility would “pay off”. Turns out people just take what they can.

When I found out there was no “us”, just before C19 hit, I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t, and damn if I haven’t spent every day and parts of nights when I should have been sleeping searching for a way forward. While at the same time wondering who will survive or if I will become just another statistic.

What next?

I’m here because I have nowhere else to go, and no way of getting there.
I’ve kept us fed and housed out of savings, being frugal and thrifty. Funds are dwindling.
Being forced to spend these months confined at home together have been, at best, awkward.
It never ends with a bang, and this time not even with a whimper.

Last night I finally got to see the belly of the iceberg below the surface. I am angry, but only enough to say, That’s. It. Enough.
There will be no happy ending. No team. No together. I won’t have have your back and you won’t have mine.

What next?

I gave up everything to move here. I truly thought it was forever, not until.
I got nothing of what I had hoped for, but I got the cats.

Two cats I adore that have kept me going. Both former strays who are afraid of people. Milou has been with me since 2011, and Tabita moved in 2015. I can’t imagine them being indoors only, they love going outside. Neither has ever worn a collar or been chipped. The only time Milou has been to the vet was to get fixed. I have no papers about vax, etc. Both cats are pictures of health.
I can’t imagine wrestling harnesses on and dragging them through noisy airports full of strangers, carrying them through scanners, be poked and prodded. I’ve never carried Milou. They are both terrified of thunder. Yowled the entire way in the carrier when we moved house. Milou kept throwing herself at the door repeatedly trying to get out and cut her nose; then refused to come out for hours, scared and raging mad.
Still the sweetest, most protective, being I’ve ever met. Freaked out the time I had to take Tabi to go have her eye looked at (it wasn’t an infection, it was stress induced). They have kept me alive.

What next?

Is there anyone out there who can help a broken person help themselves?
I am open to new possibilities and opportunities to present themselves.

What next?

 

Milou and Tabita watching the rain. Wondering what next.

Crossroads


I want an unrelated job. I can’t do this any more. The time has come to give this wannabe author thing up. I need something I can do even when I’m stressed that will support me and the cats.

I don’t want to do the endless promoting that is self publishing, and I don’t want to make my writing commercial if that means I lose my voice.
I don’t want to spend years refining and editing a manuscript for it to sell 10 copies… For all the anguish, that’s not enough for me.

I’ll never stop writing, I can’t. It’s who I am, but it will be scaled back to contributing to anthologies perhaps. If it happens to fit. I can still blog and shout into the nothingness, pretending that somewhere my words connect with someone, means something, an other nodding to themselves.

When you need to pay an editor and proofreader out of your own pocket to be able to pub, and it costs more than you will ever make…there’s a word for that, or one that can be reclaimed. Vanity publishing. Dreamer.
It’s time to raincheck. There’s no money in it unless you strike it very lucky. Most of us throw our work out there for free in the hope that our labours of love is discovered and enjoyed by readers. That they will add your name to the list of ones to look out for new stories from. Perhaps send you a kind note.

I wonder what else I can do. 12 yrs in Mexico sure has robbed me of all professional self confidence, despite a wealth of experiences, and numerous arrows to my quiver.

But I’m not going to lie, some days I just want to give up. I didn’t come this far for that. I’ve started over so many times and I didn’t expect to, and don’t particularly want to do it again.
I just want somewhere to land softly. Somewhere I’m welcome. Somewhere to heal. To feel safe and where I can – and want to – stay. Make friends. The kind you can watch the sky with, feet touching, like the rabbits in the picture. You know what I mean?

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