Gertrude’s Diary #123 – Silence

I asked myself why I’ve lost the inspiration to write this blog. I took the question into my listening silence and an answer came back: because there is no room here for the most consuming areas of my life. Those truths that are not entertaining nor light-hearted. That are not amusing and have no relevance to the broader readership. That are personal. That are idiosyncratic. That are irrelevant.

I fear that if I wrote about those truths here you, dear reader, would scroll quickly down to the next story. Or worse, you might read and feel sorry for me. Or bored. Or contemptuous. But still they clamour for attention, like small dogs yapping in a tiny backyard, trapped and miserable.

I could tell you about the grief that is remade each week when my daughter goes to her father and the house that felt like home becomes a hollow place filled only with reminders of her absence. I could tell you about the tears that I cry unwitnessed, except by that little rabbit who will climb onto the back of the lounge, sniff my face with his velvet muzzle and delicately lick the tears that linger there. And how that brief moment of inter-species contact can be enough to make me smile and get up and get on with the day.

I could tell you about the feelings of shame and revulsion that still linger nearly 40 years after that horrible moment when a man put his hands down my pants and played out his filthy perversions, destroying my innocence and confidence in the process. I could tell you about the impotent rage that plagued my childhood as a consequence, and how those feelings followed me doggedly into adulthood.

Maybe if you knew these things you would see me differently. My tendency to drink too much; to converse on trivial matters with brittle vivacity; to seek oblivion in books and television and whatever substance is to hand – these things might suddenly become explicable.

Or perhaps silence is better.

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