Jouska

I saw a list this morning on social media derived from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig. Jouska is described as “a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head”. Yep. That’s me. And then I realised that that concept sums up my life; a rehearsal for the real thing… only it never happens. I have wasted years of my life by now imagining myself on stage delivering a talk, quietly pointing out flaws in someone else’s reasoning with devastating logic, taking down a belligerent bully with whip smart dialogue, delivering a grief stricken person with that ‘one thing’ they needed to hear to release them, taking back a humiliating moment with a witty retort … you know, “If only I’d said…”.

And so it came to pass that my life slowly drained away like the flash flood waters into the parched earth. At some level I’ve realised this before, but we humans need the lesson 3,456 times before the “Aha moment”. That’s partly why I’ve not written anything for **gosh** 5 years now. The blog (that' I’m paying for) sits idly in the anonymous ether like a grain of sand on the sea floor. I’d decided that my maudlin wafflings were all a bit of a waste of time. But fuck it. I’m going to start waffling into cyberspace again.

I lost a dear friend a few weeks ago- she told no one that she had lymphoma so I was shocked and devastated. Now I’m just left with the heavy ache of her absence. And the realisation that time is short. I am not the young, carefree free spirit I once was with the heart of an immortal. I too could wake up dead tomorrow, so I’d better get cracking. I don’t know why- I can write a bit so I guess I should. To what ends I don’t know.

My son, who’s suffered from debilitating depression for 6 years now, went out the other night. For the first time in months. A friend was in town so he managed his anxiety and braved the social world, hero that he is. He told me he had a pretty good time. He’d had a conversation with a bloke about divorce. It was a revelation to this guy when my son told him that he’d been devastated by my divorce and grieved over it. The guy had no idea- assumed he was a wuss because he’d been sad when his parents split. My son told him it was perfectly normal to be upset and it was a process that took a long time.

My son is an amazing person. The bravest I know. Whip smart and funny as fuck. And he has emotional intelligence out the wazoo. He is often a revelation to those he comes in contact with (although because of his mental health issues, that’s not too often). He will have changed that man’s life. He will have given him permission to grieve as he should have years ago and so enable himself to properly heal and become free. Because the dragging of baggage (unlike auguring a wonderful holiday) actually minimises you- your life, your potential, your relationships. Baggage infects everything and you’re not even aware of it, like the first stages of the Wuhan coronavirus.

So I’m going to keep writing and know that if someone needs to hear the words I speak, they’ll stumble across my grain of sand in that incomprehensible way of synchronicity.