Buried

It's been a few days now - I've been deep in the garage sorting through the three large Hong Kong bags of Marj's letters, poems, lists and notes. I started out positive, and became almost euphoric when I realised that by transcribing a selection of her writings to use in this book, I might find a release from the burden of carrying around all her unfulfilled hopes and desires (I've wrangled them into these bags at least) —and that in the act of releasing her writings to the world, I too might experience a letting go of this so-called " inherited melancholia".

Ha, if it was that simple!

I did feel a taste of freedom as I typed the first twenty or so pieces into this blog. They are funny, tragic, revealing, and her black humour shows right through. I have been editing a little, correcting as I go and feel quite happy with the result of our collaborative effort. 

But after a few days at it, I realise this work, like our relationship, is much more complicated. The euphoria is fading, and I can feel myself slipping into a familiar old depression, the very state I am hoping to escape!

The bags and boxes of papers reveal the personality of a complex woman, whose earliest days were marred by the six year illness of her mother, but whose childhood and teenage years were the happiest of her life.

An only child, spoilt and adored by her parents and all the relatives.Talented in academia, piano, poetry, the dramatic arts, hockey, with a love of bush walking and nature, she had dozens of friends, and enjoyed dances blah blah...until....

(in her narrative) it all turns bad after she married CRC, a charming, handsome, domineering, sporty and active man, also an only child, used to getting his own way.

Two only children together, oh no, one has to give in —guess who?

I lift another letter to my eyes to read, and my arms feel so weighed down as if it's made of stone, like it's a huge boulder I must move from one place to the next. That's all I am doing, moving heavy rocks around, one slow rock at a time. I put that one to the side and pick up another, read its contents slowly, sometimes well written, sometimes not, feel the feelings it brings to the surface and the confusion that follows. Where to place it? What to do with it?

I have different  piles— nature poems, limericks for the grandkids, lists, jottings, unposted letters, pleas for help, biographical details, and more. My hand hovers over them but can't decide, a great tiredness takes me by the shoulders, I feel weak, as if I need a good hearty meal, the paper gets heavier and heavier and I push it to the side, telling myself I will come back to it later, while I pick up the next one and go around again.

It's not so simple, I think later as I lie on my bed, pinned to the bedspread in the same state of helpless overwhelm I used to feel back then. It's not just a clear cut case of a depressed mother and a semi depressed daughter who tried to help. Poor Marj, she's unwell again, what can we do to cheer her up?! The Hong Kong bags are destroying the idyllic image I have of Marj the poet, the artist, my creative muse. They are reminding me of facts and feelings I had shoved to the back of the cupboard. That in each communication with Marj there was always an extra agenda, always something more she was asking for that was impossible to provide. 

I want to run to the nearest land fill and chuck these bags in, all of them.
I want to exorcise her neediness, those demands and desires of hers that still dog me.

The reason why at times we turned away from her.