Ve Vill Not Be Friends Again -- Emly, Ireland

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Everything is shrouded in a morning mist. Colors are discreet. Reticent. Clouds have settled on Knockara, swallowed it up, and I can’t even see to the fence of the house field. It is soft and quiet. Even the fierce chirping of the birds has lulled somewhat.

It’s interesting how living in a different country and learning bits and pieces of a new language affects the ways one processes things. There are thrushes all about the fields and barns and stables. Most people would hear them sing and think “chirp, chirp, CHIRP, chirp, chirp, CHIRP, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet.” My time in France with the Pernots has changed how I hear the thrush. I hear him say “Ca , ca HOUETES! Ca, ca HOUETES! ha-ha-ha-ha!” In French, caca means poop and cacahouetes (pronounced ka-ka-wet) means peanut. French children find it hilarious to say peanut because it has the word poop in it. Hence, the laughter after the word.

“Ca, ca HOUETES! Ca, ca HOUETES! ha-ha-ha-ha!”

I’m leaving Knockara. I’ve been here for 13 days and I cannot tolerate the melancholy of homesickness, loneliness, and isolation, and I cannot tolerate the economical brusqueness of George any longer. Perhaps this is a sign of weakness and egocentricity. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m finally able to stand up for myself and voice my needs.

Perhaps I’m just tired and lonely. I’m not as resilient to loneliness as I was two years ago. I anticipated this lack of resilience, so I gathered my team of experts and assembled a support system to help combat my inevitable feelings of isolation. At George’s, I have no support.

George and I are not parting on the best of terms. Bloody awful terms, in fact. I got a raging headache yesterday – due to stress and melancholy. When George came home from a doctor’s appointment, I told him that I was homesick and unhappy.

“This isn’t what I expected, George,” I tried to explain. “The last time I was here, there were farmer’s markets, foxhunts, play rehearsals, and horse riding. I was active and engaged and getting out in the community and learning things. The isolation and the inability to pursue my projects are making me really depressed. I’ve been tremendously unhappy and I would like to leave.”

“You disappoint me. I vill send you an invitation to my funeral. Ve vill not be friends again.”

A part of me shuddered and died when he said that. How is it that I am so adept at ruining relationships?

“Vhen vill you leafe?”

“Roisin can pick me up tomorrow.”

“You disappoint me.”

I was silent. I never wanted this responsibility. I screamed inside my head. I expected what I experienced last time. I can’t be responsible for the lives of George and his horses. That kind of pressure isn’t what I was ready for at all. I looked at the red emergency button in George’s window and thought about the emergency syringe in the fridge. He has Johnny. He has neighbors and friends. This is not a good situation for me, so I should leave.

George grew quiet. He opened his MacBook and began to write Maria. I drank in the sadness and disappointment with the rest of my tea, and then I went upstairs to lie down. My head pounded fiercely and I could feel the nausea starting in that uncomfortable, ticklish, acidic place in the back of my throat. What am I doing? Is this the right decision?

It all seemed like a dream. As much of a nightmare as my experience with the immigration officer. As a thousand horses pounded out a racetrack around my left eye, I felt myself drift out of my body (drifting to sleep would have been so much nicer); it was just too miserable to stay inside.

“A kind of suicide,” George had said.

“No, a separation,” I had countered.

I looked at myself curled up into a tiny ball, drowning in pillows and blankets in the king sized bed, trembling with fever. I’m a failure. Given time, I ruin everything I touch.

I was awake the rest of the night; feverish and vomiting up stomach acid. 

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen, I cried deliriously into the damp washcloth (that wasn’t helping mute the pain at all). I was supposed to have another magical month in Tipperary and reconnect with an old friend.

I think I’ve finally become accustomed to doing things that make me happy. If a situation is unfulfilling or unduly stressful, I don’t try to fight it out the way I used to. I simply let it be and find something that does fulfill me. Nothing about my stay with George was making me happy. So I decided to leave.

He’s hardly spoken to me since. I’m still here for the remainder of the day, but he has started doing all of my jobs. I tell him, “I’m still here, George – let me help,” and he brushes me aside. He won’t allow me to open gates for him, carry bags of dog food, clean out stables, or even check the horses by myself. So unnecessary, I thought as I trudged back to the house after another futile attempt to help.

Johnny came over at about half eight, and George asked him to check the mares and yearlings. This had been my job, but George would not allow me to assist in even this on my final day. Johnny clapped me on the shoulder and said in his nearly unintelligible accent, “Be good for ya to get some exercise now, wouldn’t it, so?”

I nodded (I nod and smile to most things Johnny says, as I can only understand about half of his conversation on a good day), and went to the mudroom to don my wellies. I was thankful for the excuse to get out of the wretched house.

I was less thankful when old, toothless Johnny tried to feel me up through my thick red jacket and plant wet kisses on my cheeks as we walked through the Knockara fields.

“You’ll be comin’ back now, won’t ya?” he held me close and I stiffened my spine.

“I don’t think so, Johnny.”

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen, I thought numbly.

“You won’t remember me anyway. You didn’t remember me this time,” I freed myself and opened the gate to the yearlings.

“Sure, I’ll remember ya. Can’t forget a good-lookin’ girl like you, now could I?”

During my last trip, Johnny had given me a sweater when I was cold and brought me sweets when I was tired and covered in muck from cleaning stables. I wish I could just remember that Johnny. Not the Johnny who got a little frisky when we went to check on the horses.

I need to contact Roisin, but George would not get the computer for me. This is beginning to seem like a childish game. I asked him if I could please use the computer to get in touch with my friend, and he said, “I am busy.” Then he sat down to make a few phone calls as I tucked my feet underneath me in a Kiki ravaged chair and waited. Phone calls finished, he got the computer out and is busily typing away.

I sit in silence. I write my frustrations and my heartsickness. I wish I had a cup of tea to make it go down easier, but I now feel I’ve somehow lost the right to my favorite floral mug.

Everything before this adventure came together so beautifully and smoothly. I think I expected the actual adventure to follow suit.

But it’s a mess. The first two weeks of my new life have done little to convince me that this is what I ought to be doing with my life. I’m flailing in familiar waters. Sara said that I haven’t worn my travel boots in a long time and that maybe I just need to adjust.

I suppose we’ll see. At the moment, I just hope to leave Knockara as soon as possible. The silence from George is too sad to bear.

Preconceptions:

Nothing to report.

Challenges:

Same.