As my grandfather ripped the jumper off my torso, screaming obscenities in my face, it became more than obvious that I wasn't welcome here. I ran into the living room, trembling, as he sat in the kitchen mulling in his frustration and resentment. The water was calm for now, but for how long was a different story. I approached him later. He was sitting at the round kitchen table, the same one we had all sat at for many a meal (many a happy meal). I sat down beside him, head bent, 'I'm sorry' I offer. He looks up at me, eyes a transparent grey, and stares. He has no idea what I am talking about. This is the curse of dementia. Shouting and screaming became a pivitol part of his daily routine, as did telling me he 'loved' me after I apologised for something I did not do. The straw that broke the camels back was when I found out about an abominable decision my uncle had made. His wife was pregnant, and none of us approve of her. I promised myself ten years ago, if my uncle let this happen, that I would cut all contact with my family. I guess I was hoping that he would never do this to me. I know if my grandfather was in the right frame of mind, he would never let this happen. Unfortunately, he wasn't, and I had to leave.
Goodbye family, hello cruel world.
I packed a rucksack full of clothes and neccesities, and left. I had no idea how to go about this. I felt like a nomad in my own country. The streets were full of nothing but expressionless faces. Walking down a street is something we all do on auto pilot. We fall and catch ourselves, over and over. It is a stressful experience, and something we tend to do single mindedly - to get somewhere. Think about it, this is Ireland, walking is something that is endured, it is quite an efficient way to travel short distances (that is until we invent that ever pending hover craft). I was now about to be integrally interwover into the fabric of this enviornment. You may as well have called me a tree, a shrub, or a sewer rat. Then, it hit me; my neighbors, housemates and friends were all to be found in this environment, on the streets I had tread begrudgingly so many times before.
Goodbye family, hello cruel world.
I packed a rucksack full of clothes and neccesities, and left. I had no idea how to go about this. I felt like a nomad in my own country. The streets were full of nothing but expressionless faces. Walking down a street is something we all do on auto pilot. We fall and catch ourselves, over and over. It is a stressful experience, and something we tend to do single mindedly - to get somewhere. Think about it, this is Ireland, walking is something that is endured, it is quite an efficient way to travel short distances (that is until we invent that ever pending hover craft). I was now about to be integrally interwover into the fabric of this enviornment. You may as well have called me a tree, a shrub, or a sewer rat. Then, it hit me; my neighbors, housemates and friends were all to be found in this environment, on the streets I had tread begrudgingly so many times before.
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