– a collection of notes from zakynthos, from various conversations, across a span of a week.
the last two times i spent time with my family i was dealing with bereavement; the first in summer which was a more personal, the most recent was the final week of
october – where i was trying to come to terms with the death of people from the same ethnic background as me.
i hated the way i couldn’t laugh at anything you were saying
it makes me indescribably upset when there’s dead air after you’ve tried to fill the silence
but the problem is that it’s expected of him to not reply, not me
i’m expected to fill the silence you’re so anxious about
i hate that there’s a lump in my throat only after a day
we still manage to argue on a cliff’s edge
i hate the way that i spent all day on my phone
i hate the way you’re so anxious because i couldn’t stop the way you felt, i couldn’t calm you
i felt as though the entire time one wheel was off the road the entire time
we are still arguing on a cliff
it’s nice to know that if one wheel was off the edge the entire time and we fell to our deaths, the last thing he said to me was that he was better than me
we are agonisingly far from functional
i find that i always fall silent at the times i’m most needed and i’m not sure what that is a response to, other than the obvious
i wanted to talk to you more about what you were saying about these places, pre international tourism, but i just couldn’t find the words
she showed me something my he sent into a group chat they both shared, links to what’s going on in palestine – i’m not even entirely sure what the links were. she laughed, she said it was embarrassing because everyone had ignored what you were sharing – someone immediately afterwards asking if anyone had received their pay rise recently. i had to laugh but if i’m being entirely honest a part of my heart broke for you. how alone you must feel. the pain you must feel. i want you to know that i feel it too, i am part of you. we are just like them.
i need to understand though things may be physically different, it does not mean i have to change, or that life has dramatically. i am no further from home as i was two days ago
i would stay longer but i refuse to worry you anymore than you worry yourself
“you don’t have to”, you say, knowing it’s something i don’t want to do but you said you wanted to – now i will have to.
i don’t like boats or planes or cycling or really being in cars that are driving across cliffs edges but i will, as long as you get to share how happy this holiday made you i will. i will show up for you.
you’d had two glasses of wine yesterday and you told me i’ve been looking beautiful recently- my neck and eyes puffy, nose streaming, my dads eyebrows stuck glaring on my face.
i’ll probably never tell anyone about what’s been going on with my family. i think i’m too proud of my pain, i know that this is rare and i almost want to keep it that way.
i feel the same about the pain in my family as i did when my friend died. i refuse to share this pain and have people sit in front of me and tell me they understand. granted – when my friend died a lot of people did understand and obviously i was okay with that. but it’s the people who didn’t know them, i’m afraid to share it with. i don’t want to know who else has felt pain like this in their family. it’s my pain and i will keep it to myself. she shared her cancer with me through a facebook post of hers. i don’t want anyone to understand that. we havent spoken about it in person.
after the first of what i can assume to be many irritating beach visits, she is quick to point out an “angry foreign father”. trying to bond with me over my angry foreign father. no matter how much i hate him, it doesn’t work. she is the problem here.
i cannot mediate anymore. i cannot be this person to support you both. i wish you could see this is killing me. is this just what it’s like to be a sister? a daughter? a woman?
i’ve spent the whole week hating myself for how light my hair has gotten, because the dye has faded from a couple of months ago and the sunlight here is making it worse. i cannot stop thinking about how as soon as i get home i’m dyeing it darker, i cannot wait to have dark hair. i cannot wait to have dark hair and look like you again, i cannot wait to have dark hair and look like my mum did when she was my age again.
it doesn’t make sense to have so much resentment for her at this time and yet crave this similarity. maybe i just wish i could offer you more, be more for you; show up more for you
my nails are grown out like yours, i remember admiring them when i was younger. you have thinner, nicer hands than mine. but my nails are grown out, part of me wants to be like you
for the first time in four days i smelt the lemon from the candle. i don’t know what to do or where to place that fact.
i told you at some point i’d try and learn arabic, without saying it, you sensed that i wanted to be closer to my family. you understand that feeling, you agreed with me. but you sat there, learning greek, telling me you were almost at the top of the league. i’m proud of you-
i tried to tell you how i felt about current affairs, and the way in which i live. again, you understood, but you didn’t recognise- you didn’t show anything. i wonder if i said something that you could quote, you’d preach on the balcony.
as of right now, 25.10.23 my dad turns 61 tomorrow. she is scratching her bites and makes a groaning sound. i ask whether it’s about his age or the bites. she says both.
i try talking about how my dad doesn’t want me to message him, about how there’s no winning, she says “i still can’t believe how shit laganas high street was”
he comes down from his room. back to dad again.
the day after i don’t know whether to message my dad, i don’t see the point. he will be unhappy, he was born unhappy and 61 years later, nothing has changed. for the first time in my life he didn’t get angry. he didn’t ask any questions. he just said
“thank you very much my girl.”
i think he is well and truly broken.
i want to be in my field again, behind my mums house.
everywhere i go there is an “angry foreign father” with me.
i carry a burning pain in my chest.
i want to be in my field again, behind my mums house.