Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
Eve was very hopeful as she stepped off the plane in New Zealand. With a spark of hope in her soul, she had planned for this day for three years, saving money in her son's spare bank account so her abusive partner wouldn’t know she had an escape route. Day in, day out, she’d tolerated the taunting, the entitled taking of what was hers to give, but was never asked for, the occasional out-of-character act of kindness so swiftly turned to further disappointment, and the filth and degradation of the home which had become her prison. She had become remote even to herself. She had felt dispersed, like an octopus with tentacles reaching in all directions, until one reached across the world to attach to fresh possibility. Her new life would erase all that pain and she would be able to breathe again.
Heavily jet-lagged, she made her way across town to the wooden house where she would once again be reunited with both her parents. Echoes of a childhood where she lived with them alone reverberated through her soul. Her siblings had been rehomed due to neglect from (and harsh judgments on) her mother in a time less forgiving of women’s choices. She greeted her father first, her first abuser, who she’d always been afraid of. As she reached up to kiss his cheek, she understood he was no threat to her now. No-one had judged or convicted him, but his acts were now just part of their shared history, and, while they had predisposed her to abuse she had endured throughout her life, they were now less raw memories. She believed she could become free of their legacy now she was reclaiming her life.
Still exhausted but on a mission, shortly afterwards she got a taxi to the nursing home where her mother had lain inert for the best part of ten years. The nurses said there were no responses, but she could have sworn her mother groaned when she offered, 'It’s Eve, mum, I'm here now,' and took her cool limp hand in hers. She sat there beside her until one of the carers demanded that she leave, as visiting time was over. As she tiptoed backwards out of the room so as to extend the time by just a few more seconds, she wondered if her mother could feel her departure, even though she made no sound. It reminded her of her childhood, where she had tried so hard to be seen and not heard, as that’s what was required, and yet she kept arousing anger by simply being herself and speaking occasionally on one of the multitudinous topics she had swallowed whole from her encyclopaedic array of reading material.
She was also due to visit her sister that night, the one that she had been estranged from for years. She hadn’t been invited and perhaps they would have turned her away again anyway, blaming her once more for all the toxicity in the family; it’s convenient to have a scapegoat. But she never got there. She had been strolling down the main street towards the train station to catch the train to her suburb when her legs gave way. She saw only a white light at the end of a tunnel (for the second time in her life – the first was when she was strangled), and time bent into nothingness. She never found out how long she had lost consciousness for. As she blinked and regained focus, she saw a man's hand passing her a leaflet. It was entitled 'Alcoholics Anonymous'. Still bleary, she stuffed it in her pocket as the ambulance arrived.
Some time later in the hospital having a diagnosis of 'deep vein thrombosis', with the medical interventions that had saved her life still present, she noticed the leaflet on the bedside table. She reached for it and read it. At once, her whole adult life crystalised and she understood that the disease of alcoholism had in fact enabled her to tolerate abuse for so many years. Memories and realisations crashed in on her as she came to see how the disease had underpinned everything. Tears rolled from her eyes, not from pain (although she had plenty) or from sorrow, but from truth. She had denied even to herself how she had spent her life in pursuit of oblivion through alcohol, and now it was undeniably clear.
One month later, physically improved, she entered her first AA meeting. At the front of the room, carved from wood by a member was a sculptural artwork which spelt HOPE in bold capitals. A burly man nodded his head towards the carving.
'Hearing Other People’s Experience, it stands for,' he said, 'Or Hang On; Pain Ends.’
She smiled only a little superficially, but inside a huge flame of deep hope had been ignited, and her inner smile was boundless.
'You’re right!' she exclaimed.
I wish I could tell you that that was the end of the story. Or that her life became full of meaning, joy and purpose and she lived to the age of 96, sober and happy. But that’s not how her story ended. For a time, she cared for her parents and enjoyed life without alcohol or abuse in her life. And then she found another abuser, married him before she knew his character, withdrew from AA and the childhood sexual abuse counselling she had only just commenced, and then quickly lost hope again. She drank again. She died.
Still, the tentacles of hope that extended from her life grew elsewhere as they touched so many others who she had inspired with her intelligent, effervescent personality, loving nature and her short time of sobriety. They were able to develop healthier and happier lives for themselves and others, even though Eve ultimately could not sustain this. Hope is a happy octopus with tentacles that reach far and wide. Its suckers CAN attach and stay.
But, sometimes, octopi swim away.
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