The 15th of August is an important christian holiday in most mediterranean countries and mine is not an exception. Though I no longer identify as a christian, many of my family members are tied to that day and besides we are always tied to the the rituals in our life. I tried calling them but they did not reply, perhaps due to the foreign number they did not recognise on their screen.
It's been about two weeks since my move to a new country and on the outside I have been really lucky: we found a home easily and came across many people willing to help, in spite of the roadblocks that happen along the way (immigration has never been uncomplicated it seems and I have been fortunate.) The blessing of this has been remarkable, without it I think the last part of me would have crumbled on the spot.
I left the country while half of it was burning, watching image after image of forests and small towns being engulfed by flames as the fire progressed. A couple more femicides took place as well and though the new life here started as smoothly as it possibly could in my insides a turmoil took hold. I felt rage and the need to mourn rising, choking me and there were no people around with whom I could share how I have been feeling.
And that has been the hard part: for all its smoothness, all that happened crushed into the pain of leaving my country not for chasing a dream but rather a sense of survival. And the pain was fueled further by all the destruction and pain I witnessed through the lens of others. And for now I have no space here to grieve, not for the future, my country, the things I felt being torn inside me.
A few people have messaged me to ask how I am but for the most part the conversations feel almost hollow - there was too much in too little time and I did not know how to embark on this conversations. They were nonetheless appreciated even if I lacked words for answering. There is just one thread of conversation that continues to eat away at me and it's filled with goodmornings and goodnights and pretty much nothing else - I wonder whether perhaps neither of us is at fault for this. I'm working on auto-pilot, focusing on the task at hand and nothing further and he works an abominable amount of hours. When he asks how I am I can only say that I guess I am fine. I want to ask for more but there's hardly the space and time and, worst yet, I'm afraid that not only will I not be able to give any support but also that I will burden further and so I stay mute. I feel the silence grow further, every time he says he'll call but inevitably he never does.
The mere fact that this hurts annoys me but I feel like I have been slipping back into known terrain, learning how to go about as if there never was another voice on the other side of the line and slowly I expect nothing but silence. I start to wonder who will write last into silence.
At nights I have difficulty sleeping, especially since for now I need to share a bed until we're able to purchase a second one. That makes things harder because I don't have much personal space during the day and now I don't have ti during the night either. For the last couple of months before I left it was a similar situation back at the other home but all the new changes made the lack of space unbearable. Tonight's the first night that I am alone in the house and I have been almost praying that I will break into tears but instead there has been absolute silence. I picked up smoking again, it won't be for long so I allowed myself that one setback until I get some things back in my head.
I waited for the tears to come but instead I sit in silence.
And again, I begin to write.
