June 23, 2005
A colourful marriage
Taken from the best-selling collection 'Moments Short Stories by Irish Women Writers in Aid of the Victims of the Tsunami'.
I find Heather upstairs in my bedroom. She is sprawled on her stomach, legs in scissor like formation. She has the television on full blast as per usual. I turn it down slightly. She giggles.
“What’s so funny Het?” I ask.
I know she won’t answer me. I am resigning myself to the fact that she might never speak again, resigning myself to her muteness. When was it that she had stopped talking altogether? I immediately feel it is my fault. I must have done something wrong. Despite my guilt, I am not about to give up. Not now that the Enfield Child Guidance Clinic has come on board. Thank God.
I don’t want to think about it. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably... I need a Valium to think straight. I need a Valium to think about something else. I need a Valium to function. I need…
I tell the thoughts to go away. The thoughts of Miles and Heather, my husband and my daughter. They are supposed to be the two closest people to me in the whole world. Not strangers that pass me on the landing, barely speaking, barely breathing the air around me, and barely exchanging glances over the kitchen table at breakfast.
It isn’t long before the tablets take effect. I can apply my make-up without my hand jerking this way and that. I can talk without feeling the pain in my cheek, where last night Miles had thumped me repeatedly. I can pretend I had not been thrown across the floor and hit the corner of the glass coffee table. I can pretend there hadn’t been blood on my nightdress. I can pretend he hadn’t said those horrible words…
“The only thing you’ re good for is sex,”
I can blot it out, just like I am blotting out the purple and yellow bruise that has blossomed overnight. I have had much practise in the art of disguise. I can manage perfectly, as long as I can’t feel.
I pull in to the Enfield Child Guidance Clinic and find a parking space easy enough. We are early. As we enter through the dull brown doors of the clinic, I feel Heather’s tiny hand grip mine just a little bit harder. I squeeze it back without looking at her. I can feel her anxiety. Her cherry lips draw hard into a straight line and her shoulders are rigid and tense, her steps loud and methodical on the polished concrete stairs.
We sit down on a crooked couch that slouches to the right and wait. Heather amuses herself with broken bits of toys. Everything seems broken, second hand or lopsided. It is strangely comforting. Afterall, I am all of those things myself.
In the appointment room, I stare hard at the enormous window screen before me. I can’t see anything through it. On the centre of it is a white telephone. Mark Holby, the facilitator, picks it up and begins whispering down the line.
Heather wanders about the room as if searching for something. I pretend not to notice. No one else is making any reference to it anyway. I wish she would just sit down. It is making me nervous.
I can’t very well order her to sit down.
What will the panel of psychologists behind the screen think of me then?
I am so anxious and nervous knowing there is six of them behind there. We are being studied, like some unusual monkey strain threatened by extinction.
Mark Holby ends the mysterious dialogue with the other side. It all feels so absurd. The panel seems to be instructing him. I wait. Back arched, shoulders up, fingers drumming my locked knees. I try to drop my shoulders and look more relaxed.
“OK Mrs. Corcoran” he starts.
“It’s Clare,” I smile.
“Clare,” he nods towards me and smiles back.
I shouldn’t have offered my first name.
Moments Short Stories by Irish Women Writers in Aid of the Victims of the Tsunami is available from all good book stores.
Posted by damien at 04:40 PM | Comments (0)
Skin Deep - the new novel from Catherine Barry
'Rich with Irish humour and universal truths, Skin Deep cuts through the world's outer shell to reveal real, flawed people you care about ... by turns witty and tragic: its poignancy will remain long after you've read it' - Cathy Kelly
Skin Deep is available from bookstores now...
With her characteristic blend of humour and pathos, Catherine Barry introduces us to Finn, a woman who decides that her failed relationships and poor job prospects could all be wiped out if only her appearance was different.
Forget the past of a dysfunctional childhood – Finn thinks that plastic surgery would make her world a better place. With bigger breasts, she will finally be happy. Or will she?
Catherine Barry writes with intuition and humour about modern women. In The House That Jack Built, she explored the story of alcohol addiction; in Null And Void, she looked at marriage breakdown and the pain of moving on. Now, in Skin Deep, she focuses on self-image and one woman’s idea that changing herself on the outside, will sort out the problems of the inside.
'Rich with Irish humour and universal truths, Skin Deep cuts through the world's outer shell to reveal real, flawed people you care about ... by turns witty and tragic: its poignancy will remain long after you've read it' - Cathy Kelly
Click on the picture to buy the book!
Posted by suzanne at 04:29 PM | Comments (0)
The 28th Day - extract
From the Collection Irish Girls About Town
I am sitting at the breakfast table with my husband Michael, the man I normally love cherish and adore. Only I will not love and cherish and adore him for the next 24 hours. I will detest, despise and resent the very air he breathes because I have p.m.t.
I am trying very hard to ignore the loud slurping noises emanating from his corner as he performs an architectural dig on a bowl of cornflakes. He scrapes the bottom with a metal spoon. The noise is worse than two skeletons fighting to get out of a biscuit tin. I know I have p.m.t. I know what it is. I know why it happens. I know all about the hormonal imbalance, but all the knowledge in the world will not abate the terrific storm that looms in our normally happy abode. I know that it passes and I know I can’t help the way I feel. All the same, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to stick a knife in Michael’s eye.
Ellie, my eight year old wanders in to the kitchen. Her blonde ponytails are matted in Sabrina’s secrets hair mascara. She has a ton of lipstick on, and none of it, is on her lips. She stands at the table with her new violin. She places the bow on the strings. The noise that comes out sounds like a bag of suffocating cats. She’s only had three lessons and she’s bloody awful. I try not to cover my ears.
“Hello munchkin,” Michael says to her. Hello, he says, to her. Not a good morning to me. He did that deliberately. The swine. He’ll do everything in his power to trip me up. Well, he can sing, I’m not going to utter one profanity or make one mistake this time. It doesn’t occur to me that I haven’t exactly showered him with love and adoration and overt affection, nor does it occur to me that within five seconds I will have offended every breathing entity within my radius and not have a clue why.
“Ellie. Have you been at my make-up bag again?” I snap at the little mite. She is waiting for me to tell her how good she is on the violin, but my wincing has convinced her to put it away.
The narkiness is not directed towards her or even him but I am powerless to shut my mouth. It will do exactly as it pleases and I will be completely at its mercy for the whole day. What I really need is one of those muzzles, you know, like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs? I’m not fit to be let out, let alone speak. I contemplate taking a large dose of sleeping pills that will knock me unconscious for the waiting duration until the blessed period arrives. At best, Michael might hold off with the divorce papers, which is what he threatened me with the last time. He’s always saying he will leave home when the next bout of madness comes around. With the daggers looks that are being exchanged presently, genocide seems a more likely outcome. I know by Michael’s face that he is aware it’s that time of the month. I can’t stand the sight of him. His very presence is annoying me. I hate the way he makes those little grunting noises. He looks fat and old and I can’t remember one tiny ant sized good thing about him. Actually, I can’t even remember why I married him. Look at the state of him. Smiling away to himself. The great big eejit. Happy he is. The fucking nerve. He’s no right to be happy when I feel like a bag of shit. He’s doing that to annoy me as well. The ‘I’m a happy normal well adjusted balanced human being’ thing. As opposed to ‘You’re a crazed lunatic with a potentially lethal kitchen utensil and I’m pretending not to notice that my life is at stake,’
Extract taken from The 28th Day, from the collection Irish Girls about town
Posted by damien at 08:47 AM | Comments (0)
June 11, 2005
PMT - The Real Weapon of Mass Destruction
Ever wanted to kill your husband? Well, you're not the only one...
Off with his legs
A friend remarked to me today that if her lover had referred to her as flippantly as‘ a pair of old slippers that he can’t get rid of’, she too would have happily whacked him over the head with a cricket bat and stabbed him in the chest. Had she been in the throes of p.m.t she might have sawn his legs off as well. There wouldn’t have been any more ‘slipper’ jokes; that’s for sure. He wouldn’t be needing them again anyway.
Such were the shock and horror quotations sprawled across Tuesdays papers about Jane Andrews pending trial for the murder of her lover whom she discovered was having a secret affair by e-mail. Just what makes a woman go over the edge and lose all control, whose rage intensifies to such a peak that a murder is committed? What drives women to do such atrocities? What’s going on?
The 28th Day
My friend is by all intent and purposes a perfectly well adjusted normal human being and was only joking, but should we really be laughing so hard? She admits that at certain times of the month, she can understand how any woman can fan the fire of resentment with fantasies of causing grievous bodily harm to their loved ones. Especially when they are hurting and have valid and legitimate reasons for being angry.
Being angry is ok. But does it give us a free pass to mutilate and gun down the opposite sex as seen reported more and more often in the tabloids I ask her? One case in question comes to mind. A woman in the states who murdered her lover in the thick of pre menstrual tension or pre menstrual syndrome, as it is more commonly known. She was acquitted her crime if my memory serves me right. Does that mean a free for all? Can we all barrel down to the local Toys’r’us and buy a truckload of cricket bats and wreak revenge at random? A short sharp trip to the loony bin and hey it’s all over baby. They say if you’re looking for revenge you better dig two graves and I believe in that.
Healthy? Ha!
Of course, you might say, I don’t know my arse from my elbow and when I was told this article was about relationships, well frankly. I burst out laughing. You’re right. I’ve no idea what constitutes a healthy loving intimate relationship but then again does anyone? However as far as I know, it’s generally unacceptable to beat the living daylights out of each other and then blame the chemist for having no starflower oil or Vitamin B6 in stock. It just so happens that I am in the middle of writing a short story on the subject of p.m.t. for a new book and wonder is it possible, that women can be pushed over the edge at the wrong time? Well next time your girlfriend is in p.m.t. try asking her would she like a cup of tea? What will happen? Let me guess.
If you are lucky, she will give you a look that would wither a rose. More than likely she will slap you across the head and tell you to go and stick it where the sun don’t shine. Now add the scenario of her finding out you are making love to a computer on the sly and insult her with the above quote from Tommy Cressman and ponder with justifiable amazement how you are still alive because he’s pushing up daisies right now. I hope you are getting the gist of it. I’m not saying Jane Andrews was suffering from p.m.t. I’m just posing the question. What if she was? Guys, if you value your time on this planet, don’t push the button. You may never live to see what a cricket bat is actually intended for and you may look down one day and find yourself minus the bottom half of your legs. According to my friend, of course.
The Celtic Bogcat
Violence is an undeniable part of today’s news coverage and is more out there due to media accessibility but is it really fair to assume it is only the result of the crumbling values so prevalent in society today? I ask my friend, has not the Celtic Tiger brought with it the nasty negative dark side as well as the positive? What of the millennium diseases like greed, road rage, bad manners, pursuit of power and money as the be all and end all? Have we not got lost in the chase for happiness out there instead of in here? Yes and no my friend replies.
With all this affluence and wealth one would imagine we are all happy in our nappy and destined to spin in euphoric glee for ever after. Yes well Catherine Nevin isn’t very happy at the moment and Myra Hindley certainly wasn’t suffering from some slight backache and a bloated stomach. There are bad women as well as men. Looking back through history, there have been many cases in the category described above. Those kinds of stories were always occurring, we just didn’t hear about it. The Queens of old, spring to mind as a point in case. They had a penchant for chopping off heads as nonchalantly as we dice onions for spaghetti Bolognese. No one batted an eyelid. How come? Because they were dead basically, my friend reminds me. Oh yeah. Right.
Spanner
Let me throw a spanner in the works. Just for argument sake could it have anything to do with the constant barrage of violent sex that now seems to be more in demand than ever in the multi billion-pornography business? You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. The burning of a woman’s nipples while she cries seems to be a great turn on I hear. The abuse of children, who are now expected to behave like responsible adults, still goes unacknowledged by those who claimed to be our spiritual guides.
These lost souls can hardly cure themselves. Until someone tells them it wasn’t their fault how are they supposed to heal? They are destined to become abusers too but enough of that, it’s too awful to dwell on. Snuff movies with preplanned murders are hot stuff and readily available in this country but if you don’t tell anyone I promise I’ll do a great impression of an ostrich arse up, too.
It seems perfectly acceptable for a man to tear his own skin off in a video that he knows children like my eight year old daughter will watch and other famous women repeatedly tell me if I don’t have a size 99F breast well then it’s my own fault if I’m a lonely old tart.
Rape is on the increase on the streets but also readily available to rent on video. Coincidence or deeply rooted connection? You tell me. Of course I’m not sure if any of that has anything to do with why women murder their lovers. I really don’t know anymore than you. I’m only taking a wild stab in the dark. Better to take a wild stab at something not human and better to direct it where it really belongs than end up in the dock wondering how did I get here?
Buy Skin Deep by Catherine Barry
Posted by damien at 01:21 PM | Comments (0)
June 01, 2005
Eminem and the Bockady People
I love Eminem. There. It’s out. I will say it again. I just love Eminem. I am the mother of two small children, regard myself as a pretty good role model, have raised my kids very well, and they have turned out wonderful. But I still love Eminem…
Closets
He can continue to ‘clean out his closets’ for as long as he wants as far as I am concerned. I think it’s just wonderful. I will buy all his c.d.’s because they just keep getting better and better and no, I don’t openly play him in front of the kids, but it makes no difference. All they have to do is go downstairs and turn MTV on. There’s a lot worse than ‘Eminem’ on MTV that I object to.
The more he vents his anger and expresses his rage, the more he shames his abusers. The more he shames his abusers, the more society reels. Why? Because in this lousy world some people will never acknowledge, let alone apologize for their own behaviour. The victims of this ‘dismissiveness’ have only one choice left. That’s to holler even louder, become more explicit and graphic. He is trying to be heard and he will be. I hear Eminem’s pain. I cry when I hear ‘Cleaning out my closets’ and those who are dumb enough to try and shut him up are only serving to motivate him to write another song, and another…
The Bockady People
Victims of sexual abuse know all about this. I call them the ‘Bockady people’. I use the term ‘sexual abuse’ because of the recent exposure of the real extent of the abuse and the subsequent ‘dismissal’ when help was called for. However, the word ‘abuse’ may cover a multitude. It is not just sexual abuse that has our prisons full of drug addicts (not criminals as we would like to call them).
It is violence, overt and covert, which can occur in the very act of being drunk and terrifying (without hitting anyone) to not being ‘emotionally available’. This is all a spin off of today’s new addictions, food, sex, alcohol, drugs, relationships, money, power and work. You can actually include everything that can be repeated more than once.
The result of all this mayhem is too commonly presented in courts, counsellor’s offices, prison cells and juvenile homes as the now familiar ‘acting out teenager’. The child of course, is only a symptom of the family disease. Parents are as much a part of the problem as the solution and ‘families’ in general need to be treated as a whole. Not just the obvious child who is causing trouble. This is only the tip of the iceberg and until we come to grips with the ‘larger picture’ (that Daddy is beating Mammy and Uncle Jim is abusing his niece) then we are failing our children completely.
Responsible
It is no use wagging fingers at kids who stab, maim or even kill for a mobile phone or the dart fare home. If they are under sixteen then presumably someone, somewhere is responsible for them and these people should be targeted and treated as well as their troublesome off spring. If not, the suicide statistics, the escalating violence on our streets, the seemingly complete absence of any moral decorum will appear as if we are living in New York, not the Dublin we once knew.
People who have been on the receiving end of abuse, no matter how subtle, will take their unresolved conflicts in to life. They have no other place to take them, and are entitled to be heard. Not only do they have to endure a lifetime of depression, broken relationships (if they manage to have any), but also then they have to deal with the ultimate knife in the back. The denial of the abuser. What does this do to someone’s mind? Well, we can see for ourselves can’t we?
What's up Doc?
Next time you’re in your doctor’s surgery, you can surmise that half of the patients in the waiting room are being treated for depression. The guy who just mowed down people in the streets, well what’s his story? Bet its abuse of some kind. Absenteeism from work (due to depression, addiction or inability to just cope) is costing company’s billions. Our private hospitals are full of people who don’t know what’s wrong with them. Our current road accidents are the highest figures ever; they always seem to happen at 3a.m. These people are hardly out to get a pint of milk? A lot them are as ‘drunk’ on medication as alcohol.
Our prisons are full of ‘untreated addicts’ who have been forced in to some kind of crime to support it. They are thrown on the street again and on the vicious circle goes. Hurt people, hurt people.
Rewards
They are on your child’s computer waiting to do to the innocent what was done to them, because they don’t know any better. When our Church (supposedly our protectors and guides) cosset, protect and sweep over such violation of human rights, society will reap the rewards.
Although it is not a problem exclusive to the Catholic Church. It is just as likely to be your next-door neighbour who is abusing as the local parish priest.
The rewards are all there for us to see in the headlines of yesterday’s paper, today’s paper, and yes, tomorrow’s paper. It was Nelson Mandela who said in his inaugural speech ‘Don’t play it small, playing small helps nobody’. He didn’t mean people can go about blindingly abusing others because they were abused. On the contrary, if the ‘Eminem’s’ of this world all used their energy creatively and poured it in to constructive expression, there would be a lot more healing. Me? I am just about to step out and buy his new album. Keep talking ‘Eminem’. I hear you…
Information on drugs from the National Drugs Strategy Group
Posted by damien at 01:22 PM | Comments (0)