Tuesday. 21 July. 2.55pm.
At home it is Wednesday, 22 July, 4.55am.
Tomorrow begins the journey home. By 8 am I will have left Lauren and the Constitution Inn in an Uber bound for Boston’s South Station Bus Terminal. At 10 am I will be on a Greyhound Bus bound for New York’s 42nd Street Port Authority Terminal. I will catch either a yellow cab or the shuttle to JFK Airport.
I fly out at 6.45 pm. A two and a quarter hour stop over in LA and then to Sydney.
I arrive at Kingsford Smith at 7.40 am Friday, 24th July.
Train to Campbelltown to pick up Max and then home home.
I feel like it has been much longer than two weeks away from Australia. Much longer.
What a trip.
I have loved it.
And I have so many ideas for short stories; it has been interesting to note that I have started consciously thinking as a writer does. Every person, every conversation, every outing, every experience – fodder for stories.
I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs that I wrote two additional pieces after seeing/hearing Mary Badham on the 14th July.
I will post them below.
The first is a generic piece about the impact I perceive NY had on me at that point in time. The second is a little darker and highlights something that I need to now work on for myself (and I have commenced this process).
New York has revealed a potential for my life that I have never realised prior to now. The idea that there is more is something that I have always known. The reality that there is more is something that only New York has revealed to me.
A literary community. A world in change. Dreams being realised. This is the embodiment of NYC for me.
And I am completely clueless how I take that home with me and manifest it into a reality that is mine but that I feel so removed and disenfranchised from here; in a way that travel has never successfully achieved before. In the past I have always felt connected to ‘home’. Here, I question what home is.
I feel myself fundamentally changing and I wonder if I will ever be able to feel settled at home again. The potential of here is significant. I feel it in my core.
Content and language inappropriate for young people. Only read if over 18.
Longer Lasting Impact of Failed IVF
I don’t like myself.
I like the things that I do but I don’t like myself as a woman.
I’m a good person, a great person really. But I have no confidence in myself as a female.
Prior to IVF I was sexually confident and confident in my femininity. I’ve realized that’s gone. At first I thought it was because I was always so busy. And to some extent that is true. But really, the deeper issue is that I believe that I have failed as a woman.
The fundamental thing a woman should be able to do is reproduce. And I haven’t. And that failure has robbed me of my ability to regard myself as a confident sexual woman.
And that’s fucked.
I guess acknowledging it is the first step; connecting the pieces is helpful. And overwhelmingly sad.
As we age we seem to disappear as women. I thought this could be it too. But no, if I’m being honest, I don’t like myself. My body has failed me and so I don’t like it. There is a dead spot, a black hole, where the essence of me as a woman used to be.
It finished with the C word but for obvious reasons I have censored that here (sort of).
I will move deeper into this longer lasting impact later on, at home home. I choose not to delve into the darkness as I prepare to pack my suitcase. Time enough later on.
In case I don’t get to write again from here, I shall see you at home.