Unbearable crossroads

I’ve hit the crossroad.  I know which direction I want to, and have to take.  I fear it, but I know I don’t have an option.  I woke this morning to anger, which gave way to sore, and before I knew it I was crying in that free-fall way that lets out stuff which has been gathering inside for a long time and is so painful to let out.

I found myself visualizing calling my mother and asking her to just listen to what happened with my bankruptcy.  I thought, if I tell her the truth of how hard I worked to make a life for myself – surely she’ll listen?  Surely.

And if I tell her that I worked like a frenzied slave in my art gallery, that the center management promised me a break on the rent for six months so I could get going, then broke their word, and charged me rent, turning my new business into an instant nightmare – surely she’ll say I didn’t know that, it must have been terrifying.  How did you keep going?

If I tell her that somehow I did, that I kept it together, that I got as thin as a rake, that I felt like I was slipping on black ice, being chased by monsters, scrabbling to get up, scrabbling to survive, surely she’ll respect me?

If I tell her I begged and begged and begged the bank to let me establish something else so I could pay them back, but they refused, she’ll be angry with the bank?  Surely she’ll want to write letters to them, to the press, to defend me?  Surely she’ll say I’m so sorry I keep speaking about the bank as an institution of integrity, because I realize now they aren’t?  Won’t she say I’m sorry I’ve been so insensitive in this matter?

Surely if I tell her about the Business Partners consultant who led me to believe I had R300 000 backing for my gallery, but who was only trying to get sex out of me she’d be enraged; and if I tell her that Business Partners then ran a steam roller over me to shut me up so I wouldn’t sue them or go to the press – surely she’ll be so outraged that she’ll want to write angry letters to them and threaten to sue them herself, and want to go and speak to the CEO and make a huge fuss about it?  Surely she’ll be heartbroken for me?

If I tell her that the bank was harassing me – illegally – about my debt, and that when my gallery was going down, I was in such a blind panic, but I still didn’t collapse, I created something else, surely she’ll say that’s incredible, darling, I’m so proud of you.  So so proud of you.  I’m so so sorry I haven’t known.

As my fantasy gathered momentum I convinced myself that yes, of course she would respond with love and care.  Such a small child within me saying all these things, unable to believe that she would turn from me.

But she did.  Cold.  Angry.  Unfeeling.

I can’t bear this.  It’s so sore.  I weep.


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