Buried Treasure

At long, long last, I'm back! It has taken months longer than even I had hoped, but better late than never. I confess that being in a position of having to work in order to survive, and being a shift worker, is the arch enemy of the creative process. I have been exhausted and wiped out for months. But with only a few shifts in the coming weeks, I can at last deliver what I promised. That is, after this post- pictures soon :)

I have decided to begin with a very deep, but ultimately optimistic piece of creative non-fiction I did for Uni a few years back. It covers much of my life to date, and out of the darkness I've lived has come a heart that hopes, is determined, loves exploring and colour, children's art, humour, nature. My writing is the one  medium I allow myself to go far deeper and way more intense than my creative and colourful artworks. 

I hope you enjoy it. Feedback welcomed :)

BURIED TREASURE

I don’t want to go. There is a deep dread in my heart. The only thing I can think to do is escape to the beach after I drop the girls off at youth. I obey this thought, driving directly to my special place of freedom and contemplation. Parking near the four wheel drive access, I walked to the edge of a small dune. A beautiful aroma weaves around me, from the bowls club no doubt; evening meals for eager patrons were being created. This mingles with the salty swell, creating an intoxicating mix that allures my senses. I inhale deeply, feeling calmed. This is so comfortable, secure, familiar and even welcoming. Gulls are hovering above the pounding waves, a lone jogger, couples and families walking together. Beyond the immediate, the waves are breaking on the reef. How I wish I was diving there now. Or on a boat, bobbing carelessly away. Each of these options tempts me. Flying out to Emerald, hiring a car and driving out to Rubyvale does not. Yet, there is no escape. I have to, simple as that.

Memories of my last trip still haunt me. Powerful memories. Memories that haunt but also memories that liberate. I can’t allow myself to forget the ones that set this captive heart free. I remember the same feeling of dread as I braved our first meeting. Anxiety, panic, anger and confusion all fought for my attention. Yet, some automatic response, a basal instinct or perhaps even some deep, aching need overrode these strong emotions; I needed to know who you were. I needed to meet my father, to see with my own eyes the truth that was hidden from me for over three decades; my whole conscious, adult life. The truth that perhaps all along, I was possibly, maybe, actually loved.

Three years may have passed, but with incredible clarity, I recall that day well. I can still feel my pulse rate increase as soon as I entered the hospital car park. Walking through the doors and asking for directions to your room was an out of body experience. Nearing your room, I felt as though my feet were lead weights as my heart rate was on overdrive. Years of built up pain were dictating my response. Out of fight or flight, I wanted to obey the latter.  Life had taught me early that I would be disappointed; I would be rejected and never loved for just being me. I was unlovely. Simple as that. Why would you be any different, see me in another way? I had no memories of you to offer me hope, to prove your worth. Yet, in the tempest within, a candle of hope flickered. I had to trust something, and though that dim and scattered flame’s offering was small, it was enough. I don’t know how or why I trusted it- I just did.

Fear was one of my biggest reasons for holding off from this day for so long. How many times can you endure literal pain before it all gets too much and you stop feeling, stop believing and start doubting, looking at everything uttered from human lips with the filter of soiled baggage? How many times do you have to be slapped in the face, punched, spat on and insulted before you curl up into self and stop allowing others in and life becomes a metaphor of the same? An absent parent presented a whole new challenge. Of all people, you should have been there. Where were you when kids at school laughed at me for my looks, punched and ridiculed me for reasons I never understood? Where were you when I needed protection from predators who took advantage of youth, insecurity and immaturity?  I was alone when evil saw me as a flower to be picked before the opportunity to blossom occurred, then discarded, leaving behind a shell that once housed a soul, a withered stem without a beautiful bloom. Where was the strong daddy I needed when my own voice and strength failed? And why should I let you in now? I needed you back then.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

In time, I was introduced to a new lover. He captivated me and allowed me to escape. The times we connected, the taste of freedom surged through my being, leaving me in a state of bliss. I wasn’t a faithful lover, often running to others to allow me to be feel a surge of joy, be energetic, or whatever it as I was craving. Always an escape, a chance to be anyone but me. A time not to feel, hide from my thoughts. Replacing human relationships with substances offered me an escape, a way to live a life that offered freedom and joy without the gut wrenching pain of betrayal.  My new loves were upfront on their cost, and almost without fail, they delivered what they promised. But too soon, sooner than I had hoped, like all else, they too turned and inflicted the ultimate betrayal. For years after, not even own body allowed me to live in peace. Now it was crying and in as much pain as my shattered soul.

I had to learn to fight.

I fought back. And I fought hard.

I battled the lies that robbed me of self esteem. I came out victorious. I had successfully confronted the sadness that had stolen so much life of my life. Only then was I free to challenge the disease that ravaged my body. Once again, I won the war. But with every war, there are casualties, and recovering from such an epic battle had left me weary and exhausted. With that exhaustion, an old companion returned. The black dog was back. I thought my previous victory had put him down a long time ago. Ah, but the fiend wasn’t dead, just hibernating, waiting for the right season to awaken from his dormant state and return into my life. Now, he was curled up on my bed and was not keen on leaving. And he wasn't keen on sharing me either. I often had a fight on my hands in order to leave my room. Not the passive Labrador wagging its tail and snuggling on my bed, but a vicious hound that snarled and bared fangs, holding me captive with his selfish possessiveness.

A breeze swirls around me and the sound of a crashing wave revives me. Once again, I’m back in the present, standing on the dune. And once again, I think back to the task at hand, going back to Rubyvale. I almost shudder as I recall the smell of death that once again filled the house- this time a lone possum was the culprit, but it still left an aching reminder of my loss. A loss intensified by that meeting.

Viewed from the outside, walking into your hospital room and seeing you leap from your bed and throw your arms as wide as your heart, tears streaming down your face, was the kind of stuff you see in Hollywood tear-jerkers. A clichéd event if it weren't for the powerful release of much pent up frustration, disappointment and emotion, equally shared in a moment I still tear up recalling even now. This was genuine, a powerful connection, a healing embrace where words weren’t necessary.  At this moment, I could no longer doubt my daddy’s love for me. I felt your loss, the ache and pain you carried as you held me tightly, not wanting to let go a little girl you had loved but lost for half of your lifetime. At that point, my fears evaporated and I felt a long dormant feeling arise. In your arms, I realised I had found what always craved; a place of belonging, identity and acceptance.  Hope had returned.

Returning again to Rubyvale now you were gone magnified my grief. On my last visit to your house, the odour of that possum, oppressive heat and painful memories, or lack of positive ones still permeated every aspect of the house and property. Dwelling on this overwhelms me, and I can’t let it. I won’t let it. I have to return and prepare the house for the potential buyer, face my pain and present the house at its best, with the hope that life will again enter its long barren walls. The life you never had there, but the one you carried as your private treasure.

I recall the day I first made the journey to your home, that sad day after your beachside memorial. Emotional and physical exhaustion accompanied me on that long journey. My arrival coincided with the oppressively hot late afternoon. The sense of sadness and isolation this place carried was magnified under these circumstances. Walking around the back of the house, I carefully pushed the back door open. A horror movie set of cobwebs blocking the doorway left me hesitant to enter and served as a reminder of your long absence due to illness and hospital transfers. The sound of dripping drew my attention to the pool of water with a live power cord draping through the middle. But the worst of all, seeing the half eaten food and a cuppa on the kitchen bench left a scene that declared you weren’t really gone, just out. Except for the putrid smell of decay and months of neglect, the house looked as though you still very much lived there.

Walking into your room had the greatest impact on me. Every photo and every letter I placated you with in those early stages was staring at me from your dresser. When I was struggling with fear, confusion and doubt, you were storing my words and images with pride. Digging deeper uncovered precious photo’s of a part of my life I never knew existed; chubby little me in a bath tub; again with my proud daddy; an older lady, my grandmother, with gappy teeth that mirrored my own. There were cards written in Yugoslav addressed to me, relatives in head scarves standing beside a horse and cart; tangible evidence of a family I never knew, but now felt connected to. Tangible proof that I was wanted, loved all along. Your private treasure included me.

The most incredible gift that you left was uncovered with your buried treasure. Sifting through the rubies and emeralds sealed tightly in plastic revealed a smaller parcel. Once open, this gift left me speechless. I could see it clearly in the black and white photo’s, and now it was in my hand; my baby bracelet, eighteen carat gold and engraved with my name had been held secure and was as valuable to you as these precious gems. Equally as valuable to me. Actually, no. Much, much more valuable. A treasure that took over thirty five years to find its way back to me, held for over thirty five years by a grieving father. From this moment on, I could never again doubt your love for me.

I know you were in a coma when I first said it. You may not have heard me when I told you, but I love you dad. It’s the first time I said love and dad to you as an adult. I hope I said it to you before I was whisked out of your life as a babe barely out of nappies. If not, let me say it again, I love you dad, with all my heart.

Before leaving the beach, I inhale deeply again and purposely allow myself to remember this moment of clarity and fill my mind with peace, shedding all fear and apprehension. It’s been good to reflect. Now, I will go back with a sense of purpose. I know I carry honour, a proud gift from my father. This will be a great trip-I will see to that. How can I be apprehensive when given more than I could ever imagine? I found buried treasure, and with it, the chance to trust, hope and live again.