I might as well come clean before I go on grazing dangerously close to bottom.
It would be disrespectful to She said: He said (especially as he has no
voice here. No access).
After 12 years, my husband and I separated. Simply put (a tremendous
exercise in reductionism) It was Dr Parkinsons, in the Front Hall, with
the Door Key.
In the early years we surmounted so much: difficult times and being
from different worlds (Canada-Africa, race, religion, socio-economic and
geopolitical realities, language, and separations due to immigration…). And 7
years in age as some narrow-minded people nudge-nudge-winked me. I brought out
the best in him and he brought out the best in me.
And then Parkinsons arrived
and I was no longer exactly the same me and nothing was the same.
In the past there had been occasional lapses which rent the fabric of
our Njakhass (patchwork) but they were always stitched back
up.
It took a full year from when he broke my heart until he moved out. The
last 4 months in Senegal were a long and terrifying period of isolation and
vulnerability. Fear, just fear, without a specific threat. Clinical Fear.
And then an old friend reconnected (with "unfinished business"), recognizing me and making me smile. And a new one arrived (with her courage and humour in the face of adversity, be it hers or mine or another's) just in time to save my sanity. There were others there, in Senegal, who were supportive. Even though much was lost in translation, I thank them.
And then an old friend reconnected (with "unfinished business"), recognizing me and making me smile. And a new one arrived (with her courage and humour in the face of adversity, be it hers or mine or another's) just in time to save my sanity. There were others there, in Senegal, who were supportive. Even though much was lost in translation, I thank them.
And now we are taking it amicably as best we can.
However this does not preclude mourning what is lost…
