'Don't it always seem to go
that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone'
So sang Joni Mitchel in 'Big yellow taxi'.
In a similar vein, the Greek philosopher of Stoicism, Epictitus said , 'He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things he has not, but rejoices for those which he has'.
I think it's safe to say that one of life's truisms is that we rarely appreciate what we have until we've been deprived of it. And I've been thinking about this quite a lot of late, now that I'm all husbanded up again.
I feel like a latter day George Bailey or Ebenezer Scrooge, having had a mirror held up to my life to show me what is important; and like Dorothy too, everything I needed was in my own backyard all along (actually this metaphor doesn't hold up - after all, DH wasn't in the back yard, but up in the Pilbara, but bear with me dear reader).
Of course the separation wasn't of my choosing - nor DH's for that matter, choice has become a luxury in these times of recession - but like everything in life, it's best to learn something from a bad experience, even if it's simply the knowledge that you never want to experience it again.
 |
| Happiness was in the backyard all along (metaphorically speaking) |
With DH gone, life became an A-to-B-to-C like chore, with jobs to be done, boxes to be ticked, but with little or no joy. Night time was the worst, spent shooting out of the bed every 30 minutes or so, throwing the light switch to illuminate imaginary intruders in dark corners. Eventually I would fall asleep, just as rosy fingered dawn began to announce herself through the thin curtains, leaving me whey-faced and exhausted.
On other nights a few glasses of wine ensured not just a false sense of company and well-being, but guaranteed an uninterrupted sleep, albeit with a sluggish sense of regret the following morning.
Catch 22.
I've always rejoiced at a new day, excited at what it might bring, but this optimism had been replaced by despair and a mental countdown of how many days remained until DH returned.
I had stopped leaving the house for anything other than essentials - the school run or emergency groceries from the nearby over-priced IGA, and had fallen into what can only be described as a sort of agoraphobic pattern; life had become a waiting game. Waiting in the house. Waiting for DH to return.
I tried to stay away from people, since I would inevitably find myself talking about my situation, tears sitting thickly at the back of my throat, threatening at all times to spring forth and mortify me. My wonderful Australian friend, K, ignoring my protests, would occasionally drag me out for a coffee or a glass of wine, 'I'm not like this in real life, honestly' I would tell her, 'I'm way more fun, and I'm thinner too!...it's just...it's just...' my eyes would start to fill.
I wasn't a widow for goodness sake! And unlike some of my friends who have recently emerged from relationships, shell-shocked and shaking, my marriage wasn't over. This - ludicrously - was just a work arrangement. All this pain, for a JOB? And not a particularly good job at that - unlike the myths you hear about FIFO in the Australian media, we hadn't paid our mortgage off in a miraculous amount of time or were half way towards saving for a holiday house. This was merely a way of getting by.
What was worse was that my children had stopped asking for their father; hardly noticed his absence after a while. I was mother and father to them, but not doing a particularly good job at either role.
I think the all encompassing feeling during this time was that of being 'unsafe'. It can't be denied that a few glasses of wine helped this feeling disappear for a while as the alcohol flooded my system and a sense of ease descended. And thus I was heading into the grubby role of becoming a FIFO statistic, a casualty of what this way of life can do to some people.
My only attempt to counteract all this misery was to take to my local pool every now and then, to thrash out my frustration, lap after lap, limbs striking water in angry slaps. It helped.
Eventually I insisted I would not become a victim to this, would not be defined by my husband's absence. But equally I would not accept this as a way of life. I told DH he had to come home, and come home for good. And mercifully dear reader, he did.
And now there is a sense of warm awakening - like Spring - which is slowly spreading through my day, like green shoots emerging from cold, dead winter ground; a sense of safety restored. I'm being reminded what life used to be like, following eight months of having DH rationed to three and a half days in each fortnight.
I remarked to him yesterday that I feel like a newlywed - almost coy - unaccustomed to having him there when I wake in the morning to push a freshly made cup of coffee into my sleepy hand; someone to switch off the bedside light when I fall asleep, book collapsed on my chest. Someone to help with the children's bedtimes; to discuss the day with. To unwillingly rub my feet and fight over the remote control at night. To share my life with.
That was the point after all, wasn't it?
That was the point after all, wasn't it?
And like Mr Bailey and Mr. Scrooge, I've been given a second chance. Not just with DH, but with Australia - this massive, beautiful, dog-earned continent, waiting patiently to be explored by us, which at times I've hated over the past few months, and upon whom I had almost given up.
Last Sunday marked my first year in Australia. Here's to 2013 - my second year here, but really, just the beginning...
 |
| He's home! |
