I always get a migraine first day of a holiday.
It’s as traditional as a pre flight mani pedi, the huge Toblerone you buy from Duty Free (‘for the kids’ – yeah, right), the books you pay full price for in WH Smith when you could have bought them cheaper online and the en route celebratory Bloody Mary as a toast to leaving daily life, work and chores behind for a blessed week or so.
Thing is, I thought I might get away with it this time though, given that I’m not working right now.
Cue anti-social early night, skull cracking agony and trippy, mixed drug induced nightmares.
Featuring, quelle surprise, a certain ginger bastard from my not so distant past.
For fuck’s sake.
I’m frustrated, exasperated and downright puzzled; this shit went down over a year ago, and it’s not like I’ve bottled everything up exactly. I’ve ranted and railed to friends and family, I’ve had loads of therapy, I’ve bored you lot shitless, what does it take exactly to exorcise this particular demon?
The answer appears within seconds as if just waiting in the wings to be summoned.
I need to forgive him.
I can feel part of my psyche rear up with indignance at such a suggestion. ‘After what he did to you?’ it shrieks, ‘The very thought!’
Yup, I still have lots of anger in my heart about all that went down with my former employers, but there is something else that I have to admit to myself and to everyone else.
He, sorry they did me a favour.
Whilst their intentions weren’t kind nor their motives honourable, in some way they….I….(c’mon Sista, say it!)…I…I should be grateful to them.
God, saying that was like shitting a melon, only marginally less painful….
It’s not their fault I’ve taken a good year to recover (well it IS actually, but I must stop digressing….), but I would never have had that time to heel had things not taken the turn they did, and even though I still crave financial stablity, I know I’d be letting myself down if I went back to the old nine to five pen pushing hell again.
Being here in this beautiful haven, surrounded by magnificent mountains, plump, ripening olive trees, sweet jasmine blossom and juicy figs just waiting to fall from the trees only serves to emphasise this.
The weather, however, is looking a bit unpredictable and patchy; we had some thunder and lightning overnight (whoops, another bloody migraine trigger for me, all I need now is a full moon and they’d have to use a tranquilliser dart on me), and whilst the sun is shining right now, the Old Man Upstairs is definitely moving the furniture around, and everyone is a little glum about it.
Not whilst the hammock cradles and cocoons, the olive tree branches hold me up, the mountain breeze rocks my tired, old body and the cicadas sing their lusty lullaby.
The skies are starting to darken and the rumbles get more resonant, and my bruised, constricted skull throbs in reply.
Do it, says I.
Rain down on me if you will, I will not move.
Take my pain, anger and bitterness and wash them away, take my fears and sluice them down the mountainside, and then surely, surely peace will follow.
The hammock rocks.
My head throbs.
Pain, pain, go away, and don’t come back another day.
I fear it will though, and that this week will not be the relaxing break that I hope it will be.
In the meantime, I wait for the storm to pass.