Opening the Floodgates

My Dear Princess,

I went in a bit earlier today to see my dad. We've noted that he's brighter in the mornings and also the visitor rush hasn't started yet.

"So many visitors!" I said to a nurse.

"I know!" she replied. "I went in to take his blood sugar yesterday and at first he scowled at me. Then he smiled and said, 'Oh thank God not another bloody visitor!'"

I mean, it's nice to be loved but I get it.

So I left when my cousin Declan popped in. There's such a thing as too much company. Libby asked if I wanted to go for a walk. This was around 1pm.

We walked along the beach. She told me how uncomfortable she finds Bridlington. There's a lot of bad memories here for her. I understand. I feel the same way about Scarborough and Yorkshire in general.

"You do??" she asked.

I told her I never felt like I fit in here. That I always felt out of place and odd. That I didn't really come alive until I left.

"Do you think you're on the spectrum?" she asked.

Perceptive.

I told her that I think I am but have learned how to adapt and blend in. We didn't have the spectrum in my day, I explained. I was just "shy".

She found this hard to believe. But I could sense her peering at me. Letting down the veil of confidence and letting her see the strange, sad Uncle Symon of years ago seemed to release something inside her. And the floodgates opened.

She explained further some of the horrible things she went through here. It made me think of Edinburgh and how every street is a happy memory of love and friendship. But here in Bridlington, growling dogs of bad memory seemed to lurk around every corner for her. She prickled, visibly.

"DOGGO!!" I said. We had entered the garden attached to a tea room. We sat and chatted as a friendly dog from a nearby table came over to say "hullo".

I asked what prompted her interest in Arabic and Islamic culture. She told me she had a horrible job with mean-spirited, bullying women in a doctor's surgery. They would get Syrian and Afghan refugees in there, confused and afraid and she learned a few phrases to comfort them.

Libby has a powerful sense of justice and she cares. It's beautiful but scary. I told her of Shenée and her always-brave, sometimes-ill-advised confrontations with the pricks.

"Never wrestle with a pig, you get dirty and they like it," I said.

I used to say this to Shenée all the time. She never listened to me either. I smiled sadly. And Libby peered at me again. She senses I have been changed by my family in Aotearoa.

Libby's interest in Arabic spiraled into an all-consuming interest in other cultures. She has a hungry mind and wants to know MORE. We talked about the Moors and Spain and unlearned Western propaganda.

It was about 3pm by now. But we weren't done. The tea room closed but we wanted to go on talking. Libby and I wandered off to somewhere we could be undisturbed by noisy tourists.

Libby took me to the local leisure centre where excited children splashed in the pool. We got coffees and the conversation turned darker. Libby told me of the things that scared her and of family secrets that haunt her. She seems connected to everything. Her heart is so big she feels the pain of relatives long gone.

Her eyes widened. I think she was wondering if this was normal.

My eyes widened too. I was wondering how she got to be so wonderful.

I held her hand and I told her of the things that scared me. I told her how my imagination used to rampage out of control and how my fears would become visions. It was only when I learned to acknowledge what scared me that I was able to take control, I told her.

"That happened to you too?" she asked, astonished.

I'm not just a 54 year old man, relatively comfortable with his place in the world. I'm also an insecure 25 year old with imposter syndrome. I'm a 17 year old boy angry and bitter and lashing out at his family. I'm a nine year old kid, trembling in the dark because I can't make the shadows recede.

Libby held my hand.

I think we both felt better.

She told me that Caro and I have always been an inspiration to she and Abi. We conveyed freedom and acceptance and love to them, I think. I told her how much she meant to me, how she and Abi got me through my mum's death by playing with me and loving silly old Uncle Symon.

Now Abi and Libby are getting me through this week too. I would have broken without them.

Whenever I see my dad I cheer him up by talking about his brilliant grand-daughters. He's very weak and doesn't respond much. Except when I talk about them.

"Aye....." he breathes. "Amazing...."

And he smiles.

Libby and I walked to the harbour for something to eat. I wondered if those bad memories of Bridlington were being replaced for Libby. I knew I'd never forget this day. I had intended to let her talk and talk to me, but instead opened up in a way I never have before ever. All the things I wished I could have said to my family in the 1980s came out to this strong, caring, fiercely intelligent woman with the kind eyes.

Libby opened her floodgates today. And to my surprise it was my soul that poured out of me. We met and mingled like family and I found myself wishing I had known her forever.

After six hours of walking and talking we met up with everyone else at the pub. I took this picture of Abi and Libby. And felt such a wave of love for these two beautiful, wonderful women.

It doesn't end. The floodgates are open now. The river never ends.

Aye. Amazing.

S.