I need to be reliable- cause I know, dear readership that your morbid curiosity into my life is penultimate to your being. I have committed to doing this everyday maybe because it is the only thing that gives my life structure. Writing this blog is like sitting in a car, parking it under a train bridge then screaming your lungs out as the trains pass. Specific. It is one way screaming, is what I’m saying. If the only thing it produces is sanity then that’s fine.

I came here to take a break from my life- what I’ve learned so far is the world is too small a place and no matter what country I flee to I am not allowed to escape grief. It is being served to me on a platter and I am being force fed it. Death is the only thing that is happening around me therefore the only tale I have access to tell and what is the purpose of this exercise other than to dictate my everyday existence.

Let’s talk about it. Today is my cousin’s birthday. He would have turned 32 but he was murdered. He and his brother-in-law were gunned down. Do the details matter? I don’t think so. The details never do. He’s just fucking dead. Survived by his wife and five children (that’s three boys + twins, girl and boy). He didn’t die instantly; he copped five bullets and stayed alive over two weeks undergoing multiple surgeries. The night before he died they infused him with ten bags of blood. The blood is not free. You can either pay per bag ($30 AUD) or three people can donate to the blood bank in exchange for one bag. That is some capitalist- supply and demand type shit hustle. Let’s not discuss the details of his hospital bills cause they also don’t release the body if you can’t pay. Welcome to the third world where if you stay public you die and if you go private you still will probably die but slower and with more debt…Five bullets through the torso. Completely ripped out his guts. He is currently at the funeral parlour embalmed. Under his best shirt he is wrapped up to the neck in plastic, ‘like leftovers’ (my grandmother’s words- she is distraught and this translates badly). If you would like a graphic account of the embalming process my uncle will tell it to you. I left the room. So these are the details of my current situation. I’m not sure if I’m the only one that’s hyper sensitive to it cause I’m western and people don’t get shot the fuck up and given terribly inadequate medical treatment cause everyone around me is fighting about where to bury his body. And when is an appropriate time to do so.

Traditionally you bury the body nine days after the person passes. Before the funeral you hold a vigil, there is a prayer done every evening (it’s really long, think rosary but longer) and the body cant be left alone. For 24 hours a day somebody has to be there accompanying the soul while it resides on this earth. It’s a nice ritual, it shapes grief. It is intense both physically and mentally. I drink a lot of coffee and go to bed really late. No one wants the grave shift. Lol get it?! But his wife needs to sleep and not next to the coffin of her dead fucking husband.

I feel incredible amounts of compassion towards my family and extremely conflicted cause this is not what I wanted to do here. I didn’t run away (again) to step into the same ominous cloud of other people’s unbearable grief. It is like blood poison to my empathy. SJ it is not about you- could you just get your shit together and postpone your attempt to regain your mental health. Sure. I’ll just drink another cup of black coffee. Native not instant.

xx SJ