Ad Nauseam

09.04.07

Continuing to the point of nausea; so as to disgust or nauseate.

I feel sick to my stomach with all that has happened.

Firstly, the shock - almost anticipatory, of your death. I felt it momentarily when I called your sister to check whether or not she had heard from you. When I put the phone down, I knew there was something very very wrong - and I had a premonition that you were dead.

Then the big one, that is when the nausea set in. When I knew that you had died and there was no way to retrieve you. I felt sick to my stomach for weeks. I couldn't eat or sleep and we kept going to the point of exhaustion. Unable to find any respite from the grim reality that we had discovered.

The same feeling recurs - the nervousness in the pit of your stomach; not quite able to relax, almost as if you are waiting again for some dreadful news.

And the nauseating display of hypocrisy from your ex-wife - not content that you are gone and lost to all of us forever, but now determined to assuage herself of any guilt. Committed to relieving herself of any culpability. The letters, the phone calls - and the mimicry of others' actions. She has done the rounds asking for photos of you, even though she has albums full of them. It's not about the sentiment, it's about demonstrating in the most unoriginal of ways that she can do what others do. Not an original thought in her head; no conscience, no desire for closure - just the desire to keep on going, to continue the imaginary feud in her head. Unable to accept that now she has what she wanted - she was never willing for you to make a life with another, so in part she got what she wanted. Yet still, it doesn't suffice.

The sickening behaviour of the pharisee - claiming one thing and doing another; screaming for money and determined to convince anyone who will listen that she had nothing to do with your death. Denying the continued contact, the relentless harassment, the poisonous lies and the stultifying abuse. Except, dear John, that we all know about it, and it is documented. So she is wasting her time.

The sorrow that we feel is like a sickness; unable to shake it off; unable to leave it behind; slowing us down, making every small decision so huge and time consuming; making the future seem purposeless.

How sick I feel when I think of how you left us and why.

And this story will run ad nauseam.