Quite a lot has happened recently, and I actually meant to blog about it at the time, but then I got distracted, but it's only been five days, so it's still good.
I had the frankest, easiest and weightiest conversation that I have ever had with Orla; I tend to avoid serious discussion with her, because a) our lifestyles were just so radically different, that I felt it was kind of like trying to converse with the pope and b) I felt I had so royally scuppered things with Mark that I no longer deserved intimacy with her. Well, neither of those reasons seem to apply anymore for she and I sat up in the kitchen talking for an hour about that most dreaded of topics, our relationship. My relationship with my sisters is something I've often discussed with my mum, but never with Orla and Moira themselves, because it seemed self-indulgent. But Orla and I dissected our kinship in great detail; I said I felt she and Moira were closer than I was with either of them, she agreed but thought this was mainly circumstantial; I said I couldn't see how we'd keep in touch when Mum and Dad were gone, she said if we wanted to, we'd find a way; I said I used to be jealous of her confidence and success, she said that was understandable. After this, Orla went to bed and I felt that I'd wasted seven years imagining we didn't get on.
And then, perhaps more surprisingly, I had the frankest and most uplifting discussion I'd had with my father in a long, long time. He actually encouraged me to pursue theatre and creative writing as a profession (whilst making a wage with something else, naturally). He pointed out that when I'm interested in something I can be a wunderkind, but I can't apply myself to things that bore me; he prayed that the courses I chose for fourth year would pique me. He told me he found my writing to be too angry, and I said he might like some of my newer stuff, because I'd lost that a bit (and reminded myself NOT to show him Rob and Roberta). It was odd, being so honest with someone around whom I normally feel I need to guard myself (I would never have admitted to my father that I was considering doing a creative writing course after Uni).
This is actually a very noticeable change in the dynamic between me and my parents- we are much more honest, and, despite this, more patient. My mum said I'd probably inherited my depression from her, and I said that she shouldn't blame herself for that- I also got my passion for words from her, and that's been the fuel for most of my life. We talk about grandchildren and romance and expectations and hardships and somehow at the end of the day, I don't wanna strangle her. I'm sure it's I who've changed, not her, and this makes me feel slightly embarrassed at how immature I used to be, but then if there's any time for immaturity, surely it's when one's young.
Finally, Esmond came to stay for a night, and it was just delightful: I could honestly just talk to him all day, ever day, and never feel like I'd run out of topics of conversation. We laughed, we sang and it was all just glorious, just to be in his company. It gave me hope for Fourth Year, because at least one person will be glad to see me.
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