Hello. It has been an age since I last wrote anything. Quite a lot has happened and also nothing. I learned today though that it was the Irish Catholics post 1890 that destroyed the primeval forests of this island rather than the English landlords. I was gutted. Absolutely gutted. I had previously been under the impression that it was the English who had destroyed the forests.
My faith in Ireland has lost any foundation it once had. Y’all needed the English overlords apparently. You were better with them. You cut down your OWN FUCKING FORESTS. Who does that? Well, you are currently carrying on the tradition of utter self-destruction by ripping apart the bogs. Bord Na Mona here’s looking at you.
Anyway. The problem with the Irish is a lack of home pride. Obviously considering everyone leaves. Or cuts down the forests. Or clear strips the bog. Or tries to ‘develop’ the wild natural landscape with shopping centers and shit. Here’s looking at you, Shane Filan.
I moved to Ireland with an immense sense of Irish pride. I was in love with this island, with the culture, the music, the history, the wild Celts, tartan, cable knit, Westlife, all of it. I couldn’t wait to frolic in heather beneath immense windswept cloudscapes to the constant but distant drone of the fairy drum. I thought moving to Ireland would be a spiritual homecoming. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t.
I spent a week or so here back in 2001 when I was a preteen. Hence the romanticized vision of old Eire. Eire, Eriu, sweet verdant goddess, you are still asleep. What I found upon emigration instead was Ireland. Ire. Land. Ire. Land. Angry. Land. Angry. Land. The bitter. The begrudger.
Hey, did you know that back in the Magdalene Laundry days they’d throw women in there if the other women thought they were too pretty? Wild. Now that is one seriously efficient way to keep the patriarchy alive. Ireland is still, however, VERY woman versus woman. It plays out differently now, since, ye know, they can’t lock the ‘competition’ up in slave labor anymore. But there is still the ‘shaming,’ the shunning, the tearing down of anyone exceptional in any way. Unfortunately for me I’m exceptional in many ways, and my above average looks are only the first layer, so I was doomed before I ever emigrated. Above average? I was a golden-headed beach babe with sparkly eyes when I first arrived. With an hourglass figure and a tan. Only in retrospect can I see how gorgeous I was then, and how being gorgeous in Ireland is a curse.
That is actually why I shaved my head the first time. I was attempting to undermine my beauty in an attempt to make the insecure around me feel less so. Alas, I just looked like a young Sinead O’Connor, which is just a different kind of gorgeous to the one I was before.
People reading this are probably getting that angry itch that starts up when a woman says something about her beauty. Well, fuck off. If Eire could see her beauty, we wouldn’t have half the problems we do in this country. Instead of allowing beauty to thrive though, this place feels the seemingly insatiable urge to destroy it. Instead of raising yourselves to meet the exceptional, you kill it, rip it down to your level. I’d hate to have a daughter in this country. She would undoubtedly be exquisite, but in every way, on every level, in every sense, just as I once was, and would so be doomed to the endless barrage of Eire’s envious ire. I wanted to have an Irish daughter once, but now that I know you Eire, I honestly would not want to bring another one into existence. This country hates her women. Herself.
I blame the church. It always comes back to the church. A hierarchy of men idolizing the immaculate Mary who conceived without the defilement of human intercourse. Supposedly. My theory is that she got it on with Joseph before the wedding, they concocted some bollox about immaculate conception, and then went off to Egypt to bury the scandal. Anyway. Back to Eire. And her worship of the VIRGIN. All other women are fallen women compared to Mary the Immaculate. The Magdalene Laundries were the church’s invention. It was, however, the corrupt hearts of the parishioners that kept them in service for so long. The weak envious hearts of those who couldn’t see their beauty when confronted with that of another. There are still ever so many of those on this island.
Fortunately, there are other kinds of hearts on this island too. The immense hearts to be found in the likes of Tiffany and Caroline, Lorna and Jane, Maria, Isabelle and Tabitha and Ros, and heaps and heaps of others that I’ve been so fortunate to have met. But alas I am here in Kildare surrounded by cold bitter hearts.
Cold bitter stalker hearts that are bound to find this post and either sit with it and consider their own weaknesses and maybe, I dunno, get therapy. That or blow it up into another gossipy drama to spread around and further the villainous caricature they’ve crafted for me.
Envy isn’t good for your mental health people, so try to let it go. And please, for your sake and your children’s sake and your children’s children’s sake… go plant a tree.