Lost in notation blog

Day 52 – The girl behind the make-up

February 22, 2010 at 2:25 am (Cancer, Death, Depression, Grief, Homelife, Ireland, make up, Market Harborough, photography, Uncategorized) (http://www.1084atc.org.uk/)

I have been having a bad few face days this week.;  there has been an attack of dry skin and even God forbid a spot.  When I was a teenager I was lucky enough to never get struck down by acne and other than sporadic attacks of eczema I felt rather smug about my skin.  When I reached 24 I was struck down by a series of spots which I had no idea how to handle.  Thankfully Clinique were on hand to royally ravish me and fleece me of every spare penny I had by persuading me that a miracle cure could be found within their treatment plans.  I must have given them easily a few hundred pounds in the one year I subscribed to their skin care screw-over and though I have a nice make up bag which has the same pattern as this dress (another Valentine’s vintage buy from the boy) none of the products made the slightest bit of difference and in the end I returned to using clean and clear and Freederm.  At about a quarter of the price and a lot longer lasting, within weeks I was back to being a smooth skinned albeit slightly skint girl. 

Today’s photos are a bit of a disaster due both to the lack of make-up and artistic differences with the photographer who kept telling me to smile and not cover my forehead with my hand or hair.  I have excluded the picture where I tell him where he can canter away to but the grumpy expression is proof enough of the tiz.  Today I was in rather a mood due to the lack of food in the house and having once again had an accidental lie in.  Since the start of this project I have made an effort every day to smother myself in lovely creams, brush my hair at the very least and most importantly of all slather myself in make up.   Today largely because I got up late and also because I forgot about the photos until nearly midnight due to a dreadful game of never-ending Scrabble; at one stage I had three Ts a Z and a W.  If only I had an F I would have tried  putting down a WTF word or what the fuzzle for those of you not in the know.

My mother has always had an amazing collection of cosmetics and so from a young age I always had access to good quality cosmetics.  Although she has threatened over the years to put a lock on her door or the cupboard she usually relents and gives me enough testers and barely used bits and bobs to make up a pretty fantastic collection of my own.  My sisters never really taught me how to do make up, they both had pretty incredible skin and so with just a lick of mascara and some Nivea Visage they  looked like all Irish natural beauties.

I started wearing full make-up on a daily basis from the day my sister died.  In the morning the house was descended upon by a host of people who came to lend a hand and offer words of comfort and casseroles but in spite of the hive of activity below decks I remained determinedly asleep in my parents empty bed.  I thought that if I kept my eyes closed I could convince myself that it had all been a horrible dream, and that in the early hours of the morning I had not really  kissed my sister for the last time and neither had I stood with my family by her side watching our darling Cathy slip away.  When my mother’s friend finally managed to rouse me I forced myself to suck it up and get on with it, we had guests after all and I had two broken-hearted parents, a sister and a baby brother who were all consumed with grief and the god damn unfairness of it all.

I decided then and there that if I could just keep it together it would all be alright, I painted my face artfully having been shown how to do so by my mother back before the dark days had arrived.  I used thick foundation, powder, bronzer and concealer to cover up the dark circles and force my face into some kind of stability.  I heard someone call me downstairs and darted eyeliner and mascara on to ensure there would be no way I could cry and in doing so let my sister down who had been unbelievably brave.  She was gone but there was so much to do, all I could think of was that the house was going to have to be cleaned as people would be coming to pay their last respects; the body stays in the house in Irish families until the funeral so everyone can say goodbye; and there would be guests coming to stay with us so someone needed to be there to make tea.

I can’t remember the rest of the day much, I know that we all somehow got through it; somehow we accepted plates and dishes at the doorstep; made the calls that had to be made and thanked people for their words which at the time we barely even heard.  I remember at one point during the day going over to one of  my oldest friends house  along with her cousin and laughing which looking back on it now seems insane but it definitely did happen.  When the night came though and everyone had left I remember going in to see her, my older sister who I loved so so much and I remember seeing a book on the side, a stupid Marian Keyes book, Last Chance Saloon which I had read to her up until a few weeks before when she was still conscious.  I don’t know why but it was then that it hit me that I was never going to be able to laugh with her again, read her books or even argue with her and I just lost it.  I cried every molecule of make-up off knowing then that time might heal one’s wounds but there is always a scar.  You never get over it you just learn to live with it eventually, but even now though I thought at the start of this post I could talk about it without breaking down, just thinking of her and all the world lost when she went, I feel my heart-break all over again, the wound splits and I just can’t bear to paint on a perfect face when the pain is so raw it actually aches.