Disparagement

 

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As the tendrils of Anxiety curl around my heart and tie themselves tightly around the hollow cone that resembles my stomach I falter inwardly and kneel down in the encumbent swarm of feelings.  Rancid tactile fingers of doom enclose around my Hope and I swallow and digest the utter pain they inflict upon my dreams.

I have spent a few weeks now in preparation for my ultimate future working life.

Nothing has transpired. Unless you count mishap after mishap culminating in losing the very pass – literally the passport – that will get me out there! Tomorrow I should be leaving on my new adventure. Yet still I remain. On this eternal waiting game. Will it ever happen at this stage?

The Anxiety – hello, Darkness my old friend, – has been building – block by infiltrating block – for days exacerbated by a family trip away that left me feeling knocked apart again.

 

So much time to think – to ruminate on feelings. I have seen The Pattern now. A pattern long entrenched within our family. One in which I have a viable part but was never necessary to shape the whole. One in which I serve a purpose and must play my part. If I do not live up to or dare I say  if I actually abscond from my expected role….oh dear.

So I fall back into my allotted role while the Real Me screams at the seams to be heard.

I complete their pattern but it no longer fits or sits easily upon me. It irks and scratches and I wish to be released. I was released.

Perhaps I only returned to test the waters again – to see if my new crotchet was the one I prefer – to ascertain that my changed patterns are indeed the ones I need to keep creating.

My discomfort abides but my sense of detachment remains. My opted for silences in times I would before have spoken out, been strident, rallied forth against accepting the mould they forced me into and expected me to shape up to.

My silent suffering and wish to return to the Real Me.

And then the real me around my kids my real friends and real love.

And now the me that sits alone, thinks alone, thrives alone.

Who Which One goes forward from here?

 

 

Self Care …SElF….SElfish?

Practising Self Care has been my damn life saver

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Thank you Jo and Cee Jay for alerting me to its very possibility 4 years ago!

After all, if I dont practise it noone else will for me!

And boy do I practice now!

From…..walking for hours on a deserted beach, meandering along the Medina for miles, swimming in the still cold sea to….snuggling deep into my duvet and allowing myself a complete day to just ‘be’ not ‘do’, treating myself to the odd massage or new nails, ordering a naughty treat online  ..and ….. frequenting music, fun and friends between when my social rancour abides!

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So….I have learned lots too – that eating little and often is far better for my unique metabolism, especially avoiding late night binge fests on both food and alcohol after zero all day. That avoiding wheat esp in white TIGER and cheese bread – but oh the temptation – is ESSENTIAL to avoid morning bloating – belly like a b BALLOON – and stomach cramps.   That I NEED – no make that HAVE to HAVE my 5 a day or I am in an inordinate amount of pain for no conceiveable reason.

That walking, swimming or ANY form of exercise and fresh air out and about FEED my sleep pattern and its soooooo much better when I do this.  Gone are the 5am mental all nighters and the lethargic days that follow.  Gone are the persistent whirling thoughts in fact since I self imposed a complete STOP on that damn medication.

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Sure it got me through and boy those were some difficult times. But I am doing ok without and into my 9th week – and to actually FEEL again is a total eye opener!

Zombification begone!

Most of all – alone time is my salve and my step away from the vehicle of Life saviour!

Closing the cottage door, switching off the phone, shunning social media, indulging in some good drama box sets or simply writing, reading or doing NOTHING -that is right – NOTHING is a godsend. And I am at a stage in my Life where I am lucky enough to be able to do that now.

This may mean that funds are low but I also find that less work means having to live far more simply and this in itself is a revelation.  I almost feel sick at my spending habits of the past. The old me.

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So thank you new me.

Thank you to all the new friends I have made here on this beautiful isle – to the fresh saline air, the clear starry skies, the winds and waves of the Solent – the rolling hills, endless beaches, and pretty harbours.

Here I am.

Three years on.

Still surviving.

The Cuckoo In Their Nest: Anxiety, Adoption & Survival

Check out this book on Goodreads: The Cuckoo In Their Nest: Anxiety, Adoption & Survival http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39834536-the-cuckoo-in-their-nest

Notes on a funeral.

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When your mother hands you a card to scribble your number on.

She needs to go to the dentist and you have promised to wait for her.

You notice a scribbled amount on the back of the  business card. Quite a substantial amount – she says I dont know what that is just write on that.

I ask then look at the reverse – the front – it is a funeral directors.  Transpires the amount on the back is the cost and apparently it is all booked, chosen and paid.

I am stunned.

My mother’s face is implacable. Her voice so matter of fact.  Stoical.

My brother laughs nervously but with his usual innate humour says Well at least its all done and she gets her say to the very end!

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I am flashed forward years – hopefully, years – to the day I will then recall this moment again. The day those plans will finally be put in place.

So bizarre .

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The Ghosts of Christmas Past….

Sleep…or not…Eat….Write…or not.

Seem to have a complete block on at the moment.

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Highlighted further by attempting to churn something out on demand at the latest Writers meeting and finding I just cannot do that and remain true to my real writing. When some kind soul drifted over to tell me it was classic Mills & Boon territory I have since given up entirely. Thanks mate!

I also abandoned tonight’s meeting at my original writers club on the first hint of an excuse. So…what is going on? Writing abandoned, more reading has been taking place. Lots of job searching and lesson prepping and even some actual teaching.  Plenty of socialising. So I could be forgiven…? No. Didnt think so

The irony is when I am feeling ok -ish – as in not in Black Dog mode or beating myself up about past misdemeanors – of which there are many – and which we know is a pointless pastime – I DO tend to write LESS

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Its as if I seem to need some kind of injection of sadness or melancholy to douse the spirits and in turn get the creative juices flowing. Sitting at a table with 19 others and grabbing an unforseen topic with a 15min time limit to write just isnt cutting it for me lately. I guess we could call it a lack of Muse. I need my Muse to inspire me, to help me create. She has not been accompanying me to a draughty library of late. Or even at 4am stints of insomnia in which I previously churned out many thoughts but I now douse with banal TV Box Sets!

The abandoned novel lies inert beside the bed … edited and copy proofed beyond its limitless life. I prod it on occasion and finally drift off with a head full of plot revisions or additions but the next day it still lies, inert, unprodded. Guilt hangs above me like a cluttered cloud of calamitous thoughts…until I remind myself writing should be – always has been – my Pleasure. Not another duty. Or obligation. Or a switch to turn on or off at will. Especially in a draughty  library with 19 others also forcing the same forth.

Perhaps its just as well I am taking a break next month from all things written. Tomorrow night I indulge in the spoken word at a local cafe in which a few of us are booked to read out some work or poetry. But this is more organic. We choose our genre, we choose our time and no reluctance ensues. The Spoken Word can sometimes alleviate the need to write. It gives more chance to share the things you cherish or are proud of writing. The things you know are considered pieces. Not in a showing off look how damn good I am at this writing lark way. Not in a need to disguise flaws, all of us have those.

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It is a chance to hear a part of one’s soul, a part of one’s person, to appraise, applaud, critique more constructively. Or simply to accept another wine and enjoy a plate of food with others while you share ideas, enjoy the ambience and the lilt of the spoken voice as in times of old folklore and thank this Life that there ARE more like minded people to share your idiosyncrasies with.

Oh, look. I have written some words on  the blank page.

Like Ted Hughes’ Thought Fox I stumbled and fell a little at first, gained momentum and finally left a few footprints.

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Inert. Simply that.

Inert.

That’s me.

INert. OR crazily UNbound.

When you laugh out loud and then hear your father in your own laughter

How sad a thing How poignant

And now you sit half laughing but full on crying

I miss you.

That is ALL.

There is ‘some’ after all…Part Two! Thank you to the Anglo Saxon King…

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Originally posted on ISLE MY ISLE….♡♡♡:
Well – I did it !  I finally completed the second interview stage today and received a random email late tonight from the recruiter cc me in to the University Academic Manager telling him…