Pandoratory

Repel Boarders

“You need to try and work out”, she said, “why you feel so uncomfortable about expressing your emotions”.  It’s the boxes again. I don’t like leakage; I don’t like stuff coming out.  Everything has to stay inside, where it’s supposed to be. All sealed in, watertight. The kitten in the submarine.

I wonder, though, whether the reason I don’t like leakage is not because I don’t want things to come out – but because it’s a sign that the surface has been broken, the defences have been breached, the structure is not watertight. If something can get out, that might mean something can get in.

It’s a Donald Trump-style Mexican border. It’s the Berlin Wall. It’s the 13 foot high welcome we’re extending to refugees at Calais.

Interesting images that sprung to mind there.  I’m not sure the writing part of my brain likes the idea of defences.  Perhaps they are not a good thing. 

Who’s that Trip Trapping Across My Bridge?

I have a vivid memory of my childhood Ladybird book The Three Billy Goats Gruff.  All these fairy tales have been changed now, watered down and sanitised. Red Riding Hood’s 21^st century wolf does not kill grandma, she hides under the bed. And the woodcutter, sans axe, chases him away – probably to a wolf sanctuary.  But in my early Sixties story, the troll ate the billy goats, and then when he was asleep, the littlest billy goat cut open his stomach, the goats jumped out. They filled the troll with stones and stitched him back up. Then when he woke up and paddled in the river, he sank to the bottom and drowned horribly. This was all illustrated in finely-executed water colours.

Which takes me directly to Virginia Woolf – because this is how our fascinating brains work.  She longed for a room of her own and financial independence, so she could write. She was an amazing writer, but she had an unhappy ending, walking into a river with her pockets full of stones.

When I choke down emotions, it feels like swallowing stones.  It’s a physical sensation I’m talking about, not a metaphor. I feel them stuck under my breastbone and sometimes I have so many stones sitting there that I can’t swallow anything else at all. Food gets that far and then I have to sick it back like a colicky baby.  Life can be too hard to stomach, sometimes. 

Better Out Than In?

I was talking to a friend of mine about my inability to express my emotions. He’s a sensible person and he’s known me a long time.  “You have to make a choice,“  he said. “You can get these things out – or you can learn to live with them inside you. If you’re keeping them in, you’ll have to accept them, make them a part of you”.

I instinctively didn’t like the sound of this.  I knew he was right – and I felt that the idea of keeping these things inside, incorporating them permanently, would not be good. So the quest continues. How to get it out? Maybe it will be like lancing a boil. Squeezing a spot. Vomiting cherry stones like the Witches of Eastwick. 

You’ve got to wonder what’s in there, the metaphors that come to mind.  Doesn’t sound like anything good, does it?  (Not too depressed to slip in a photo of Susan... there is still hope for me).

Disorderly

When my sister was a social worker, she had a client who could not let go of any part of his body. He kept his toenail clippings in jars. He kept all the cotton buds he used to clean his ears. He had jam jars of bogies and scabs.  I wondered what happened when he went to the toilet, or when he was sick, or when he got his hair cut. Turns out he never got his hair cut. I don’t know about the other stuff.

There is a man called Richard Gibson in Lafayette who has kept all his nail clipping in a jar since 1978. There is a photo in the Huffington Post. It’s vile.

I expect there is a name for this, I’m sure it’ll turn out to be a recognised disorder. Holding on to stuff can seem very, very wrong. 

Disorientated

Oh god. I feel really weird. I don't feel right at all. Just have no idea what I am doing or where I am heading. I feel like I am tumbling down a vortex of work. So tired I'm not really sleeping now.  This can't carry on. It just can't. 

Gauntlet

Here is my challenge. I am to get out of my head and into my heart.  I am to focus on what I feel rather than what I think.

This is hard, hard stuff. I am only really comfortable in the cool calm ambience of intellectual distance. Having to get down into the visceral stuff, the guts and gore of it, the awful, dreadful screaming, panicking mess of it feels scary. It feels like it might all be out of control. 

I did a project once for London Underground. They were looking at their process for what happens when someone slips down beside a train as it's pulling out of the station (or pulling in if they try to jump in front and mis-time it).  The person slips down and gets wedged, usually at the top of the hips or around the trunk (any higher and it's a straight one-under, a straightforward case of crowd control and haz-cleaning). 

When a person slips down the side, the train pulls the bottom of their body around faster than the top. Its like wringing out the bottom of a flannel. In these situations, it's common for the person to be alive and conscious. The twisting acts as a natural tourniquet, and they don't actually feel much pain. They think perhaps they are going to be ok. 

But when the train moves away, the tourniquet is released and they will definitely die, as all their main arteries are torn. Everything just drains out. There isn't really anything that can be done to save them. 

However there is quite a window of time, maybe even half an hour, when a family member could be brought to talk to them, when the situation can be assessed, when they are lucid and can discuss what might happen next. Should they be told? Should the family member be told? Should they be knocked out with morphine before the train is moved, even if they say they prefer not to be? 

Anyhow. My situation feels like this. Like I have been in a train wreck. That somehow I am managing to hold myself together, but that if I am untwisted everything will hurt too much and all the life will gush out of open wounds and I will just soak away.  

I will try and untwist, and see what happens. Logically speaking, I'm pretty sure I won't actually die.  Just need to convince myself to unwind gradually.  Little by little. 

Maybe a different image would be more helpful.  That might be a good place to start.

Fingertips

Inching my way up the cold unforgiving flank of each week is almost insurmountably difficult.  My approach involves an hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute focus in which I edge from one precarious balance to another, all the while resisting the urge to tumble backwards into oblivion simply by letting go. 

From a distance each week looks as smooth and hard as Portland stone, but right up close there are toeholds, tiny ledges to hold me a up a little while, until I can settle my equilibrium and creep tentatively to the next situation.  A phone call. Ten minutes with a magazine. A walk over a bridge before a meeting. A coffee. A little chat on Facebook.

So what happens when I reach up, fingers straining at full stretch, to find the next place to hold on has gone? I'm doing this climb without a harness - when does a gripping point become a tipping point? 

I've never been climbing so I don't know what happens next. 

Couch Potato

I've been seeing a counsellor. 

She thinks that I need to work on acknowledging my emotions. She thinks that the putting-things-into-boxes-then-ignoring-them strategy may not be a sustainable approach in the long term. She thinks there are too many boxes now, and the things inside the boxes are banging to come out, and the boxes are rattling and the lids are coming up and oh my god it's like that scene in Poltergeist where all the bodies start bursting up out the bottom of the swimming pool and and and....

Even writing about the boxes opening makes me feel a bit panicky.  I've spent my whole life boxing. Why would I stop now? 

Well yes, there is the small matter of the breakdown. Of the being tracked down by the police. Of the escorting to hospital. Of the nearly being sectioned.  That. 

I insist on referring to it as a "meltdown". Somehow that isn't as scary, and makes it sound rather wry and perhaps more like a tantrum or a bad day. As I explained to the emergency psychiatrist, I'm not mad: just sad, scared, lonely and really fucked off. 

Three months on, I don't feel any different.  Most of the time I don't feel anything at all.  If I open myself to those feelings, it will be horrible, won't it?

"Have you tried writing things down?" she asked me.  That's when it really struck me how far I was from myself. Three months of seeing a counsellor and I hadn't even told her I'm a writer. 

Write Now

Anyway, my counsellor pointed out that if not-writing makes me feel as if I don't exist, it might be a good idea to consider writing.

It's quite a bold assumption - do I want to acknowledge that I do indeed still exist? I suppose I can't float around in limbo forever, physically vital, heart beating, head aching whilst my mind is a dead, flat fog. 

So here I am. 

I'm trying. The rest of my life still ahead of me, dammit. There it is in the picture: a blank page. 

I had better write myself better, write myself a better story.  Keep your fingers crossed for me. 

Ungrateful

Yeah, so I turns out I'm not dead after all. And I'm not grateful either.  

Seems you can't just wish yourself away, in this day and age.  Seems those ties bind stronger than we think. 

Perhaps I can write myself back to life. Let's find out.

Not Waving

I tried so hard last week – and for a while it worked, I think. I put on a good show all round. I saw people and did things that made me smile. I felt human, I felt as if I had a life of my own outside this cage.

This week I feel as if that was all the energy I had, putting on the good face just for those few days.  The anniversary of my little one’s first attempted suicide is approaching this weekend and I have such a sense of impending horror I am being stifled by it. 

I am overwhelmed by my life, the heaviness of it, the sucking heavy mud pulling pulling pulling me down.  I can’t remember what you’re supposed to do. Struggling, fighting, that sinks you down, doesn’t it? Staying still and keeping calm, that doesn’t stop the inexorable dragging under either.  There doesn’t seem to be anything to hold on to, nothing solid to anchor me.

I am cold. I am sinking.

Moon of Alabama

When is the right time to say goodbye? And when is it better to stay and face the music (even if dancing can't be contemplated)? Only hindsight makes sense of the actions we take  -  we overlay a skin of meaning onto the bones of the facts, pull it into shape and fashion it into a body of evidence. Posthumous, but nonetheless convincing. 

I'm still deciding. So come on and let me know: should I stay or should I go? 

Music always has the answer. Is it to be Stay (just a little bit longer)? Go, walk out the door (and survive)? Or Burning down the house? Je ne regrette rien.

Lure

This is it - the path. This is how it looks in winter. This year I will walk it. 

I know I have said this before. I've said so on this very blog, in fact.  And if I am going to be kind to myself, I had better start by keeping my own commitments to myself, particularly when they are basic, free-of-charge, uncomplicated activities that will be enjoyable and healthy like this. What I really mean by all that waffle is, why couldn't I have given myself a couple of hours off, some time over the last nearly 4 years (4 years!!) to go for this walk? I don't think I am kind to myself at all. 

This week I have Tried Harder. I spent time with friends (hardly a trial, of course, but I had to allow myself to "deserve" that time).  I tried hard with my husband (and believe me this is very trying indeed). I went on a Mummy-Daughter date, supper and a night in a hotel in London. And this afternoon while I wait for her to finish dancing, I have been for a wonderful facial in a Thai spa I found on the internet, and am now writing. 

It will be very hard to get used to having time for myself that does not involve running around doing things for other people. 

But I Asked For Help, and help was forthcoming. Of course it was, my friends are wonderful (well, most of them, with notable exceptions but let's not go there for now). The writing is creaking into gear, I am on my fourth poem of the year, and it's only Week 2 of my 52 Challenge.  One of my poems was about the path. 

I am going to get off the clickety-clack of this railway existence and walk up that hillside. Yes I am. 

Fresh

I have to find a way to live my life as it is. The meaningful changes I would like to make cannot be made at this point - I am a mother before anything, and I need to do what is best for my children.

Thus I have made some New Year Resolutions and I have been trying to stick to them. 

Be kind to myself: life and other people are throwing rocks at me, I don't need to help them out by beating myself up.  I am going to try and talk myself up instead. I have a continual inner voice constantly talking me down, so this will be a real challenge.

Write: I have signed up to an initiative to write a poem a week (I'm ahead of the game as I've already written two).  I will organise my material and submit more of it for publication, see if I can raise my game a bit. This will give me something purposeful to do now that I have to spend so much time at home. I am also going to write other things. This blog for a start (expect to see all sorts of writing on here going forward, sorry it's been such a wrist-slitter lately).  Crack on with the novel. Maybe also a work-blog - I have set this up on the company website, all I need to do now is blurt some opinions on topical issues. I'll need to give a shit first, I guess.

Get fitter: notice this is a relative objective.  I need fresh air and walks and to keep myself moving. It's always hard for me, as I fight my body's natural urge to chub, and I would rather sit on the sofa with a glass of red and a good book than go for a run, any day.  However I am going to try. Harder than I have so far this year, otherwise this aim will be over before it's even begun. 

Yesterday for instance, I started well. Had Fruit & Fibre and a coffee for breakfast. Planned to go for a run later in the day.  Then had a very distressing therapy appointment with Ultra High Risk Daughter. The day was derailed after that. For lunch I had a samosa, a bag of Cheddars and a Star Bar. Then I had a bag of crisps later on.  For supper I made a leek and mushroom risotto (quite healthy) but ate some pate with crackers while I was making it.  Then I had four Thorntons Continentals in bed. Today I will do better (see? I am still able to be optimistic, that must be a good thing). 

I realised I needed to do something very important that I have rarely if ever done before. I understood that I can't struggle on being this lonely, feeling so alone. So I took a lifesaving step: Ask for help. Wow! Yes, I know! So proud of myself. I contacted the people who are important to me, reached out to them. This might sound easy but believe me, it's a huge step. I don't feel like talking to anyone, any time, as I don't feel I have anything to offer them. I'm the life and soul, right? I'm the party organiser, the drinker, the fixer, the sorter, the fun-times girl.  No one wants to see me white-faced, silent with panic, beaten by my spectacular failure to build a happy family. Do they? 

Actually maybe they do. I think I might have been underestimating my friends. Times like this sort the wheat from the chaff, for sure. And the people who are left are the golden ones, and just sitting with their glow will help me feel better.  I hope. 

Circus

And so, my darlings, the show must go on. 

Every day I get up, I get ready, I go about my business. Smile and jolly everyone along. Put my game-face on and pretend everything is ok.

For what else is there to be done? I go to the concerts at school, and nod a smile at the other parents. I go to meetings and say yes, I'm all ready for Christmas, looking forward to it, lovely, having a quiet one this year. No kidding.

This year isn't like other years. I always ordered all my Christmas food a few weeks in advance, got all the presents ready way ahead of time. Feels like bad luck, tempting fate now. I'm waiting until Christmas Eve.

Can you save someone that might not want to be saved? 

All I can do is try, and hope that in time she will feel better. Perhaps she will grow out of it. Perhaps she will discover something to make her feel like she wants to spring out of bed every morning - calculus, or masturbation, or Greenpeace. 

Or perhaps this is the start of her troubles, the part where we dance along the knife-edge before we tumble into the dark abyss, or move evermore in the grey fog of uncertainty.  Perhaps the rest of my days will be like this now - one breath away from a panic attack, one lip-tremble away from a howl. 

But I'm putting on a damn good show.  Perhaps if we all behave as if things are getting better, that's as likely to work as anything else? Life is one long confidence-trick, after all. 

A Room of One's Own

There is no place as lonely as a marriage.

I sleep in the spare room of my own house: a spare person. The sadness of this month aches like a pain, tugs at me like stitches pulling in a wound. Some of this hurt might feel better with some kind words or a hug, but there is no such thing to be had. 

I move through my life like a sleepwalker, although at night I do not sleep. I am troubled with nightmares, with panic. I creep around in the dark to check my girls are safe, and check again, and check again. 

In the daytime I check, and check, and check my phone. My little one is in the Highest Risk Category. It feels like the part in Lawrence of Arabia where he thinks he can make a difference, but it only postpones an inevitable fate. It is written. 

What is written for her? Can I change the story? Can she change it? Does it have a happy ending? Or a tragic one? 

I feel desperate in every way. I have no idea how to live with this fear. 

Floods

I cried from 4pm Monday all the way through until 4am. Woke up about 6am and cried all day Tuesday. Cried much of the night Tuesday, apart from when I was watching a school show, and when I had recurring nightmares for a couple of hours. Cried all day Wednesday, including half of a very important appointment with my child and various experts.

I wouldn't have thought it was physically possible to cry that much  - especially for me, as I never used to be much good at the whole crying thing.

I look terrible, and not just because of the crying. I went to the hairdresser (my local recessionista hairdresser) and asked for the white strip that developed down my parting (apparently from the shock) to be coloured to match the rest of my hair. I thought this was a clear instruction, but now all my hair is the colour of merlot wine. It's kind of cool, in a plum-ish, purple-ish way, but it's not my colour. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I see this plum haired, puffy faced old woman and think "who the hell is that?"

So now I look as shit and weird as I feel. 

30 Words for Snow

People talk about "heartache" and it sounds so Jane Austen, so manageable. Nice walk in a meadow, cup of tea with a handsome chap and it's all right as rain again.

There should be a different word for the feeling of someone whacking your chest open with an axe, then ripping a chunk out of your heart with their bare hands. The feeling of your sanity being torn apart by dogs. The feeling of your life being held under a murky pond until your lungs fill with water and weeds, and you gasp your drowning on the bitter choking silt of despair. 

I don't know the words for that kind of pain. 

Under My Skin

Endlessly fascinated by the photos of abandoned Detroit. It's a catalogue of my inner landscape. 

Last night I drove back from Colchester. And when I arrived outside the house I didn't want to go in. I didn't feel like I belonged there, it didn't feel like home. So I drove some more. I drove to Bristol and I walked around in the city in the night. Then I drove back. I have been instructed not to talk to friends. Tonight I will go see a play at the school and then I will drive again.