…and sometimes it seems as though the Blogosphere’s so full of crashingly overwhelming Feels that I can’t help but hook into, because now I’ve unlocked it and started using it a bit, I need to figure out a way to get a bit of that barrier back around my heart. Maybe around my mind, too.
I love reading people’s stories.
Because in so many ways they give me hope and comfort, that out there, people are striving to make the most of life and make the wrong things right. They blog, they write poetry, they write novels, they’re active parts of support groups and care groups and there’s this big outpouring of creativity and nurture which seems to swirl around and settle, waiting to be seen and enjoyed.
I see it. I enjoy it.
But there are days when it’s too brittle and too painful. I see too much happiness. Too much heart-rending pain with a golden ending. Too many ongoing battles, particularly with children – the most painful kinds of battle – but at least the children are there to fight alongside, and at least the Husbands are mostly healthy and at least the women writing aren’t complete messes, and at least, at least, at least…
And in spite of my [determination/commitment/desire/hope] to getting off ‘hold’ and into living, I still feel like I’m only halfway out the door, seeing the sunshine, one boot laced up, and feeling absolutely desperate, as though by putting the phone on ‘speaker’ and walking away, I’m almost inevitably going to miss it if the call comes through.
Perhaps it’s just long weariness of the other shoe having forever dropped. I no longer feel like it’s a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when’ I miss the call. Or fumble the catch. Or get clouted by whichever monkey-paw life has in store to throw at me, to always let me know that no, I can’t have it all. Ordinary good people don’t get to have it all, so why should I even *think* I might?
So I’ve tried.
I went out and was sunshine and light to my patients and we had a laugh. It helped that the day was sunshine and light, as well, and that none of my patients were cantankerous old gits, so there’s that.
I had three naps in the back of the van, snuggled up against the heater with the doors shut and the light locked out, because a long lunch-break and a patient who didn’t turn up left not-to-be-sniffed at gaps of delightfully zuzzy* opportunity.
Then I went out and ran, full of determination and optimism. I *was* going to get to 10 miles today. And I was NOT going to let cramps get in my way. So I ran further than I’ve been, right out of the city and into the countryside, until it started to get dark and drizzly and I figured it was time to go back home before I got lost.
And I (stupidly) imagined how happy I’d be when I logged my route and discovered my distance.
[Between you and me – is THIS part of the problem? Generally, I mean – I keep imagining how happy I’ll be ‘When X, Y and Z happen’ – mostly because the things which keep me ‘happy’ now are (beyond friends-and-relations, because there’s always happiness in those relationships) pretty small-small, like at this moment in time my ‘Heirarchy of Needs’ (according to Maslow) would look something like Swiss cheese. And that’s even assuming that when these Xs, Ys and Zs happen, that *I* will be changed by them, and able to receive them any better]
So when I got home to discover that not only had I not gone waaaay over my goal, but that I’d missed it by a mile. A whole MILE (and my feet were NOT about to go out and try for that last push), something tipped.
Which it shouldn’t really, not just for (another) disappointed expectation. Another way I’ve let myself down. And I know (because I can already hear the voices of friends-and-relations “What do you mean failed? You ran NINE MILES”) that this means something’s wrong. Because I don’t think nine miles when I’ve not run for a week *should* feel like failure. Except that it does. It absolutely 100% does. And because I can only self-fulfil the bad prophecies (to Husby, upon return “If that wasn’t ten miles, I’m actually going to cry.”) the only thing stopping me right now is the knowledge that I’d only disgust myself more if I did.
This in the same week I (why, WHY did I do this? Because I had to know. Had to see. Had to maybeconfirm) took an online body image test and scored 53. A score of 40+ indicating BDD and All Kinds Of Bad. And part of me still knows deep-down that this stuff is all ‘surface’ and not meant to matter. The sensible amongst you will
doubtless probably reinforce this. But it matters to me, for whatever reason. And it continues to matter to me and make life messy.
And even if it was as easy as “Well, have you tried just ‘not hooking into it’?”…I don’t know, because feeling good about yourself is something I equate with worth and deserving – with being a good person. And in amongst all this self-obsession and angst and yeah, yeah all the nice things people say about writing and friendship and whatever (not that they’re false compliments; I get that they’re genuinely intended, and I’m glad that whomever feels fit to pay them, and that something I’ve done makes them happy) – I still don’t (usually) feel anything less than that I owe my undying gratitude and every bit of striving to please, to the people who take interest, even as I’m trying to figure out why the hell they’d bother.
So really (and truly), I’m not writing for reinforcements. I’m not writing for advice or suggestions or commiseration or tellings-off or refutals. I’m writing because even though I’m a mess, I’m still the only topic I can write with any degree of clarity or confidence on. And inside this slightly smaller but still unlikeable frame, there’s still a Fat Kid making herself known. And she’s a bitch.
[Oh the delicious irony of discovering my own wisdom, in reply to a comment elsewhere in the internet:”To anyone else, I think perhaps it doesn’t make a difference what I look like, because they see a person they like. I’ve never been able to hook into that.”]
*Neologism: verb version of ‘Zzzzzz’ – traditional noise people make when asleep. In cartoons, anyway.