Mind tumbling like the murky, brown, debris-strewn waters of a storm-torn river, and fingers still too tired to demand that their nerve fibres link up with the ones in my brain; occasional shapes below the surface of the water seem to cohere – to make sense, briefly, albeit with smudged and muddied outline – before the force of the turmoil drags them down again. The turbidity is too high to focus on any one thing and in the corner of clear, blank space, a cursor waits, insistent…
I’m thankful that I have a laptop and a blog into which I may siphon some of my thoughts and feelings. They have consistently been set to ‘overwhelm’ this week, and I’m also thankful that I have a hop-ful of people ready to listen and offer their insights, feedback, and maybe just comfort…and that is wonderful. Here, through this screen, lies a huge part of my Village. And I need them.
Dull, stubborn, hopelessness pervading my world and turning it just the one shade of grey. No hope. No happy. No meds. Just waiting. Because it’s my own fault, my own fault, my own fault, because I’m stubborn and reckless and stupid and – wait, NO! Stomach clenches with embarrassment and pain – made worse by the fact that now someone KNOWS how much of an idiot I am. “Don’t look away from me – TELL ME” I force myself to meet her eyes. They are kind. I am humiliated. I listen, resentment and anxiety gnawing a hollow in my stomach, because now THEY KNOW. Even though it’s because she cares, they KNOW. And I talk to them, breezily. They take me seriously. Are going to help. And later, waiting, waiting, waiting, ranting to Husby, whose patience must be tested by now, with the outbursts of his idiot wife, to pay through the nose, galled, for two tablets to get me to next week. All because THEY fucked up. No… No… No…, they did, but this is because *I* fucked up. Chagrin can be worn like a cloak, I find and it swirls noisily around me, tripping me up, informing me with sanctimony that it would have been fine if I’d gotten my act together and once again, it’s all my own fault. And so it hangs from my shoulders, wherever I go. And I’m sure people see it…
I’m thankful that Mum stopped the world in its tracks, changed our plans, and organised that I get some meds. Because I was no longer in a place to do anything but wait, agonisingly, until the surgery could un-fuck what they messed up. Thankful that when I went back, they apologised for their lies and ineptness. Thankful that I contained myself, because it wasn’t HER fault, just…all of theirs. No… Mine. It was mine.
Sneaky satisfaction at involving them, quietly, at the end of the hallway, having hidden the bag behind my back and sent her noisily away so we can plot. Whispered consultations and the look of glinty mischief in their eyes as they reach out their little palms to be laden with gifts and flowers. My happiness at being a part of their plan skimming the surface, like crystalline ice, over a deep well of pain, because the sound of their feet running away from me and towards her thuds through my heart, turning it green and sour, and the happiness snaps, brittle and now jagged. I place the emptied bag slowly on the floor and wander down the hallway, telling myself that this is good – THEIR relationships are good, and that is GOOD – and watch with smiling eyes and crying heart as Mother’s Day unfolds before my eyes.
I’m thankful that Niece and Neff and my Sister have beautiful and strengthening relationships. I’m thankful that I have the wonderful joy of being an auntie and I would change neither of them for the world. I’m thankful that I DID go and join in, like I said I would, and I’m thankful it didn’t break me, as was the concern.
Deep breaths, shaky, emotions clinging with desperation to a rock-face of frustration and anger, ledges crumbling and below, a crackling storm of lava and steam, waiting to engulf, consume, and spit out great gobbets of anger on anyone nearby. I feel its heat crisping the edges of my psyche as the temptation to burst into tears dries up, slowly but surely burns to smoking black and is ready to ignite. I can’t queue, because I might explode. I can’t talk coherently, because I might rage-cry. I can’t find the thing I want and time is ticking…ticking…tickingtickingfuckingtickingmovingtoofast and I might MISS THE THING! FUCK! I JUST WANTED IT TO BE STRAIGHTFORWARD WHY CAN’T IT BE STRAIGHTFORWARD…and then, after all that…I don’t have the address I need…and more time more time more time, legs pedalling off, cursing my own stupidity at thinking for one second that I could streamline and WHY don’t I even have a PEN in my bag…fuck! And so the anger clouds fire around me, crackling through the air, which is rain-laden and still not cool enough. But I bite my tongue. Fidget and fidget and fidget and explain in short sentences to people who don’t deserve to bear the brunt…and finally…success.
I’m thankful that I *was* on time. That I live close enough to the post office to get home and back again with the address written out. That my Soulie was there to help calm my outburst. That I didn’t cry in public. That I got my meds. That I sent the glitterbomb.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands” There is glee in his voice and I know he’s done something lovely and I cross my soul’s fingers and hope that I can raise my mood enough to feel it – please don’t let me ruin this moment by not being able to be as excited as he needs me to be; please let me be able to show that I SO appreciate his love and support and the way he cares for me, pleasepleaseplease – something light and large and hollow-sounding is placed into my hands. There is paper and bubble wrap, and I scrunch my fingers around it, feeling the crinkle of its shape, and the squish, and the tough centre. I open my eyes and see that his are shining, watching me, and I muster a grin and begin to unwrap…something with a big pump on the top…shiny…hollow…OHMIGOSH!!! And just like that, the sun comes out, full glory, from behind the clouds, because he’s listened to the little things which make me happy, and he loves me enough to bring one of the most ridiculous, wonderful ones INTO MY HOME…and we go out rightthatmoment to find green soap, which pumps white foam that smells pink, and my cup runs over with delight because he is such a kind, kind man and he loves me. I sparkle and dance and squeal and wash my hands a milliontimes and we laugh, and the storms are banished.
Thankful that Husby is so generous and kind to me, and buys me amazing ‘I love you’ presents, like my very own Foam Soap Dispenser, which STILL makes me so, so happy. Because foam soap. Because #itsthelittlethings.
The first book; a photograph of its real, fullness, held in a hand I’ve seen many times but never In Real…breathtaking by its very THERE-NESS because the years of work and effort and striving have all come together inside one glorious snapshot of a reality changed forever by accomplishment…and pride, unbidden, swelling my heart sixteen sizes larger because this is important and a moment of moutaintop, breathtaken incredulity…and delight because I’m invited to share in it, to revel alongside, and to rejoice.
I’m thankful for having such an amazing BlogWife, whose hard work and efforts have come to fruition. I’m thankful that she’s allowed me to be a small part of that journey, and I feel honoured and humbled and delighted to be there. And I want you to go and pre-order NOW – CLICK HERE. Because this book is BUH-RILLIANT, and if you want to see my endorsement, click here.
The second book, confusing – a melee of colours and bizarre illustration, baffling me until I see the name in the corner – Neil Gaiman – and realise that there is only one person who would think to send it: one friend who is determined to educate me and encourage me to understand the wonder of the talents which inspire and delight him…a friend whose mind and creativity I fell for from the very offset, and whose thoughts leave me sparkling, as though I’ve been plunged into a particularly beautiful and complex nebula, and all my world dissolves to stars and smoke-and-mirrors and I delight…and a friend whose soul sometimes aches more, even, than mine does – whose anguish can be palpable, and whose robust, burgeoning confidence is matched only by his quavering, vulnerable fragility, and when the two meet, sarcasm and bathwater get thrown (though never yet with the baby left in) and storms roll. Yet somehow, every time, my cherie comes back to sunshine – back to that glimmer of hope, and pours it out into a story which will leave me breathtaken and laughing out loud, and once more immersed in the heavenly, astonishing space his mind created. And the third book – his next (which there is a party for (I invited you, and if I didn’t let me know – it’s on Facebook next weekend – there will be prizes and author-facetime and video chat and it’s gonna be AWESOME)), I was allowed to introduce. For real. IN HIS BOOK. And you can PRE-ORDER IT HERE, because it took my breath away and made me laugh til I ached, and tipped me further in WriterLove with his mind (I may have said I wanted to lick his brain) and I have absolutely no doubt you will enjoy it.
I am beyond thankful for such a wonderful friend, who sees most of the all of me, and who still cares, and who INVOLVES ME and lets me be part of the beautiful, incredible, shinybright-with-greyhound-edges world he created.
A dark, yawning abyss threatening to swallow me whole – No job. How can you have no job? How can this happen? Why aren’t they abiding by their contract. Pleasedon’tgetdepressed. Please don’t kill yourself. Please don’t go there, not again. Because I can’t – I need my Husby. And then a space. A short space. And then another abyss, because he went missing – my Soulie went missing and how COULD he and why is his life so hard and why, why, WHY can’t things be straightforward? Please find him. Please find him. Please find him. Let him be alive. I can’t…I can’t have another I need to feel as though I’m on suicide watch for. Even though I could do nothing anyway…and impotence in both cases leaves me listless and drained, and then somehow the VERY HAPPY HAPPY SHINY BRIGHT DAY OF THE DAY WHEN WE ALL WRITE ABOUT COMPASSION AND BE HAPPY is in the middle and I’m torn, swirling, drowning, smiling falsely on one side, treading water against the unknowns which threaten to suck me down into the darkness, and grimacing as my soul gets dragged through the rocks of other people’s experiences of bullying, and through it all I try, I try, I try to show compassion when all I want to do is hide and be beholden to none of it because it’s swamped me and I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe…and one more demand might make me fall apart…something has to give…
Thankful that Husby’s mood hasn’t dipped dangerously low, in spite of suddenly losing his job in the middle of the week, and the massive anxiety we’re now living with. Thankful that my Soulie got drunk instead of dead. Thankful that he’s found and safe. Thankful that 1000Speak went so well, in spite of fewer numbers this time, the calibre of what was shared is SO HIGH, and the stories are amazing and filled with determination and compassion and love, and VILLAGE.
And now, that blinking cursor emptied out across the page in a font I still don’t like, vomiting the feelings and purging them into pixels, twisting their grimy shapes and using my teeth and fingernails to scrape away the slime and find, inside, gleaming – thankfulness, I’m left calmer, ready to go boxing, and hoping that you haven’t taken too much of this on, or that if you did, you, too, can end with hope. Because if nothing else, SPRING is coming, and there are daffodils.