Welcome to Feel Goodish Friday where we* are feeling very goodish about finally recognising that we** are not feeling very goodish.
*Using the first person pronoun ‘we’ when talking about yourself, as if you were composed of many peoples, is an indicator of not feeling very goodish.
**Using it twice is an indicator that you may be about to open a bottle of wine, take it to bed with a pack of fags and not move again until Monday.
As is often the case when not feeling goodish, I find myself seeking the words of others in order to explain myself to myself and then, in turn, to you, so that you might see in my explanations via the words of others, some essential truths about your own existence and pain.
And that paragraph is exactly why we will now seek the clear and thoughtful words of others…
“You were not meant to live in a fever of anxiety; screaming yourself hoarse in a frenzy of dreadful, panicked fight-or-flight that leaves you exhausted and numb with grief. You were not meant to live like animals tearing one another to shreds. Don’t turn your hair grey. Don’t carve a roadmap of pain into the sweet wrinkles on your face. Don’t lay in the quiet with your heart pounding like a trapped, frightened creature. For your own precious and beautiful life, and for those around you – seek help before it’s too late. This is your wake-up call.”
Thank you Bryant McGill, for describing my everynight, my hair, my wrinkles, my pounding heart, and why all that shizzle will send me to A&E if I don’t wake up (metaphorically/emotionally speaking; I am in a permanently wakeful state) and sort myself out.
We could ignore Bryant and the wake-up call, seeing as he describes himself as a ‘human potential thought leader’ and is based in Los Angeles, but I must overlook his twatty appellation and Tinseltown location and do as he says because I am currently far too attracted to the idea expressed in these words from Stephen the King of darkness:
“Garraty wondered how it would be, to lie in the biggest, dustiest library silence of all, dreaming endless, thoughtless dreams behind your gummed-down eyelids, dressed forever in your Sunday suit. No worries about money, success, fear, joy, pain, sorrow, sex, or love. Absolute zero. No father, mother, girlfriend, lover. The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth’s wing. An end to the agony of movement, to the long nightmare of going down the road. The body in peace, stillness, and order. The perfect darkness of death. How would that be? Just how would that be?”
You know you need to make a change when you become attracted to the silence of the coffin.
For me, it’s more how Robbie Williams put it:
“I don’t wanna die, but I ain’t keen on living either.”
I ain’t keen on the way I’m living at the moment. It’s so familiar there’s almost a comfort in it. It’s not me that’s in pain; the pain belongs to other people. Their events and traumas are not happening to me, but their position in my life means I am placed in the eye of their storm, held in a waiting-waiting-waiting position, longing for things to get better.
Actions I take and decisions I must make to ease their pain only cause greater stress for me and this scenario is so like life with my mum that I am repeatedly flipping back to the scared, confused fifteen year-old me who would slide up and down the scale of coping to not coping with the speed of a virtuouso violinist.
Hence the ‘we’; me and fifteen year-old me, together again, as overwhelmed and trapped as we ever were.
Last night I had a moment of clarity. Yes, it coincided with the first sips of wine of the evening, but isn’t that always the best time to take stock of your day, your life?
In my moment of clarity, I saw where I could make a change, maybe find some small relief, and I went about making it happen.
Then I went out and drank wine about it with a friend whose approach to life is one of determined tomfoolery. We talked about my situation. He added jokes and confirmed that whilst I am clearly quite unsettled, the true madness would be to live in this situation and NOT be unsettled by it. Then we talked about our kids and our favourite breakfasts and how what we need, all we really ever need, is a good friend to help us find joy.
This morning another of those good friends helped me find joy in the relief of making an appointment with my GP.
This evening two more good friends will help me find the joy in good food and gossip.
And tomorrow I will drive for hours to get to yet another good friend who will help me find the joy in remembering that I exist, that I am allowed to exist, that existing is what my friends and family need me to do.
Fifteen year old me will come with me. She’ll drink too much wine and smoke too many fags and be ‘that girl’ who cries at the party. But I’ll look after her. And I’ll look after me.
We’ll be alright in the end, me and me. We always are, eventually…