It’s been a strange few days. Strange in that nothing has actually happened but somehow the life lessons have been profound. Though the lessons are simple, maybe even routine to many, the impact upon me appears life changing.
A simple thing, I am in control. It is my life. I choose.
Simple I know but how contolled are we by habit, by desire to please, by obligation? When do we think about how simple it is just to change? Be it a habit, a perspective or a perception.
When was the last time you remembered you were free?
It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It seems that when I am sickening for something I sicken intellectually first. I loose energy and creativity, this is the warning sign… Then there is the mucus and the fatigue and my mind floats in the abyss of sickness suddenly desperate to find it’s way back to the land of the living.
Everytime I get sick it is preceded by that weariness. I had not realised until now. There is always a week where I eat junk, lounge in front of the TV and lack for the energy to invest in life. Not physically unwell but sick in heart and spirit. Vacant. It’s almost as if I invite the sickness in. When I am unwell I then long for health, for energy and vitality. I swear that I will never become ill again, until there is another week where lethargy comes upon me. It makes me wonder whether sickness can be avoided. Whether if I were to continue with the thirst for life, to avoid the lethergy altogether, could I maintain good health indefinitely.
Sooo, this is my experiement. How to maintain my drives and passions, my thirst for life and never become victim of a lethargy…never ever to become sick again.
Wish me luck.
It’s seven forty-five in the evenin, my husband is out and I am in bed. I am not in bed because I am sick or tired. I am not in bed because I am having an affair. I am not in bed to watch TV. I am in bed because I want to write.
Yes, you read right, I am in bed because I want to write.
As children and adolescents we all automatically retreat to our rooms. Our inner sanctum. The one place in all the world that is ours. We imprint our personalities on them with pictures and music. We express ourselves in and through them. Your room is your space.
As an adult what space do you then have. Your house of course. You decorate it how you choose, you make it yours but….you share it. If you are in a relationship you share all of it. The public spaces and the private. So where is your space?
In theory I have an office downstairs, somewhere I can go to work. But that is full of…well…stuff…our stuff of course but nevertheless stuff…it is decorated in a neutral manner for the times when we may have guests to sleep on the futon. The guinea pigs live there. It’s not mine.
So like a teenager I write in my bedroom. My space. At least until Pete comes to bed.
I grew up during Thatcher’s 80’s. I don’t know what that means to you, to me it meant the birth of pop phsychology. Any adult with half a brain cell had the right to tell me I was spoiled. I was an only child you see. So obviously I had more than anyone else; stuff, time, attention…regardless.
Let’s not talk about what my parents did or did not do: some things they taught me, that I hear modern day parents describing as harsh, I consider a blessing. There was never a child’s table in my house; I was host as much as they. There was never small talk; I was expected to have opinions. I was brought up to see a big world. I knew that there were expectations.
I was not brought up to expect that other’s would not see it that way.
Of all of the things that could hurt me about my upbringing there is one thing that drives me crazy. Where in the world is respect and gratitude? If someone cooked for me, short of obvious threats to my life, I would eat it and say ‘Thank you’. If some one bought me a gift, whatever my private thoughts, I would show gratitude, even if I gave it to someone else when the opportunity arose.
Everyday I hear ‘I don’t like that’ or ‘I don’t want that’. Me Me Me Me.
Who the fuck is spoiled?
We are so dependant on one another. Don’t you think? On the thoughts and reactions of others. We exist in the eb and flow of words and actions, defining ourselves by our job, by our relationships, religious ot ethical affiliations. How often do we have a relationship with ourselves?
Who are you? In your quiet moments, when all else is stripped away? When the cynicism of life’s lessons, the shyness, the desire to defend, to entertain or to please is stipped away what remains? Without the sartrian need to act and to define or pack oriented need to fit, unself-conscious, left to you own devises, who are you to yourself? Do you like the quiet? Does it scare you? Are you too alone in you head? Do have faith in the you that you are without the vaidation of others? Are you comfortable in your skin?
What is your body to you? Do you like it? How do you use it? Do you deem it as a vessel of your conciousness to be used for your own fulfillment and enjoyment? Or do you deem it a slave to be mastered by your dominant mind? When you look at yourself, what do you see? Do you see what is there or what you believe others will see? Do you compare yourself to an ideal or an expectation? If so whose ideal? Whose expectation? And why? Do you consider your body a work of art? Do you expect it to be beautiful or to perform it’s tasks? When you set out to change your body do you think about it’s health and what’s good for it or do think about what you want it to look like? Do you value your body? Do you appreciate what it gives you? Do you ever look at those less able bodied and feel gratitude for own body?
Self-esteem comes from within. It cannot come from without. If confidence is gained from the opinions and validations of others is it confidence at all? Modern science reveals that a body treated well will do as it should. Yet we abuse ourselves and our bodies. We don’t rest enough, we don’t sleep enough, we don’t take time to enjoy our bodies, we undereat and then overeat, and fill our minds with all the ways we are inadequate in order to push ourselves further and harder. We do not allow ourselves just to be and to be happy.
Who are you? What makes you happy? When do you feel relaxed?
I’ve never been able to work out whether it’s arrogance or insecurity to think that no one in the world is like you and your thoughts and feelings are weird and should generally be contained for the good of humanity.
I have never been one of those who when faced with one of their own odd habits assumes that it is shared by the world as a whole, I fall into the catagory above utterly convinced of my own insanity. There are however many of those around me over the years who would not contest that I am odd. When discussing the possibility of counselling with my husband his instictive reaction was that it would be of no benefit, how could any normal human being possibly understand what goes on in my crazy, over-complicated skull? I often think that my parents also feel that they somehow ended up with a changeling and are uncertain sometimes how to approach it.
I admitt that a lot goes on in my head. I seem pathologically incapable of turning off my thoughts even for a few moments, the cogs are always whirring. This would be why I find reading and writing a relaxation as it forces my mind to slow down and to focus. It stops the steam coming out of my ears. I am intense. I have been told repeatedly to chill the fuck out.
Today I have been asking myself how much is my over-thinking neurotic mental overload a matter of nature, nuture or just bastard life experience. A lot of my family are prone to depression. Does that make nutsoness genetic? Or have I just grown up in an environment of nutters and therefore learned nutso because nutso is all I know? Or it is that I had a rough few years? A relationship that though loving was ultimately bad for me and work related stress taking their told on someone who would otherwise just have been a bit soppy and emotional. I do remember a time when I had unshakable faith that everything would be alright in the end.
I think possibily it is the latter that in a crazy way is blame. I was a niave romantic, even a fantasist, and life did not live up to my dreams. My mind rushes as I try to predict the next stumbling block or stab in the back. I try to make things good and right and pleasant. But of course life is none of those things. Life is what it is and make the most of it.
At least I can share my overthinking;-)