It's that time of year again

Last week was mental health awareness week.  I expect you already know that, there has been a lot of posting, publicity and even talking about it, and it’s fantastic to see people become increasingly open every year.  It’s also a year since I publicly posted a blog for the first time ever, and wow, was that a revelation.  Something else you probably know: the theme for this week was loneliness – a very, very important topic for anyone struggling with mental health, and something that I don’t think anyone has completely escaped over the last two years.  Loneliness in itself is not a mental health issue of course, but the statistics around it being an indicator for greater risk of mental and physical health problems are a little terrifying, if not surprising – loneliness increases the risk of dying early by 26% according to a 2015 study.

It’s something I have talked and listened about a lot, I spent two years working for a project that aimed to address loneliness and isolation in people over 50, and something that stuck out at me was something the (rather brilliant) programme manager often said in introductions to talks and events – that she had not yet been old, but she had definitely been lonely.  I think we have all felt it, even if only fleetingly, during the separations enforced by various lockdowns and rules and imposed by people’s differing levels of caution around contact.  It’s been recognised as an issue for older people for a long time now, often people living alone, not working, less mobile so not able to get out by themselves – and it’s something I’ve increasingly heard about and understood among parents (mums, actually.  I’m sure there are dads in a similar position and I’m not one for making a feminist statement for the sake of it, but personally I haven’t encountered any men who have admitted feeling like their life has shrunk to an endless cycle of providing food, getting up in the night, and playing ‘Elsa Castles’ eleventy-billion times.  I’m also sure that almost all of them do all these things, it just doesn’t seem to take over their entire person-hood to the same extent, but I think that might be a whole other ramble.).

 
I was lonely a long time before being a parent, and a long time before being even a teenager (who also report increasing levels of loneliness, despite the endless possibilities for staying connected to one another), but I’m not here to complain about that.  I’m also not really here to point out that loneliness is a symptom as well as a cause of poor mental health, though I don’t think I’ve known loneliness like that of the conviction that you cannot possibly explain what is filling your mind and pulling you to breaking point to a single other human because it just seems so utterly…well, insane and shameful.  And it doesn’t matter how many people you talk to at work, have a drink with, even talk on some level about your life with, that loneliness is tinged with hopelessness and feels at the time rather impenetrable – the way out, of course is to talk, and you can’t so it becomes a painful feedback loop.  I’ve wandered off on a tangent again, as I say, that’s not really what I’m here to talk about.  What I thought I would talk about, is the people, places and the things that have made me feel less alone in darker times – they’re probably mostly obvious, but the gratitude I feel for these groups and individuals is immeasurable, and I undoubtedly would not still be here without some of them.
 
I guess I have to start at school – I was lonely here too – bullied for being new, then too posh, then too fat and occasionally too clever – but then I made friends with some people who actually wanted to know me and weren’t particularly fussed about ‘fitting in’ superficially.  I don’t think you’re ever too young to recognise fake versus genuine, and I’m still close to some of these people, if sadly not geographically.
 
Music was one of the ‘things’ that made me feel less alone – it was a means of expression that I could share with others without having the awkwardness of a conversation or even having to particularly like one another – you have a common purpose, a set of directions on a page and you are individually but more importantly collectively focused on making a beautiful (ok, sometimes not all that beautiful, but the intention was there) sound.  There are reports and studies showing that being ‘part of’ and contributing to something is more effective in combatting loneliness than simply going to things and seeing people, and I was lucky enough to learn this in a practical way early on.  Running does something similar for me now – as part of a group, we encourage, support and care for each other and aim towards something we have in common – it isn’t quite the same, and actually I have a depth of relationship with some people I’ve met through running that definitely qualifies as some of the best friendships I have ever known – I don’t think I can thank running alone for that, it’s just that some pretty great people seem to be drawn to running clubs!
 
The next ‘thing’ (?) group, perhaps (?) felt a little shady at the time.  It was the earlier days of online forums and communities, and I sort of hesitate to mention it because if anything when I think about it, it makes me feel further from the people in my ‘real’ life now and was at times a way of avoiding meaningful contact with people I really loved – but there were a couple of eating disorder forums that were the only possible place I could talk about some of the crazy shit that I was thinking (and doing) and know it would be understood.  There were negative aspects to it, an occasional undercurrent of competition, ‘tips’ that could easily draw people deeper into something that was already very harmful and an element of de-personalisation that meant people didn’t always consider how others might respond before typing – but I think I’d have found most of it by myself anyway, and the trade-off was realising that a) what I was doing was real and b) while some of it was pretty shocking, taking the piss out of oneself and sharing it with people who would not be shocked took some of the drama and tension out of it all and gave me a sense of perspective, not to mention a good few ‘oh just get over yourself’ moments (this is something I need when I’m getting drawn into a spiral of negative thoughts and self-pity – I am definitely not suggesting anyone ‘just get over’ mental illness, it really does not work like that!). 
 
I can’t leave out therapy, of course - Did I ever mention that TA saved my life..?  Weird how I still feel conscious of stigma around this in a way I don’t any other aspect of mental health – probably my tendency to minimise my own experience and a general sense of ‘I don’t deserve this it wasn’t that bad’ contributes to this.  I know this about myself, because I went to therapy. Even now, when I feel like there could hardly be any more to know and understand about my past, my character and how I interact with the world, I still feel it’s beneficial. Knowing there is an hour a week when I can inhabit feelings that don’t feel safe, talk to someone with no judgement at all, and focus on me and what I need with the guidance of another person saves me from going under sometimes – you’d be forgiven for thinking I spend a lot of time thinking about me and what I need if you’ve read any of this blog, but I promise I spend a lot more considering other people – and yeah, even that gets lonely sometimes, because it’s not just about being with someone else, it’s about being properly with yourself too – and if you can do that WITH someone alongside you, I think it’s actually impossible to feel lonely.
 
Work is another ‘thing’ – it’s the contribution aspect again, as well as the people.  I’m incredibly lucky and I work with some incredible people, who genuinely love and support one another in every way, not just professionally, and I am beyond grateful for this (guess what, feeling unable to express and be myself in a job meant I felt really very lonely for a while – are you sensing a theme?). The churches I have worked and volunteered in also offered me genuine, unquestioning acceptance and a place I have felt safe. I will be forever grateful for one of these in particular, for my first very real experience of being loved and cared about completely independent of my parents and my ability to do things.
 
You might notice a conspicuous absence of family in the above love-letter to the people and activities that make me feel close to others and the world itself.  I could go into this, but I should probably leave it for another day. Suffice to say, I finally did something this weekend that made me feel like a missing piece went into my jigsaw - I met my half-sister for the first time, and the understanding we felt for each other, having never spent time together was somehow unsurprising, but very...settling and peaceful.  We had exchanged occasional messages, but the only thing we have really shared is the experience of being abandoned at a pre-conscious state by someone that set god knows how many people on a road to...well, loneliness. It didn't matter that this was all we really knew - and after an all too short weekend of genuine connection, I am pretty narked that she lives on the other side of the world... but we found something that I had always hoped existed, and it's been amazing to confirm that it does.  It would also be wrong not to mention the family I chose for myself - my bright, hilarious, brave and outgoing daughter, and my husband who is the first person I have been convinced really loves me, and never, ever fails to appreciate me – but aside from these, family has been a mixed blessing and I kind of think it’s ok to articulate that, because the ‘lack’ of family who understood and wanted me as I was, is the main reason for long-term and acute loneliness.  I’m sad about that, but mostly I’m not really lonely these days.  And I’m very, very grateful for all the people that have helped in that journey 

On Grief

 This is.... a blank page.  Kind of appropriate, given that my intention is to write about grief.  The blank space left by loss is very similar to this white box.

I'm told I can choose how to view the blank page.  Perhaps it could be inviting, an opportunity, a space to recreate, to start from scratch, to do something entirely new.  It isn't, for me.  It is currently an imposing, endless gap that I am obliged to fill with something meaningful.

Like the opportunity to be a child.  I don't remember much about early childhood, and what I do remember is founded in 'the right thing', shrouded in fear and threats of greater loss, covered by anger, and weighed down by the immense responsibility that I felt for keeping people THERE. For THERE read 'alive', in one particularly significant case. I didn't really know what I was missing, but I did feel a wistfulness for it when I spent time in friends' houses, where they were parented, held, listened to, comforted.  Or taken to do normal kid stuff, like eating burgers at McDonalds or flinging themselves around on bouncy castles. For some reason I pretended not to like that stuff.  Denial of self, taking on the preferences of those who required me to be Not A Child. I didn't know how to talk to other children, and my friends were generally at arms length even then - adults were easier, their expectations clearer, and much easier to fit into.

But this isn’t meant to be a lament for the way things were, it’s an expression of the sadness and loss I now feel for what wasn’t. And it’s huge. I keep saying I need to let go of it, accept and move on, because nothing is going to take me back in time to rectify that stuff, and even now, as I battle with myself to try to give my own child what I missed, I am ENVIOUS of her opportunity to have it (even if I am, as I often suspect, failing to offer it effectively). 

The blank space that this particular grief creates is different from that of the removal of something - it's not a blank page because something has been deleted - though I'm familiar with that one too, the at times gut-wrenching, agonising, loss of something that WAS there, and was precious. I felt more pain around that type of loss - but on some levels there was comfort, and there was an element of it being tangible and easier to understand.  This grief over what wasn't has a more ephemeral quality - I can't quite pin it down, perhaps in part because there are no little pieces to hold on to, to remember.  I hadn't thought about it until recently, until I did the very insignificant thing of watching a TV series where grief and loss played a central role - and noticed the snippets of laughter and joy as people remembered good things about the person who was gone. I know, even among the very messy situation around it, that those moments of laughter and joy sit in the blank space increasingly as time sands down the sharp edges of loss, where there is something or someone real to grieve.  

But now, as I sit trying to make some sense of the enormous sense of loss I feel every time I try to be fully present with my bright, confident, spontaneous daughter, I can't get hold of any of it - there are no memories to draw strength from, no sense of what was lost, just a longing for something that never happened - but I don't know how to alter that, because I don't really know what it was. And I pull back from finding out because I'm so fucking scared all the time, and have such a strong aversion to being with my younger self - but it makes no sense because the feeling is disgust, and that has no place in a child's view of people - yet it can't be adult either because there are no real grounds for it.  But I hate her.  It feels so forced to try to take care of her, to try to connect with that wicked, whiney, self-absorbed child. And I know that isn't my voice, that voice came from somewhere else, but it takes over every time I try to sit with myself, in what should be a neutral space, where I as a child should be allowed the opportunity to be, to exist - and I shy away again as disgust takes over and threatens even more damage.

What am I looking for? I'm looking for me, as a child, to be taken care of.  And it's my job.  But I don't know how to do it, because it hasn't been done, really, and I somehow can't get past the rejecting response that immediately comes.  So I keep looking for it outside, wanting someone to teach me, then I find it such a comfort to have someone else do it, that I want to hang onto that and soak up more, try to internalise it - and run into the angry, uncompromising, perfectionist version of myself that says I'm not allowed to take it, and have to learn to do it myself - which in the flawed perspective that lives in that mindset means angrily shutting out everyone else to snarl at myself that I can't even look after me well enough to be of any use - and help is rejected because I HAVE TO DO IT EVEN IF I DON'T KNOW HOW, and I grudgingly try all kinds of things that are supposedly looking after myself - like making lists, and achieving things and taking time to read a book and getting out to run and staying at home by myself for the sake of having 'space' which just makes me feel guilty and lonely. 

...I've said enough. I moved pretty fast from grief to self-hatred there - which is no great surprise, since that's where it generally leads.  Well actually it's pretty much where everything leads. Maybe grief is something that needs more of the blank space I defined it as.  Maybe I don't actually need to fill it, because filling it led to something more injurious... Maybe I can just sit in the space, and let it hurt if that's where it goes to...

Lakeland 50 - and being proud of myself

 This post is going to be a bit different.  I tend to waffle on about mental health stuff, in case you hadn't noticed.  This relates, of course, partly because my brain with all its dodgy wiring is part of everything I do and experience, and also because running is a significant part of my initial recovery and subsequent descent into insanity.  Sometimes it's the best thing I can possibly do for myself, it's freedom and joy and life-giving, and sometimes it's obsession, punishment and a compulsive way to be sure of avoiding any feelings that might dare to appear and attempt to overwhelm me.  I haven't a clue which side of the line this falls, but I felt the need to write about it.

I'm not quite as fast on the roads as I used to be, since having my daughter - so I needed a way to take the pressure off myself but still feel like I was achieving something (why, I now ask myself?  Why not just enjoy being out there?), and trail running has been it.  I've wanted to do a 50 mile race for a really long time, Lakeland 50 was up there at the top of my list - and to cut short a long story that everyone has lived the past 18 months anyway, instead of the 6 month build up I was expecting, an extra year has gone by before I made it to Coniston to give it a go. My outlook and intentions around training have changed a little in the interim, and I genuinely had no idea how it was going to go.  The answer, it turns out, was slowly and painfully, but there were things I did differently this time to how I might have approached it last year, and I think that might just be a good thing. 

My first move was to ask for support - to ask for the kind of encouragement from friends and family that would help me keep going and make sure I did enough to be proud of my efforts.  My next, to make decisions that were kind enough not to sabotage myself.  I've made it sound much more complicated than it is - basically, I asked people to take an interest and keep an eye on my tracker, and I ate a lot of jam sandwiches and sat down a few times.  Sometimes self-care is simple.  I also finished feeling really fucking proud of myself.  I had hoped for a particular time goal, and I was much, much slower, which normally would have made me a bit disappointed, or got me wondering where I could have pushed myself harder etc etc etc.  The truth is that I did my absolute best on a very difficult route, and it was absolutely enough.  

Anyway, brain-bug analysis over, I'm going to write a straightforward race report, to remind myself of why I am rightly rather proud of myself.

Lakeland 50 is iconic in the world of trail running, partly for the wonderful setting and views, and partly for the community and the festival feel of the weekend itself.  The day before with registration and setting up camp, totally failing to resist a half of local beer, and the really inclusive and joyful children's fun run had all the anticipation and excitement that I'd missed so much over the last year, and I soaked it up.  I could ramble on about the great selection of food, the friendliness of the marshals and everything else about it, but it's probably time to actually start the race.

It was warm.  The race briefing was perfect - entertaining, realistic and inspiring, and I felt ready when we got on the coach to make our way to Dalemain for the start.  The coach was hot, which was distinctly unpleasant on the twisty journey, but it did have the advantage of making me feel much better as we got off into what felt like relative cool when we arrived.  I found the lovely Kath and Dawn and we chilled out on the grass while we waited for 11:30 to come round.  When it was time to get into our start pens, they pushed me forward to take a spot around the 13-14 hour predicted time, which I was hoping was conservative.  I didn't intend to do anything stupid in the first few miles, and made sure to walk all the uphills on the allegedly flat first loop.  It wasn't the easy run a lot of people had claimed prior to the race and I felt pretty hot and uncomfortable for the whole of the first 4 miles, which didn't inspire much confidence for later on.  A quick wee stop and the exit from the Dalemain estate perked me up though, it felt like being released onto the 'real' course, and I thoroughly enjoyed the trot through Pooley Bridge and up the hill that I'd flown down in the Ullswater Trail last month.  The section up above Ullswater was just as lovely in the opposite direction, and I managed a comfortable jog along most of it, just enjoying the scenery and splashing through the occasional stream.  Arriving into Howtown, there was a queue for the checkpoint, which I hadn't expected and didn't know the length of - which was probably lucky as I might have chosen to press on if I'd realised - but I had built up a good buffer of time on my target, and reminded myself this was a long game.  I nibbled a snack while waiting, and once I'd been topped up with water and grabbed a bit of flapjack for the walk up the hill I felt ready for the next bit.  

The climb up Fusedale was the section that people talked about most before the race.  I had no idea what it was going to be like, having never been, and while it was really hot, I was more than comfortable hiking up at a decent rate.  I fell in with the very friendly Colin, who was obviously loving the experience as much as I was, and we passed quite a few people, enjoying some cheerful conversation as we went.  With his previous two finishes, Colin was able to tell me what was coming, and the promised gentle downhill passed easily while we talked about families, hills and running, surprisingly enough.  I slowed a bit as the descent got a bit rockier, and my nerve started to go a bit, along with my quads, on the steeper sections.  We finally got down to the lakeside at Haweswater, and as I'd been warned, there was a really long section before the checkpoint.  It was really, really hot here, and I had probably only just eaten enough to survive this leg, so the narrow, rocky path was slow going and I couldn't even get a decent walking pace going really for fear of going flying.  The bright spot along here was the crystal clear streams and little waterfalls and pools that people were disappearing into to dip hats and cool off a little.  I gave into this temptation after a couple of miles and stuck my head into one of the inviting waterfalls, cooled my feet and shared the ecstasy of what someone referred to as 'Lakeland 50 spa' with some runners close by.  

Somewhat revived, the end of the lake section was more pleasant, and the checkpoint appeared fairly quickly.  I finally understand the flat coke thing for endurance events - it tasted amazing and after downing a cup of this, some squash and a cup of vegetable soup along with a cheese sandwich, I felt completely revived and ready for the next climb.  Colin had described Gatesgarth as more of a 'proper path', so I wasn't surprised, but also wasn't thrilled at encountering a load more rocks. The next section is a bit of a blur of rocky tracks and my quads were distinctly unimpressed with the steep downhill sections as I approached Kentmere, it didn't seem to be cooling down and I was doing less and less actual running.  I was also beginning to feel a little queasy and had a moment of wondering if I actually was up to this challenge, given that I was only just over halfway...  It was at this point that I gave myself a talking to, recalling words from the briefing about this being the decisive point on the course, and getting beyond this checkpoint and on to the next one meant I was statistically very likely to finish.  Unlike the majority of people who are indignant about such things, I quite liked the idea of being a statistic in this case.  Never mind how I felt, if someone said I would do it if I reached Ambleside, do it I would.

Kentmere checkpoint was an oasis of smoothies, pasta and cheerful marshals, and after perching on a rock for a while I felt stiff and sore but mentally ready to crack on.  I fell in with a little group who were bunching up around the massive ladder stiles which characterised the next bit.  It was beautiful as the sun started to sink, and it did finally begin to cool down. 

I don't remember much else of the next leg, but finally I was in Ambleside and there were people cheering and clapping as I hobbled into an awkward sort of run down the hill. It was definitely nearly dark now, and I felt really emotional reaching the checkpoint and seeing lots of people meeting up with families.  I wished at this point that I hadn't been so solidly independent, and had asked A and B to come and meet me, even though it was almost 10pm and would have been a bit of a nightmare for them.  Time for another good talking to, as I allowed myself a few tears and a second jam sandwich.  Reminded myself again that if I got to Ambleside I was as good as done, and set out again, gritting my teeth.

The least said about the next leg the better...  As my friend later put it, it was basically the Rocky Horror Show, and I made all kinds of ridiculous whimpering noises as I picked my way across the narrow, ankle bending paths in what was fast becoming pitch dark.  I finally made it to Chapel Stile, where the Angels had provided a toilet with actual paper and sanitiser, which made me feel much happier.  Into the tent and... WATERMELON.  The actual food of the gods on a long distance run.  I don't actually know how many pieces I devoured, doubtless blocking the entrance and making a general nuisance of myself.  I gave the 'stew' a go and felt a bit grim afterwards, but luckily Colin and Gareth appeared again and helped me get going. I'd got into my head that it wasn't far to the next checkpoint at Tilberthwaite, but at the painfully slow rate I was managing the downhills, it felt a really long drag. 

Everyone raved afterwards about the checkpoint at Tilberthwaite but apparently I was in pretty bad shape at this point, as I failed to notice the charity buckets, decorations etc and got a few concerned looks from marshals as I drank some sugary tea and tried to force down some more food (which was not the apparently amazing cheese toasties that I also mainly failed to notice).  I actually was all for giving up at this point just 3 miles from the end, but there was no way I was going to let myself, and I eventually dragged myself out of the very uncomfortable chair and up 'Jacob's ladder' for the last leg.  The climb was actually much better than I remembered from the recce and the torch I had pinched from Al after losing my really decent one that I purchased specifically for LL50 at the previous event, was good enough that I didn't feel like I was going to be wandering off the edge of a cliff.  The last climb down, however, felt like it was going to finish me off. I was literally whimpering with every step, which sort of helped with the sore quads and general pathetic-ness of my now disappeared shred of courage, but as I hung onto bits of bracken and stood for a few seconds to try and muster up enough bravery to take another step forward, Gareth was there, pointing out that we were actually going to finish.  He was kind enough to stick with me on the faltering descent and through the quad-bashing final stretch down the road.  In these final two miles, we got to know a bit about each other, and established that our races had gone in exactly the same way, our initial aims much the same, the reality of the challenge sinking in after the first couple of checkpoints, and eventually crawling towards the final turn.  We agreed we would jog the last bit, and we finished together vowing never again, in the way that all runners do when they know full well the next morning they will be asking when entries for next year are open. 

So Lakeland 50 2022...  I'm coming for you. And aim to be a bit quicker.  But this year, what I did was enough, and I am proud of myself.

Dear You, who hurt me

 Let go.  I'll catch you, I promise.  Trust me.

I did.  Gradually, perhaps, at first.  Then suddenly, partly to please you, to gain your respect, I loosened a grip and let you in.  Let you hear my fear, my shame, the things that shook me to the depth.  And I asked, a thousand times, if it was ok.  If you needed anything in return.  You said no.  You said you'd just hold it, lightly, unless it became too much.  But you didn't let me know it was becoming too much, until I started to drop.  You let me sink, lose a grip and fall into your hands which had tried to gently pull me down from where I sat, precarious but balanced on a ledge.  

Fooled.  Off I go, down into the chasm, because it doesn't suit you any more to catch.  I confessed my frailty, my lack of responsiveness, proved for the hundredth time my lack of judgement, allowed the wall to crack only to find it was too much for you, as for all who went before.  There were no secrets. I told you long ago, you knew it was never your role, and yet you offered it.  Let go, I will catch you, I promise.

The safety of the place you created, a place I was safe and held, I retreated there late and lonely in the night, took my mind into the security and solidity of the careful embrace, stayed as I drifted into the haven of sleep.  If only it were eternal sleep.  But no, I woke again, every morning, crushing despair my wake-up call, ready but unwilling to set out on a well-worn dutiful routine, wearily repeated, yet unfamiliar as someone else's life.  Who am I?  Alice's caterpillar with its probing question, I thought I knew, but was persuaded otherwise.  Too big for the house, too small for the task, I chased someone else's white rabbit down a hole until I was caught, held fast, lost and stuck in the maze of burrows where I met characters of fascination, fun, fear, and ultimately distance.  Then you were there, changing the narrative, offering me the chance to go home.  But I am Alice, not Dorothy, there are no red shoes, and your yellow brick road seems to lead me to another dead end. 

And there I sit, at that end, while you tell me how I feel, what I need to do, and say you know me.  Unequal, withholding the one thing that helped me to connect and know a part of you, apparently for my benefit.  Not so. I cannot trust your logic, it is wiped out by itself and I am for once sure of what I need, but cannot ask because I know the answer.  You ask me to express it nonetheless, why? To torture me and use it again to say no? This is not a lesson I need to learn. I am...beyond aware that I cannot always have what I want.  The result of the request is simply more pain which you say I need to feel, to go through. But why manufacture pain?  I can go through what exists already, there is enough to practise with.

The honesty you prize so highly should have led you to say let go - and fall away. It might even be right - but it is not what you promised.

Lost in translation

 Sometimes I don’t hear what is actually being said. Or forget to say what I actually mean to another human.

Feeling the Feelings

I've hesitated over starting this post. But then, I've hesitated to do anything that involves exploring how I really feel and inhabiting that honest space where I allow emotions to come along, be experienced in depth, and I'm told, eventually, run their course...  I've actually bored myself already, there's a disdainful voice telling me that no-one wants to hear this nonsense, I'm too tired to start writing about all this and I don't really feel much at this moment anyway.  And there we have it, the first line, primary care block.  Do. Not. Explore. This.  Do. Not. Feel. 

I've clocked it now because I'm paying attention, deliberately looking to identify how I feel and share it with whoever happens to read this. So I'm ploughing through that defence and carrying on - if no-one wants to hear it, they can skip over it and not read it.  STFU, critical Self. 

So it works a bit harder.  You know what you should be doing?  Cooking dinner.  Tidying up some of the mess. Ordering some storage boxes.  Answering that Email.  Exercising - get rid of that flab round the middle that's been bothering you every time you look in the mirror or fasten your jeans.  Yes, that's it, up another level - find the core exercises, wear yourself out so the chatter about fat that has just filled your head in place of daring to explore a real feeling will drown out everything else, and you can DO something about it.  It won't be enough, of course, it's never enough, but at least all that awful feelings stuff will disappear for a bit.  But that is how I got into this mess in the first place, and the only way out is through - giving those feelings space, feeling them, coming out the other side alive. I'm yet to be certain that it's possible but here we go on the leap of faith that says I've got to give it a try because what I've been doing for 25 years or more doesn't work.

So shall we talk about feelings then?  Here's one. Anger. I'm starting here because this is the one that scares me the most, and it's the one I have least idea how to express.  A few sharp-tongued passages of writing have squeezed their way out, but usually with a good dose of flowery language to make it safer, a metaphor to disconnect it from myself, and some level of artistic merit to take the bitterness out of it.  I fucking hate being angry, and I am angry a lot of the time right now.  Not even righteous anger on behalf of injustice and the general wrongness of the world (though I manage a bit of that too), but uncontrolled, resentful, wounded anger at stuff which is happening or has happened to me. I suspect a lot of my immediate anger and frustration at things like, say, my kid getting a plastic spoon out of the drawer when I've asked her not to, for no particular reason, is disproportionate.  Of course it is.  A hint of annoyance snowballs into years of fury about having been ignored and disregarded and not understood.

I'm definitely not proud of how I'm handling it.  It keeps coming out sideways, losing my cool and shouting at B for small things that have just tipped me over the edge.  Slamming doors and hitting walls when no one is looking. Occasionally talking about it, but almost never to the person involved in the situation that has made me angry.  But I guess it's a bit better than making holes in my arms or throwing up lunch.

Here's another feeling.  Sadness.  I am sad a lot of the time too.  There's a line from a daft poem about depression being anger without enthusiasm, and I guess that often is true - once the energy has gone from the anger and hurt, I'm left feeling sad.  Sad about whatever it was that triggered the anger in the first place, and usually sad about how it's affecting my relationships now.  I'm a little more comfortable with sad than anger, but it's still heavy to carry around and generally fucking exhausting. I have a random mood dip around 5-6pm every day pretty much - I am generally ready for it now - but it's when the energy and focus from the day is quietened down, and I am tired, and there is no defence against feeling sad and generally lonely.

And then there's fear.  Fear is the undercurrent of everything.  Fear hums in the background all the time.  ALL the time. Even when I'm feeling good, and happy, I'm afraid.  Afraid that it will end, afraid of the emptiness afterwards, afraid that I shouldn't be feeling happy, afraid that whatever it is that's making me happy is wrong or imaginary or about to disappear.  Prepare for the worst, always be on guard, stay awake.

I left happy until last, because I'm hoping that might make it the feeling that gets left at the end of this.  There are plenty of opportunities to be happy, and please don't think I don't get them and experience them.  In fact there are frequently moments of joy even greater than the contentment I crave.  A moment of true connection and laughter with another person.  A feeling of physical comfort as I settle into bed. A soaring sense of freedom and wonder as I run through the wide, open hills feeling in touch with both the ground and the sky. Happiness is there for sure.

And that really is all the options - there are nuances of course, I often talk about guilt, shame, frustration, self-hatred, contentment, jealousy, anxiety, cheerfulness and loads of other things - but they all fall into one of the basics above. What's the point of identifying that?  Well, if someone asks me how I feel, the answer is almost always 'I don't know'.  And I don't know because I overthink it all, try to express the subtlety of what I'm feeling, try to rationalise or control with some precise words that convey the relevance and scale of the reaction to the situation, and that is NOT what feelings are about. They are about allowing whatever is happening to happen, to come, possibly to temporarily overwhelm, and to go again.  They do that, you see.  Ebb and flow and cover and lower again.  And every single time I forget that sadness will pass and give way to some form of happiness again, anger will cool and fizzle out, leaving perhaps a little fear, or maybe there will be a mix of them all at once and they will all change ratio and move around and leave me somewhere different, whichever way I choose to experience and express them.  The only choice I shouldn't have, is to ignore them or tell myself they are not real or valid, that being the approach that I've adopted, for various reasons since forever.  I've said it before, but I will reiterate it for my own benefit.  It. Does. Not. Work. The only way out is through.

Faith, Fear, Forgiveness...and Permission to Let Go

 I've had several conversations this week about faith.  This should probably come as no surprise, given that I work (indirectly) for the Church of England.  It did surprise me though.  It surprised me for several reasons, the most significant of which was the willingness with which I decided to share beliefs, doubts, and authentic exploration of my own faith as it is right now.  It also surprised me to find I said more or less the same thing to my friend, my therapist, my spiritual director and someone I'd met once in my life before at work - and each response confirmed a feeling I had myself, that I had permission to let go of some elements of religious teaching which were doing me harm.  

As a child/teenager, I went to a fairly traditional CofE church in the village where I lived, which was full of very pleasant, well-meaning ladies who went to church mostly because that's what you do, and asked me how school was, expressed astonishment that I was not 5 years older than I actually was at any age, and asked me how my mum was doing.  I don't doubt that there were people with deep, genuine, meaningful faith - but it didn't find its way into any teaching, and I was given a few stories and set prayers to hang a world-view around, and a concept that people at church were 'nice' and God wanted you to make an effort and turn up wearing a skirt.  Actually, I don't think this did any damage, really, it just made me feel I had to profess a Christian faith, and stick to it without too much questioning.  I wasn't forced into any image of God though, I had the freedom to take the bits of it that were meaningful, enjoy the comfort of the ritual, and listen for the most part to my own experience of God.  It changed when I went to university.  I was finally free from my family responsibility, away from everyone who knew the story of the couple of years before, and desperate to shed my former self.  I met a wonderful friend, who I thought had it sussed, and I wanted to be her.  So I went with her to one of the student-friendly churches in the city, where I was educated in hard-line, conservative evangelical Christianity.  You are, from the second you are born, a sinner.  Sin is punished by death.  Only an unshakeable faith in Jesus can save you, oh, and by the way, if you REALLY love God, you will follow biblical texts to the letter of the law and therefore you cannot be gay/have a church leadership role as a woman/spend the night in your boyfriend's house/allow another person to believe in God in a different way/slaughter your lamb on the wrong date (you get the idea).  And if you REALLY love God, you won't worry about anything, you'll go skipping off around the world telling everyone how you were so terribly lost, and now you have been filled with joy so much so that you'll never be fearful again.  So I sat, week after week, crying buckets of tears, begging God to forgive me for the same things over and over again, and coming away feeling even more shaken, uncertain, and convinced that I was Doing It Wrong. 

Thank God (and I do, almost every day) for the counter-balance of the most genuine place I have ever been in my life, a church on a council estate with a collection of people who were there because they loved God, loved one another, and didn't care where you'd been or what you'd been up to.  There was an occasion where there was a full on fist fight at midnight mass, but no one was fazed, and the people involved would have been welcomed back if they'd ever shown up again.  They didn't even care about my ridiculous middle class accent, they accepted me as if I knew anything at all about the real world and had never written a pretentious essay on musical analysis in my life.  

I have that place to thank for my job, my marriage, my life, and the thread of sanity I think I am now returning to where faith is concerned.  Beginning to accept that there are ways to experience God that allow me to reject the rules, the black and white rigidity - I've been gradually moving away from this in the way I work, talk, practise faith over several years - but somehow felt the rules and the judgement still applied to me, if not how I see others.  Beginning to understand that trust and forgiveness are not the same thing.  Beginning to see that while I had always been conscious of God around and about me, influencing my doing to others (yes, to - crucially - not with, a remnant of the 'save the people' doctrine I never truly believed but attempted insincerely to live), but never within me.  I wish I could paint.  I would paint the image I described, which is simply myself as a dark shadow, surrounded by ivory and soft yellow light, a warmth and presence of God around me... but never in.  Until I open myself, break the rigid line that holds me, my body, my thinking in its trapped place, and allow the light to flood in.  There is nowhere for the light to go, without me casting out some old teachings that I have clung to against my own core beliefs.  They belong to the person that must be thin at all cost, punish herself, push herself way beyond her own limits to just miss being adequate in the pursuit of perfection.  And now, it feels like I have permission to be freed from that.  To say no, that is not the God I know, the God that I see in others and in the world.  There are other ways to experience the power of His love than to fall on the floor begging the cross of Jesus to spear my own chest to allow me the punishment that I so surely deserve. And living in the world is fucking painful sometimes.  It comes with fear, with worries, with questions and doubts, and guess what - God's in that too.  But He REALLY loves me.  He REALLY cares whether or not I had breakfast this morning (well actually I don't know this for sure, but He definitely cares that I ask His help to do this right thing for myself and love myself in a practical way).  And He is there, ready to fill the spaces when I find His grace within myself to truly forgive others and myself based on the acceptability of ME, not the fact that I have beaten myself into submission and decided the people that hurt me are right and I deserve it. 

I'm not there yet.  There is some actual letting go to do, rather than just sensing that it's the right thing and I have permission to do it.  But maybe one of the 'just today's that come along soon will allow me to, and maybe if I keep going, surrendering on the often hourly basis I seem to need to, and reminding myself of God's love, I will be able to do the thing that makes that happen.  I just need to make sure I am listening hard enough when the invitation comes.