Wordless: My Oma
January 9th, 2008 § 8
What am I thinking ?
January 8th, 2008 § 11
Nothing.
I’m pretty sure I’ve thought about nothing today.
Well, not nothing of course, but nothing important. It’s been another day of speeding through distractions while responsibilities which need more immediate attention are ignored. Perhaps I need to stop letting that trouble me: It only makes me bury my head deeper.
At the moment, I feel a little spaced out. I can’t remember what day it is and time is making no sense. Today I gave Caspar lunch at 3pm. I don’t normally do that. If he’d been hungry he would’ve let me know, he would’ve stood at the refrigerator pointing or opened the cupboard and brought me a box of crackers, so I don’t feel guilty about it. Or, not much. I just feel something a little bit like tension, and a little bit like floating. I am disoriented.
Because I’ve had so many things going on, at least in cyberspace, I haven’t really stopped to see where my head is at. Who has time to do that anyway? That was what the counselling appointments were supposed to be for; one hour every couple of weeks away from my responsibilities with no one to think about but myself.
Except those counselling appointments never eventuated.
The day I was supposed to have the second one someone called to say that Counsel was ill and that she would call me tomorrow to reschedule. But no one called. And no one called the day after that or the day after that. It’s been six weeks now. The obvious question, of course, is Why didn’t I just call them? I don’t have an answer.
I’ve gone through a range of emotions about it, at low volume so that it’s only background noise and not screaming: Disappointment, especially after the optimism of the first visit, and a childlike sense of betrayal. Anger too, I guess, but anger isn’t something I understand very well. I’m not good at it. I’m uncomfortable with it.
Thinking about it now (Yes, I’m thinking. Would that I weren’t.) the strongest feeling is one that has coloured much of my life; that Orphan feeling which reveals itself as either, Why does no one ever take care of me?, or, I am an island.
I am an island.
Perhaps it’s an issue of trust. It’s not that I’m not a trusting person, I mean, the kind of person who is afraid, who doesn’t put themselves out there, who protects themselves at all costs from dangers unknown. I’m not like that. I’m brave, and daring and lay everything on the line. But underneath whatever risks I take with my thoughts or with my feelings or with my Self, being open about who I am and where I’m at, I think there is an expectation of disappointment which has too often been met. An expectation that regardless of how I value myself, my value won’t be recognised, or appreciated, or even acknowledged.
After a numb day, many numb days, writing this is bringing tears to my ears. Because what I’ve written might sound like the words of a petulant teenager but it feels so very true. I am far from being a cynic. In truth, I am a humanist, an idealist. But I am not hopeful.
I dive into life on principal because I think that’s the way we should live, that losing out on experiences because of fear or missing connections because of vulnerability is too great a cost to pay. Because the attempt, if not the chance, will always be worth more than the pain. I stand by that. I believe it’s true. But right now, what am I thinking?
I’m thinking perhaps the principal isn’t enough. I’m thinking that the failing in me is a lack of hope.
Related Posts
Is it getting thin?
January 7th, 2008 § 16
You might be thinking I’m referring to my lack of substantial posts lately, but I’m not. I’m going to talk about weight which, unless you’re saying the “right” things, is somewhat taboo. At the very least it is a subject which has been perverted beyond all meaning by politics and political correctness. I’m even going to tell you my weight. In fact, many of my weights. It’s changed recently.
When I got pregnant, I weighed 55kg. It was the least I had weighed since I was 14 and had ovarian cysts. Because of the cysts I was put on a very strong Pill and weight gain was the side effect of it. After that my weight averaged out at about 59kg. In hindsight, that’s a ridiculous number to be unhappy with but I didn’t like the way I wore it; all in the lower half of my body, still with a tiny waist which only served to accentuate what was below it. This made it hard to find clothes which fit properly and it made my legs, which have never been shapely, look like logs.
A high school friend, in passing, made a comment about my “smiley knees”. I have never shown them since. Changing schools in Yr. 11, a boy called me “Airport”, a term he thought described the width of my ass. You could land a 747 on it. Yes, that comment stuck in my mind too.
Those comments, however, weren’t the cause of the eating disorder I developed when I finished high school. No; my mind was already ripe for them. I was already hungry for weapons to use against myself.
When I was pregnant though, I gained 30kg. And I didn’t care. Only toward the end did I feel like a whale but really, does any woman make it all the way without feeling like that? I doubt it. That picture is me at 5 months. Apart from the fact that a slash of lipstick might have made me look a bit more “blooming”, I look awesome. And I felt awesome, in spite of being so often tired.
All those hormones really changed my attitude toward my body, not just intellectually, but subconsciously as well. They reprogrammed me. Although I’d had the bulimia completely under control for 3 years, I hadn’t entirely rid myself of all the obsessive thought patterns which were part of it. Why? Because those thought patterns are not just part of a disorder. They’re normal. I was just like an average Jane, who says out loud those numbers don’t matter but feels a little relief when they take a dive and a little shame when they go up.
While I was pregnant I decided that when Caspar was born I wouldn’t concern myself with “getting back into shape” for one year, that I would let my body find its own balance, something I had not allowed it to do for a very long time. That year was over on the 16th of October. I weighed 69kg, 10kg more than I did when that stupid boy called me Airport and 15 kgs more than the heaviest “goal” weight I had ever had.
On October 16th, after 9 months completely free from worrying about it and an entire year where I excused myself from judgement by numbers, it was the simplest thing in the world to continue trusting my body even though it was far different than the ideal i had carried with me for so long. And I have no intention of ever “getting back into shape”. Why would I?
Everyone is sexy. Everyone is attractive. It is an attitude. A state of mind.
A decision. Magneto Bold Too
I agree with that. I’ve stated as much already; at length, with science and psychology to back it up. We all agree with that, don’t we?
Or do too many of us just say we agree while invisible rats silently eat away at our self-esteem even as we mouth the words?
Right now, I seem to be getting thinner. I weigh 64kg. I did nothing to “achieve” this and I’m not going to let the loss suck me into trying to “achieve” more. Wherever my body finds its equilibrium is fine by me. But I do have a question for whoever is reading this.
Did you even once while reading through this list of numbers make the comparison? Did the comparison make you feel bad? Or good? Or angry? Or relieved? Or irritated? Or defensive? Or whatever.
Did those numbers that mean nothing suck you in?
I’d like to think they caught no one out, but I wouldn’t lay my money on it. As a society, as women, we have a long way to go. And I hope we get there soon.
Related Posts
Broken resolutions…
January 4th, 2008 § 9
This post was written as part of the [Fiction] Friday meme. The basic principle is to write a piece of fiction based on the week’s theme, to write for at least 5 minutes and do no editing.
This Week’s Theme: What is the first New Year’s Resolution your character breaks? How soon? Why?
She knows her life is spinning out of control but she has no idea what she wants. Her hours are long and she is surrounded by men. Attractive men, charismatic men, who pander to her ego and her predilections. Who mirror her image of herself. That is why she does this, why she works where she works, why she is caught in the chaos of sleepless nights and lost days. Lost weeks.
She is not lonely but she has lost her taste for solitude in the same way a drug addict forgets to eat. The pace is addictive. Her energy levels are euphoric and synthetic. She knows a crash will come but still the desire for sensation draws her onward. It tastes like life, like a rebellion against the heavy crush of normality and the necessity of living daily, doing daily things. It effects her choices.
She has no longing for companionship but idealises the notion of connection. Of ships passing in the night. Of twinned souls and loves not bound by time or pedestrian, formalised relationships. Living and loving are star-crossed things.
These men run in her same rush-rush pace; frenetic, hungry. Some are artists, some are actors, some are musicians. Some are trying to be. Some have been yet have fallen. All are bartenders.
With them she spins, unique and singled out, sometimes drawn in to more visceral interactions than she intended. Mostly it leaves her empty; drained and disappointed by the reality of what always follows.
Like her, these men can not be trusted. Nothing sates them, as she is never sated, and she and they move on, still searching for something more real than dull reality.
She says, Enough!
She knows she needs to be alone, that this overpopulated world is slowly eating her. A New Year’s resolution, a token gesture towards something she does not want to face head on; she swears off bartenders and musicians. No more disappointing mornings. She will remain her ice queen self, always hovering on the brink of consummation. It is the tension which she craves, not the falling. A life solely composed of possibilities.
But there he is, his slow chasing growing more intense and she is trapped by the picture that he paints of her. She wants always to be an object of fascination and she is his.
The staircase walls of his parents house are lined with gold and platinum albums, awards and autographs she recognises. She is accustomed to living on the outskirts of fame and feels at home there, listening to her friends talk about their friends whose names are splashed around the world, seeing supermodels and rock stars as what they are; simply people. She is used to having invitations to exclusive functions and walking past queues knowing that the ropes will be moved aside for her..
She is close enough to see the truth of fame, and to read between the lines when those outside of the circle she lives in the fringes of talk about the people they presume they know from gossip columns and movie screens. Only rarely though, privately, does she admit to herself that she too is sometimes caught by the unnatural glow.
So she stands too close to him, but it is not the fame that captures her. It is not even his rejection of it and those lost years in Africa. It is the picture of herself he gives to her, that notion that she is special, that she is inspiring and captivating. He believes it, for now at least, and that image is quicksand.
So it is January. And she lies awake beside a child-man who is both a musician and a bartender. So much for resolutions.
Sometime later in the year, she will remember why she decided she didn’t want to do that anymore: You do not need to be Rita Hayworth to know that men will go to bed with Gilda, but wake up with you.
NB: Although I have mentioned my predilection for bartenders and musicians, remember this is Fiction Friday. There is a small possibility that some of what I have written above might be semi-autobigraphical. But you’ll never know which parts or why. 
Related Posts
A walk in the park…
January 3rd, 2008 § 2
At the moment, I have the house to myself. Big Sis is away camping with her B and his kids and I was really looking forward to the time alone to get the house in order, among other things. The mini heatwave put paid to that idea for a couple of days because all I could do was sit with my feet in a bucket of water and sigh. During that time, Cas learned what dunking is and he enjoys it immensely.
I think I mentioned on the post I wrote when it was too hot for me to fill in the title field that I’ve been giving him a big bowl of water to play with. I put my head in it once to dampen my hair and he thought that was extremely funny. He then spent as long as he could (ie; the short length of time I indulged his 1 year old sense of humour) pushing my head back under.
But I digress. Today, the weather was perfect and I got a few dishes washed and took the recycling out but something else is interfering with my productivity. You see, the neighbour’s kids are here.
It is guaranteed when he has them, my door will be knocked on at least four times a day because one or both of them wants to hang out with me. (I really don’t understand the attraction. At first I thought it was Caspar, but apparently it’s me.) After turning them away several times yesterday I promised the youngest last night that I would make some time for her today.
At the first early morning knock I let her know that we could go to the park together at a particular time in the afternoon. Three knocks later I caved and got Cas all sunscreened and ready to go.
This isn’t an eventful post. Nor was it an eventful day. The weather was perfect, sunny with a cool breeze, and she was happy enough to tag along with me to the local shops because I needed milk. Without Big Sis’ car available, that takes over an hour or all by itself. Then we played in the park, something Cas seems to enjoy more and more everyday.
And now the day is over. But I have this simple post written and those few dishes done. That’s something.
I might just give myself the night off, not worry about the forum, not worry about reading all my feeds which have exploded once again, not worrying about tweaking every little this and that both here and on the other blog. (Yes, I just told you where it was.) I might just manage to do those things in my own time, without making them a source of pressure.
There just comes a point when you have to let everything go, mentally at least, in order to become productive again. It really isn’t that I have too much to do. Like most things, it’s how I think about it.
Tonight whatever I get done will be a walk in the park.
Related Posts
Disorderly conduct…
January 2nd, 2008 § 10
I’m a little bit bombarded. There seems too much going on at once and although in the workplace I’m a thoroughly organised person, the rest of my life has always been chaotic. Maybe I should start reading Zen Habits. I need the same common sense advice pounded into my brain over and over again.
- In the kitchen, every single dish I own is piled up around the sink and covering the benches. (Muy hygenic!)
- In my bedroom, every single piece of clothing I haven’t packed away yet is strewn across the floor. (This doesn’t even make sense because most of them remain a little snug since having Caspar.)
- On my computer desktop, there are more files than can actually fit on the screen.(I have since dumped them randomly into yet another to-be-sorted folder.)
- I have a list of to-dos about a mile long. (Or I think it is. One of those to-dos is to actually write a to-do list.)
And even here there are a few things not functioning the way they should. It’s not an entirely peaceful place to write.
Add to that the boxes all around the house that keep getting reopened and repacked and the pile of papers which, if they could be stacked, would be as tall as me. (What’s that you say? Matches?)
I’m a bit of a shocker at throwing things away. Having worked as an archivist, I like to archive things. And that would be fine, if what once were systems hadn’t gone to hell in a handbasket and I was the archivist in life that I am when something actually restrains me and makes me do things. (Like a paycheck.) There is something to be said for working for The Man.
I need a good, hard talking to. I always have. I’m sure my mother gave one to me time and time again as I was growing up. It’s a wonder she’s not now a shadow of herself, pale, and defeated by her inability to make me register the sense of what she was saying.
My skull is thick. The power of my deafness is awe-inspiring. Nothing has changed since I was a child even though, in primary school, my Opa sent me “A Round Tuit”.
I still never get around to it.
Discipline. I need discipline. It would be nice if I could blame the lack of it in me on my mother but I’m afraid I know very well where the blame lies. I am easily distracted. I have grand ideas but my impetus stops at the idea as though someone else would be there to implement it. I move on to the next one too soon and hence…
My ducks do not swim in a row.
There is too much to understand, too many things to do, too much I want to give, too much time that I want to take.
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…” W.B. Yeats
Leaving aside the objectional usage of the word anarchy in that poem, I’m sure there is a reason these lines came into my head right now. Because I am standing amidst the ruins. Because I am not centred. I rebel at the notion that I need to be but, in truth, I need to be.
I need to be dogged, to sustain my efforts, to take on only what I can manage. And then manage it. There are no good fairies to complete my works; I am not Psyche and there are no ants to sort through all the grains of my life.
I need to change this.