Month: February 2023

Labels

I have been contemplating the labels that I give myself. The obvious ones are wife, mother, friend, daughter, sister. The others are less easy to define. There’s the ‘ill’ one and the ‘failure’ one and the ‘hell on earth’ one and the ‘artist’ one and the ‘creative’ one. All are parts of me, some I really, really like and others that I do not. The ill one… well she is pretty much front and centre at the moment, and it is hard to remember a time when she wasn’t present in my life. The creative-artist one has been a complete surprise and delight to me and that one I wanna hold on to very tight. I never thought I was creative. Or I would say I defined ‘creativity’ by the others in my life and I never imagined that I had that hidden inside. So deep inside that it took until my 50th year, and the first lockdown for her to emerge front and centre. She has totally engaged me, beguiled me, surprised me, delighted me and saved me. She has brought aliveness, colour and love into my life – and I love her! When people say to me ‘You are very creative’ or ‘you are an artist’ I find myself wanting to look behind and see who they might be talking to. And then I realise …. that is me!

Today I went for an appointment, or I would say I had the right time and the wrong day.  My head is in a spin and I hadn’t checked my diary.  I am usually rather organised, together and at the moment I am not.  I am reaching a limit I think.  I scraped the car on Saturday and I got an appointment wrong today.  I have reached capacity and I am having to step back and wait for the fog to clear from the mind. 

The body has been ill for a long time, 8 years this year.  The pivotal point was 2015 when everything kicked off and the body has not been right since.  I say ‘the body’ because I cannot own it as my illness.  The body has been ailing, the body has become weak and it has made me feel vulnerable and at times out of control.  To not have control over bodily functions has been a tsunami of emotions both physically and emotionally.  To go out and have stuff spewing out of your back passage is not a happy event.  For me it has happened so many times that I have lost count.  The first time was the worse time and every other time is probably etched on my memory.  I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t thinking about what the body might do, and where a toilet might be.  The shame of having stuff coming out and walking down the street squelching.  This is my story and I will tell it as it is, with nothing held back.

Pam Grout has asked me to write this, well not literally.  I am following her book and we’re at the week where I am suppose to start writing.  So here it is.  This is my first go at this…. or I probably could be truthful and say that I have been writing this in my head for years.  As a child I loved writing short stories, and then I grew up and left that behind.  My father always said that one day I would write a novel… mm I haven’t got round to that … yet!  I am rather shy I guess.  This writing is personal and I’m wary about talking about myself.  I used to feel I was in the shadows peering round a corner, or behind a glass window.  I would watch the others in my life and I would feel invisible.  Invisible me.  I remember writing a story when I was young, it was called “Flat Susan” and I could flatten myself and slide under doors.  I think this was a metaphor for me, the me that felt invisible.  If I flattened myself, then I was hidden and I was concealed.  I think that was what it felt like for me.  Flattened by life, flattened by myself, flattened by family, flattened by school and society.

Today is different, today I am not flattened anymore.  I have a voice and I am beginning to use it.