Category: life

Posted on

Coping (Barely)

Yesterday evening I felt overwhelmed by the futility of everything, and started weeping uncontrollably – which is unusual, because that’s how I normally feel in the morning. By the evening, it’s usually much better.

On Thursday, the therapist asked whether the dyspraxia assessment I had two years ago had come up with any advice or strategies which might make life easier. I couldn’t remember. I said I would look at the report, but when I started looking for it I couldn’t find it – because although I’d saved it in a folder in my documents, I’d done it under the name of the consultancy that did it, and I couldn’t remember what that was.

I went into my accounts for 2018, and found the name of the consultancy with the payment. I then searched on that, but Microsoft Search showed me links on the web, not in my files. So I tried again by searching for it in my emails (miraculously, although it could have been under any of four email addresses I use, it was in the first one I tried). I found the pdf attachment of the report, but it was password protected, I had to read another email to get the password, then I kept getting it wrong, but finally got into it. (It was after all this that I found that there was actually a folder under the consultancy name in my documents folder, plus a word document with the password in, but now I know it’s all there I will change the folder title to include ‘dyspraxia’ to make it easier to find next time).

The answer to the therapist’s question about advice was: ‘If Linda requires support whilst working as a self-employed writer and publisher she could consider workplace skills training with a specialist dyspraxia/dyslexia tutor’ but nothing about coping with daily life. Also, if I ever take any more exams, I should be entitled to extra time for completing them.

Under ‘Implications for work and study’, the consultant says: ‘Because of Linda’s difficulty processing information, she is likely to have problems: assimilating information when reading (thereby needing additional time to do so); formulating her thoughts, fluently and quickly…; with handwritten tasks (eg copying information); with memory (eg remembering instructions, sequencing, retrieving information and planning ahead); multi-tasking (eg dealing with multiple pieces of information/documentation)… with personal organisation; with co-ordination; and working within time constraints… she will require more time to learn and undertake complex tasks.’ (But no mention of cat food in the coffee pot, or where I put my glasses thirty seconds ago.)

Well, tell me something I don’t know already – but at least it’s reassuring to know there’s a reason why I’m so chaotic, even if there’s nothing I can do about it. Except, of course, to be a ‘good person’ – to become self-disciplined despite all my instincts and inclinations, organise my life and myself and keep on top of everything all the time – but somehow without being self-critical and beating myself up.

Posted on

No Answers

What am I doing? If I censor myself to write only what I think people want to read, can I write at all?

Round and round in the same old circles. I sit and stare at the colourful icons across the bottom of the screen.

I feel as though I could go back to sleep. Maybe I could – it’s nine o’clock now, so I’ve been awake for about four hours. But if I went and laid my head down on the pillow – which I can’t anyway, because my hair’s wet – no, I won’t, I’d just spend another frustrating hour or so lying on the bed wanting to sleep and then feel like I’d wasted the morning.

Earlier, when I was doing my yoga/tai chi/sitting practice, I had a line from a song stuck in my head: ‘and I, I have no answers…’ I had no idea where it was from, or who, or how it went on from there (except that I knew there was some awkward phrasing in the next line). So I’ve just googled it – which didn’t help much, because do you know how many songs include the phrase: ‘no answers’? My search threw up a link to a web page listing songs with that phrase in the lyrics – 12,414 of them. But while scrolling through them, I had a flash of memory which told me it was called ‘A Thousand Roads’ and it’s by David Crosby. Then I remembered when I discovered it, which was about ten years ago, because it was when I was living in my flat in Bedford – and I remembered blogging about it then. I still couldn’t remember that awkward next line, so went back to Google, and it’s: ‘I’ve got no patented path to set you free’ – it was the ‘patented path’ bit that didn’t sound right when sung – iffy meter, stress in the wrong place.

Well, that has taken up most of today’s quota, I’ve managed to skate away from the angst again. Who can I share my angst with? No one. No one wants to deal with my angst, ever (unless I pay them). I’m stuck with it, first thing in the morning, every morning – well, most mornings.

I want to play that David Crosby song – on Youtube, because I haven’t got it anywhere. But yesterday I was playing music while I wrote, because all week I’ve been digitising my old cassettes and transferring them to the PC – and while I’m doing that I have the volume turned on so I know when it finishes, and also because I want to hear these songs I haven’t heard for years. But then someone in the equivalent room next door started playing music, and it occurred to me that they could probably hear mine too, and not everybody is up and about at this time in the morning, especially at the weekend, and I don’t want to piss off my neighbours.

Once again, I’ve managed to fill 500 words with non-contentious rubbish.

Posted on

More Stuff About Writing

I didn’t post on here yesterday, but I wrote a very short piece about my first love, inspired by hearing Donovan’s ‘Catch the Wind’ on Amazon music the previous evening, and I posted it, with a link to the song, on the blog for my regular writers’ group, with an automatic link to their Facebook page, which I then shared on my timeline and another FB writers’ group. It seemed appropriate because it was sort of a short story, or at least fast fiction (though it wasn’t fiction – is there such a thing as ‘fast memoir’? There is now.)

I can’t seem to get my head round how to link the WordPress blogs together, though they’re both set up to share on FB and Twitter. I think it might be something to do with this blog, like my other two (yes, there are three altogether, though I don’t write to the other two any more) being self-hosted. I also have a WordPress.com blog, from about ten years ago, that has hardly anything on it, because I realised I could (in theory) get a better Google ranking by having it on my domain name. But my WordPress.com identity is still out there, though under my married name.

Three members of the writers’ group are registered on the group blog, but only two of us ever post to it, though when I set it up I sent an email invitation to all the members. I guess they don’t know what to do with it – probably not helped by the fact that I set it up immediately before the lockdown, so we didn’t have a meeting at which I could give a demo. We don’t use the Facebook page very much either, although we have two collections of stories and poems under our collective belt (‘Southsea Soup’ and ‘Of Life and Love’), and a third, ‘Flights and Fancies’, coming out imminently. (I’m currently proof reading, but have already managed to knock a cup of coffee over my copy).

Sometimes I think it might be fun to get a bit more pro-active with all of this, but then…

IF I do start writing properly (and I’m not saying I will, that depends on what sort of inspiration comes to me, if any), it will probably be more memoir to start with – specifically, ‘The Long Way Back’, the first half of which is largely done, and the first draft of the rest, except – guess what? – I don’t know how to end it.

A friend commented (on Facebook) about my previous post that she has two novels that will never be finished, but she doesn’t ‘beat herself up’ about it. So why do I? Why not just let it all go, accept that I am who I am, not cut out to be A Writer. After all, I’ve given up on so many idealised dreams about how my life ‘should be’ (happy relationship, career, financial independence etc), why do I keep picking away at this one?

Posted on

No End

Two compliments about my writing yesterday – one from an old friend on Facebook, one (actually, several) from a new one over socially-distanced coffee on the beach. As usual, I was overwhelmingly stressed and apprehensive about meeting the second, but found myself pouring out my life story and then apologising – even when I waved my arms around and knocked over my coffee, she cleaned it up before I could even think what to do next, and offered to buy me another one (I refused, naturally – it was my fault that it happened.)

I sometimes wonder why people are ever this nice to me. They learn, of course, when they get to know me better.

We first met on a writing course immediately prior to lockdown – I might have mentioned that before? I’ve got a feeling I have. I’d said something about my thirty-year-work-in-progress fantasy novel, and she said: ‘I’ll look it if you like, bring it next week and I’ll let you have feedback the week after’. I felt really embarrassed, but I printed out the beginning, past the ‘inciting incident’ (hero’s journey creative writing course BS jargon) and handed it to her at the next session. I’m not really sure why I, but I suppose I just thought: ‘oh screw it’.

At the next session – which was the last of the course – she was very complimentary and full of questions. All I could say was – well, I haven’t done anything on it for fifteen years because I don’t know how to end it, or even to get closer to the end. We all went to lunch together as a group, and I’d taken my books with me to show the tutor (it was a general invitation to anyone who’d got a book to show). She picked up ‘S2S’, started looking at it, then said: ‘Can I borrow this?’ so of course I said yes. We exchanged emails and made a semi-arrangement to meet up for coffee in a couple of weeks, but of course that didn’t happen. Since then we have exchanged irregular emails and last week finally fixed up this meeting.

I was relieved to find out that she hasn’t been doing any writing either, apart from a journal. We grinned wryly at one another about good intentions and motivation.

She writes short stories –and has sent one in to a competition since we last met. I said that I don’t do short stories because I can’t think of endings. I guess I’m basically a poet, since that’s all the muses – or the Universe, or whatever’s responsible for this stuff – ever seems to send me. And I realised – though I might have had this thought before and forgotten it – that the advantage of poems is that they don’t really need tied up endings or conclusions – they are just there, and open to whatever. Well, the ones I write are.

But the weird thing is that I’ve completed stories in the past. I guess it’s all about luck.

Posted on

Zoom Singing

I wasn’t going to write. I lay in bed telling myself that I didn’t have to write today. But here I am.

I didn’t write yesterday about the choir meeting on Friday. There were 43 participants and some of those were couples, so probably just under fifty people (about half the full choir) logged in I’m sure lots of people enjoyed it, but for me the singing part was truly awful. Because the way it works is that you can’t hear the other people singing, everyone is on mute apart from the musical director, so all you can hear is his instructions and the keyboard, and you sing your part along with that. For a start, I hadn’t realised that there was a link to the sheet music and audio files in the email, so I wasn’t prepared. The music was shared on the screen, but I couldn’t see it well enough to read without having to scroll round it all the time. We did two songs: ‘Panis Angelicus’ and ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, both of which I know (though I didn’t know the alto part for Over the Rainbow). I had got the music for ‘Panis Angelicus’ because we were rehearsing it for the Easter concert when lockdown started, so I was able to follow that, and I have sung it before, but as soon as I opened my mouth all that came out was a horrible scratchy squeak. Horrible. It was like being before an audition panel, except that no one could hear me – which is strange, if you think about it, because if no one can hear why would that make me nervous? The thing is, I can’t read music, so I’m dependent on picking up on the voices of the other people singing the same notes, whether that’s the whole choir or just the other ladies in the alto section. Even ‘Over the Rainbow’ – which I used to sing to my kids when they were little, so you’d think I’d know it – was a struggle, because if I sing it by myself it doesn’t matter if I’m in the wrong key, and anyway, as I said, I didn’t know the alto part.

Well, that’s what I should have written about yesterday, only I didn’t feel like it, and today… Today I was originally going to write about anger, how angry I am with everything, with the state of the country, with the state of the world, with everything, with myself. I’d be angry with God if I believed in him/her/it, but of course I don’t, so that’s someone I can’t blame.

On Facebook yesterday I saw a Wordsearch, and the instructions were to share the first three words you noticed because that says something about you. The first two I saw were: ‘One’, and ‘Lesson – I was intrigued to find out what this ‘one lesson’ was – and then I saw ‘Strength’. Oh great. So is that a lesson I’ve learned, or one I need to learn?

Posted on

Exit, Pursued By a Bear

Felt so wretched this morning. Try and list the reasons? Would that help? I don’t even know what they are. All the little frustrations and irritations of the week? Worry over my cat, who is still not eating well, refusing the kidney-friendly food recommended by the vet, and her old food if I try to sneak in her medicine? Apprehension at the opening up of the lockdown?

All of the above. The daily world has enough causes for anxiety without digging into the past. But the past never goes away, it’s in everything I do and feel, and the same emotions I was feeling fifty years ago well up again, the shame, frustration, self-hatred. I thought they would go away when I grew up, that they were caused by external circumstances, but they’re still there, and am I any better at dealing with them? Have I learnt anything over half a century? Maybe this: that whatever else may change, these feelings never do.

You know, you start something with good intentions, you make it a habit, and then a day comes when you think: ‘F*ck it, this isn’t working, I’m not doing it any more’.

This may be that day.

Posted on

Singing at a Distance

A few days ago I got an email from the committee of the Friday night choir I’ve been attending (on and off) since I moved here, saying that they are planning a Zoom rehearsal for tonight. I’ve used Zoom, for tai chi and occasionally for meditation (I prefer the Sunday evening meditation sessions, which are by Crowdcast, which means my picture doesn’t appear, the interaction is all through ‘chat’ and as no one can see me, I can carry on crocheting through the talking part). Even with the tai chi, though I’ve been doing that every week (except once when I honestly forgot) and do speak occasionally, it never seems to put me up on the main screen (thank goodness). I don’t know why this is, whether there is something technical to do with my laptop, or my speech isn’t loud or clear enough, or whether even the technology can recognise that it’s better not to put my face up onto people’s screens.

I don’t really understand how the choir thing is going to work. Of course, I sing a lot by myself when I’m by myself, but that doesn’t have to be in tune. At choir, I usually rely on the ladies around me to get it right, and hope I can blend in. The email said that the Musical Director has ‘some ideas of things we can do’. Knowing him, I’m sure he’ll make it fun. We have the music we were rehearsing for the Easter concert (which was cancelled, obviously). We were also supposed to be doing a concert at the Guildhall last month, but we never even started rehearsing that. I haven’t looked at any of it for four months, of course, but I know where it is.

The thing is… I’ve really appreciated having Friday evenings to myself, not having to think about going out and interacting – more so in that I have to go by car, and finding somewhere to park is a nightmare – not just at the rehearsal hall, but also around here when I used to get back at about quarter to ten. There’ve been Friday evenings when I’ve spent half an hour driving around looking for a spot, and ended up parking so far away that I then had a twenty minute walk to get home (though that has improved a bit since the residents’ parking permits were introduced eighteen months ago, although they’re not in operation by that time of the evening).

Choir is one of those things that has caused me massive amounts of stress – especially around concerts – but that I keep bullying myself into going to because – well, mostly I enjoy it once I get there, but also I feel I have to go out and interact with people. And actually, it is quite non-threatening, because chatting isn’t compulsory, in fact most of the time it’s frowned upon. And they are a very nice bunch – those I know enough to actually speak to.

We’ll see how it goes.

Posted on

Trying Not Trying

After I’d submitted my post yesterday, I realised I wasn’t happy with what I’d posted. At some point I’d slipped into the idea that my self-reflection (or wallowing, as it can also be called) was a kind of addiction. But this buys into my brother’s idea that I get a kick out of being miserable, and want to bring everyone down to my own level, as though unhappiness is a choice that I make and that I can stop any time I like – well, okay that does make it sound addictive, I can see where that idea came from. But it’s not quite what I meant, and I don’t want to be misunderstood, and I want to apologise to anybody who has to deal with the consequences of a chemical addiction, either their own or somebody close to them, and I’m sorry for any hurt or offence I may have caused by that analogy.

I know when I had the thought that triggered that post, the evening before, it made a different kind of sense, and it seemed very clear (as they always do), but now I just can’t think what it could have been.

Now I’m sitting here and I thought everything would come, but it isn’t. Staring out of the window at the early morning street, which seems no more or less busy than it has at any time in the last four months while I’ve been doing this regularly.

I sat on the bed this morning as I always do when I’m getting up, and noticed that although I was only inches away from the mirror, I wasn’t looking at it. I’ve said a lot about that mirror recently, but, as I realise now, I don’t actually look at it. Mostly I look at the floor, or I don’t look anywhere. Looking at my own reflection is a conscious choice, and mostly I choose not to. I remember sitting and looking at myself one morning – I think it was at the therapist’s suggestion, it feels like a long time ago, when we were still meeting face to face, but I also remember writing about it – I think the idea was to encourage compassion for myself, but what I remember was that it made me cry uncontrollably – not because I didn’t like the way I looked (although of course I don’t) but because of the misery and the pointlessness and emptiness in my eyes. I haven’t tried it again since, and I didn’t try it this morning.

Does accepting myself mean accepting all my failures? Does redefining ‘failure’ as ‘a learning experience’ make any sense if there’s nothing new to learn, or nothing that you can see and implement other than: ‘stop trying’? I’ve tried to make myself a ‘better’ person and it highlighted my faults and made me stressed and anxious and even more self-hating than I already was. Now I’ve stopped trying I’m probably becoming a worse person, but I’m trying not to care so much.

Posted on

Addictions

Yesterday evening I remembered something else the counsellor said last week, which was that the image of me smashing the mirror and thereby myself made her think of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. My first thought was: no, that’s not right because it’s not my idealised image that I want to destroy, it’s the ‘real’ me, but then I realised that it’s the portrait which is the raddled and depraved monster that Dorian has truly become, and that he destroys to achieve the peace of self-destruction.

Can I find peace without destroying myself in the process – if peace is what I want? I sometimes – when I’m striving for the positive – feel grateful that I’ve managed to avoid becoming addicted to drink, drugs or risky sex – (though I also suspect that my life would have been more enjoyable with more of that, especially the sex). The fact that I didn’t go that way wasn’t down to lack of inclination or innate moral sense so much as lack of imagination when it came to the possibilities, not knowing how to go about getting that sort of a life, and assuming that it wasn’t for the likes of me, that I was just too boring. So I tried to become Mrs Sensible, although the irony was that I was equally shit at that; not bohemian enough to make it as a Bohemian, but miles away from being bourgeois enough to be convincing or content as a bourgeois wife. Then I searched for solace in the life of the mind, and thought I’d found my true calling at last – except that the intellectuals weren’t ready to budge up and let me in, either.

Somewhere in all that mess I managed to spend twenty years raising two children – for which I’m grateful every day, because if I hadn’t I would now be truly alone. Not that emotional support in old age is the best motivation for having children, any more than financial security is a good reason for marriage – but sometimes life has a way of subverting your best intentions and aspirations by providing (you just might find) the things that you need.  

So I didn’t become (as a kind friend once predicted) an alcoholic, or hooked on anti-depressants, or any other kind of prescription or non-prescription substances. But am I addicted to self-analysis, to rumination, to trying to tease out what exactly feels so wrong? I can see there’s a strong argument for that, and also that all the self hate, anger, frustration, disappointment, is just as dangerous and self-destructive as any other kind of addiction. But like any addict, I don’t really have a choice – if there was ever a time when I could have chosen another path, it is too far back in the past to unravel and retrace the steps that brought me here.

Where does ‘trusting myself’ fit into all this? What about trying new things, learning from failure, acquiring wisdom, moving on?

It’s raining. And I need my breakfast.

Posted on

Still #notwriting

I’m going to change tack today. Sort of. Thinking about making things – including stories – and the relationship between the process of making, the end result, and assessment of that result. I’ve been quite careful with the words in that sentence. I deliberately used ‘making’ instead of ‘creating’, and deleted ‘judgement’ to replace it with ‘assessment’. Even ‘end result’, which feels much more neutral than ‘product’ or ‘artwork’. Because there is a minefield here, in the language.

Yesterday I spent some time listening to (I don’t bother trying to watch things on my phone when it’s the words that are significant) assorted TED talks sent to me by a friend who tries to encourage me. The first one was by Alain de Bouton, about redefining ‘success’, which personally I didn’t think said anything new, though he is quite entertaining (I could see why my friend sent it, but to me it says she’s just missed the point of who I am). Then there were talks about ‘creativity’, including one by a writer of an extremely successful book about the capriciousness of inspiration, how can you ever know how anything you make will turn out, and, if you’ve hit the spot once, how can you ever be sure you can do it again?

This friend is always sending me stuff like this. She thinks I’m ‘creative’, but I’m never comfortable with that word. It sounds much too pretentious – like calling yourself an ‘artist’ or a ‘writer’. Every time I tell someone I’m a ‘writer’ I cringe inside, wondering where the conversation is going to go next – the same way I do when I tell people I have a PhD. ‘Poet’ is easier, because then they tend to be less impressed; they jump straight to the idea that I’m either a crackpot or a charlatan, and they either laugh it off or give me a wide berth (or both).

And now… I have ground to a halt. I am in front of the computer with tears rolling down my face. I have, unexpectedly, cracked through the armour and reached the soft place of grief, where I might say to the therapist ‘I suppose it’s a bit sad really’ and she says ‘It’s tragic’, and I take on board the pretentious, egotistical, over the top melodrama of the word and nod my head, speechless because I can’t talk through the pain. THAT is what I mean by ‘failure’. My inability to love, defend, stand up for the things I make.

I can’t write any more today. I give up.