i am a peripheral reader of stuff that could help me. i just can’t seem to stick on a method long enough to see if it makes me better. mindfulness and self help. i dip in, dip out and remain thoroughly confused and utterly unmindful.
when i am told to be aware of my toes, thighs or neck in a body scan; the skin of my shin and the discomfort of my bones; the feeling of my guts or the twinge of sciatica in my backside all i can then see is inevitable death and the fragility of the human body. it’s the acceptance of what is that i simply can’t accept. the mundane and accepting voices of the online mindfulness coaches drive me to the heart of pure despair. if that is mindfulness- sitting on a chair in 1970’s open university clobber with hands limply on lap and feet grounded and voice set on redundant calm to accept the unacceptable, then i suppose mindfulness wasn’t meant for me.
i accept now that i am one of the most unmindful people i have ever had the pleasure to meet. and where can i go with that?
to hell in a handcart is where.
still i trundle and plunder and havockly wreak on, beating down the grasses of anxiety and misery if i may call depression that. occasionally i splutter with laughter or goofishly enjoy a moments relief in childish joy at a silly joke with my children but more often than not i am in an invisible cage trapped in my own body; in my own life in my own home like a manic bird smashing itself against the invisible bars of her invisible cage, and with increasing desperation, feeling more and more a deep astonished wonderment at how i have ever managed to cope as coping with the daily act of living gets harder and harder.
Now, as i find the simplest act of getting a child who hates school to go to school; or drag myself to take a child to a dance class; or try and reply to an email or pursue work or ignore urgent work messages or phone calls and wonder if i can just change my identity and disappear into a fog of anonymity ; or i think with horror at the thought of going to a shop to buy provisions to feed the masses; or recoil in aching confusion at all the decisions i have made about every little thing, i wonder who it was before this who was actually able to do this each day with less effort and more ease. where has she gone i ask myself. moreover, who the hell was she?
I have adamantly refused drugs to help me these last two years and i have scoured information on gut cleansing and brain oiling; admittedly i’ve not done much of what’s suggested because half the time it involves paying $250 a month after an incredible discount; jogging; joining groups or doing coffee enemas not to mention giving up gluten and making friends with your local butchers so you can go organic and eat pig liver or something. I’ve bought parasite killing overpriced tablets from America and considered drinking turpentine aka Jennifer Daniels.
But here i am still; a whirling dervish of sadness who just wants to go and live in a hut in a forest with an American poet from another century and disengage with human society forever.
I don’t feel a part of this world. Where does that leave me.
I better sit and contemplate, accept and then die i suppose.
Chin Chin as someone once said.