Not for the first time in my life I’m lost for words.
I’m faced with a blank page and find I have nothing to say, nothing to fill that empty space with. No thoughts. No words. No ideas. No feelings. That isn’t to say I have emptiness – emptiness is still ‘something’ even if it is only a space defined by what it lacks.
Instead of feeling panic that it MUST be filled, that I MUST say something, I think it is okay to leave that page blank. It is okay that I have nothing to say. It is okay to be silent.
And I’m going to leave it that.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
Ripples, laughter, Christmas
I promised to post memories as they came back to me and to prove I’m as good as my word here is the first...
A few years ago there was just myself out of us three girls still living at home with mum. My sisters had long since moved out into places of their own and were getting on with their lives. Mum hasn’t had a particularly easy life, and as much as it pains me to say she has made it harder for herself with her appalling taste in men. How is it that there are some women out there who go through life only knowing love, care, devotion and companionship while others in desperately seeking those things never seem to experience them in the same way? I can’t say that mum hasn’t known love; we – her children and her family – love her more than she will ever know but I know that there are times in your life when only the comfort of your partner’s arms around you will do. I hope with all my heart that one day mum will find someone as special as she is to spend the rest of her life with.
Getting back to my memory... It was twelve days before Christmas, I know this because we were in our front room, surrounded by boxes of bright sparkling baubles, tangled fairy lights while music played loudly in the background on the stereo. A few months before mum had ended a bad relationship with a man who had been intent upon manipulating her away from all those that she loved. I’m not making excuses for him when I say I do, in part, understand why he tried to do that. He loved her that much that he just didn’t want to share her, he couldn’t understand that we – as her children - came before him and always would. He couldn’t understand the closeness of the bond mum shared with her sister either, it seemed all of us were to him some kind of threat, an enemy who needed to be overthrown. Love is the most powerful thing in this world but it can destroy just as easily as it can nurture. The relationship ended terribly and with so much hurt on both sides. While I was relieved so many months of anguish and anxiety were over it was still an ending and ending are by their very nature tinged with sadness. I only understand now, nearly seven years later just how much I was changed by that ending. I am beginning, I think, to have an appreciation of how much of an impact it’s had on my life and the person I’ve become.
The months that followed the end of that relationship I remember as the most serene and tranquil, happy even, months we have ever shared together. Those happy months of light and laughter brought us to that day, the first day of Christmas. It was a Monday.
Arriving home from work I dropped my coat and bag down on the sofa rather than hanging them up in the coat cupboard, a habit I still haven’t grown out of in my thirties. I remembering feeling so glad that mum hadn’t started to decorate without me. I don’t know what it is about decorating the tree but to me growing up it always had a sense of ceremony about it, held some kind of emotional significance. As I began to take decorations out the box, carefully revealing their shining magnificence by removing the layers of protective tissue paper mum opened a bottle of wine. We had by this point fallen in to an easy pattern of living with each other; we would take it turns to cook and clean, sharing the bills and enjoying the pleasure of taking care of each other. But for some unknown reason food that evening had been forgotten.
We sang and danced and laughed our way through two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates that night. Mum even taught me to jive that evening, something I can still do, although badly and I wouldn’t recommend asking me do it with you, not if you want your feet uninjured. The tree? It was perfect. All things considered it should have looked like we’d just thrown the boxes of decorations at it and hoped for the best, but somewhere in between the laughter, the spinning and twirling we had created the picture of perfection and harmony.
I haven’t had a Christmas or a tree for that matter like that since, but that doesn’t mean I have run out of hope for one in the future. Events, big, small, happy, sad are like pebbles tossed in a pool; they create ripples of movement and emotion that can be felt way out in the stillness of the years to come. I’m feeling one now remembering that moment of shared healing with my mum, and I know again, some time down the road of my life, I’m going feel another ripple and I’ll remember all over again.
A few years ago there was just myself out of us three girls still living at home with mum. My sisters had long since moved out into places of their own and were getting on with their lives. Mum hasn’t had a particularly easy life, and as much as it pains me to say she has made it harder for herself with her appalling taste in men. How is it that there are some women out there who go through life only knowing love, care, devotion and companionship while others in desperately seeking those things never seem to experience them in the same way? I can’t say that mum hasn’t known love; we – her children and her family – love her more than she will ever know but I know that there are times in your life when only the comfort of your partner’s arms around you will do. I hope with all my heart that one day mum will find someone as special as she is to spend the rest of her life with.
Getting back to my memory... It was twelve days before Christmas, I know this because we were in our front room, surrounded by boxes of bright sparkling baubles, tangled fairy lights while music played loudly in the background on the stereo. A few months before mum had ended a bad relationship with a man who had been intent upon manipulating her away from all those that she loved. I’m not making excuses for him when I say I do, in part, understand why he tried to do that. He loved her that much that he just didn’t want to share her, he couldn’t understand that we – as her children - came before him and always would. He couldn’t understand the closeness of the bond mum shared with her sister either, it seemed all of us were to him some kind of threat, an enemy who needed to be overthrown. Love is the most powerful thing in this world but it can destroy just as easily as it can nurture. The relationship ended terribly and with so much hurt on both sides. While I was relieved so many months of anguish and anxiety were over it was still an ending and ending are by their very nature tinged with sadness. I only understand now, nearly seven years later just how much I was changed by that ending. I am beginning, I think, to have an appreciation of how much of an impact it’s had on my life and the person I’ve become.
The months that followed the end of that relationship I remember as the most serene and tranquil, happy even, months we have ever shared together. Those happy months of light and laughter brought us to that day, the first day of Christmas. It was a Monday.
Arriving home from work I dropped my coat and bag down on the sofa rather than hanging them up in the coat cupboard, a habit I still haven’t grown out of in my thirties. I remembering feeling so glad that mum hadn’t started to decorate without me. I don’t know what it is about decorating the tree but to me growing up it always had a sense of ceremony about it, held some kind of emotional significance. As I began to take decorations out the box, carefully revealing their shining magnificence by removing the layers of protective tissue paper mum opened a bottle of wine. We had by this point fallen in to an easy pattern of living with each other; we would take it turns to cook and clean, sharing the bills and enjoying the pleasure of taking care of each other. But for some unknown reason food that evening had been forgotten.
We sang and danced and laughed our way through two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates that night. Mum even taught me to jive that evening, something I can still do, although badly and I wouldn’t recommend asking me do it with you, not if you want your feet uninjured. The tree? It was perfect. All things considered it should have looked like we’d just thrown the boxes of decorations at it and hoped for the best, but somewhere in between the laughter, the spinning and twirling we had created the picture of perfection and harmony.
I haven’t had a Christmas or a tree for that matter like that since, but that doesn’t mean I have run out of hope for one in the future. Events, big, small, happy, sad are like pebbles tossed in a pool; they create ripples of movement and emotion that can be felt way out in the stillness of the years to come. I’m feeling one now remembering that moment of shared healing with my mum, and I know again, some time down the road of my life, I’m going feel another ripple and I’ll remember all over again.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Transition
I’ve been of a thoughtful mood of late, the last few days really, and so many memories have started to come back to me. Strange as it sounds, this time of year – autumn - tends to do that to me, make me thoughtful, introverted and introspective. I have a pretty good memory for just about everything – it’s a blessing and a curse especially when it comes to drunken adventures (come on, we’ve all got a few of these lurking in our subconscious) – so not an exceptional thing by itself. What I find exceptional is that for the first time in what has been too long they are happy memories.
When you are going through a tough time, when things feel like they are never going to get better and you are always going to be stuck in that awful moment of transition, it is hard – impossible more often than not – to remember good times, that it is just that a moment of transition. I’m not sure what they this says about me (I dread to think) but when I am moored in this trying time, I look to my past for the answers to change it. Often this is not a good thing, I usually see only the other trying times without seeing the most import thing; that they are in my past and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, a silver lining to the cloud – call it whatever you want – the significant thing was that it is over. That was yesterday and this is today.
Something different has begun to happen though. I am not looking to my past and only seeing the bad, the difficult, the trying, the sad etc I am seeing the good, the happy, the easy and the laughter that was there nestled comfortingly between these more challenging moments. All I had to do was look. If you go in search of bad things and bad memories that is what you are going to see, don’t ask me why (let me think on it for a while and by the time you come back and we meet again, I might have a theory for you) it just happens that way. Usually, but this time something different happened, unprompted happier times and memories started to come back to me. I’m sure there is a reason for this and there is something I am meant to take away from these unlooked for reminders of happier times, whatever it is it eludes me for the time being, but I have hope and faith that I will have an epiphany and all will become revealed.
Right here in the now I am just going to enjoy them, smile and laugh. I will put them here on this blog so that when my mood starts to darken, they are there to remind me it is only a moment of transition. So, until we meet again to exchange these instances of happiness and serenity think happy thoughts and remember the good along with the bad.
When you are going through a tough time, when things feel like they are never going to get better and you are always going to be stuck in that awful moment of transition, it is hard – impossible more often than not – to remember good times, that it is just that a moment of transition. I’m not sure what they this says about me (I dread to think) but when I am moored in this trying time, I look to my past for the answers to change it. Often this is not a good thing, I usually see only the other trying times without seeing the most import thing; that they are in my past and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, a silver lining to the cloud – call it whatever you want – the significant thing was that it is over. That was yesterday and this is today.
Something different has begun to happen though. I am not looking to my past and only seeing the bad, the difficult, the trying, the sad etc I am seeing the good, the happy, the easy and the laughter that was there nestled comfortingly between these more challenging moments. All I had to do was look. If you go in search of bad things and bad memories that is what you are going to see, don’t ask me why (let me think on it for a while and by the time you come back and we meet again, I might have a theory for you) it just happens that way. Usually, but this time something different happened, unprompted happier times and memories started to come back to me. I’m sure there is a reason for this and there is something I am meant to take away from these unlooked for reminders of happier times, whatever it is it eludes me for the time being, but I have hope and faith that I will have an epiphany and all will become revealed.
Right here in the now I am just going to enjoy them, smile and laugh. I will put them here on this blog so that when my mood starts to darken, they are there to remind me it is only a moment of transition. So, until we meet again to exchange these instances of happiness and serenity think happy thoughts and remember the good along with the bad.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
What to be when I grow up
Hello blank page of my dissertation, it would seem we meet again... is it your turn or mine to buy the coffee? I’m feeling more than a little anxious and preoccupied today, so you’d better make mine a camomile tea – no sugar or anything no. Yuck, why would you suggest such a thing? Yes I know the handful of mars bar celebrations I’ve just scoffed won’t help my anxiety... I know I should avoid caffeine and sugar, that’s why I asked for camomile ... of for crying out loud just get me a camomile tea.
What have I to preoccupy me? Oh the usual – my awful written and still not finished dissertation, my turbulent see-sawing emotions, my lack of libido, the future, my past, my present... if you think of something that I’ve missed feel free to add it to the list.
Here is a question for you – how many of you are doing what you thought you would be doing for a job? How many of you are in your dream job, or are working towards achieving it? How many of you even know what that might be?
My hand can stay firmly at my side for that one. The ironic thing is at no point when I was playing with my cabbage patch dolls in my garden, make believing about being grown up, was getting to thirty-two, screwing up a Masters degree, struggling with my relationships and compromising my sanity a part of that game. Yes, it is true that in playing with my dolls I was doing just that – playing with them – and not envisioning my life as wife and mother. Thank god I am not the second, no offence to those with children, it’s just that if you knew me you would know why me as a mother is an unnatural thought (I haven’t yet grown out of arguing over the red crayon when colouring in... I’ll leave you with that thought) I was never the little girl that had her children’s names picked out, knew they type of wedding dress she was going to wear, and how her day was going to go. I couldn’t even decide out of the two boys I fancied which one I was going to pretend was my husband and which one was going to be my boyfriend – my lover. How thoroughly modern of me. The frustrating and more than a little soul destroying thing is I while I didn’t envision the 2.4 children, 2 cars and nice house future for myself, I always assumed that by my age I would be settled, for want of a better phrase and I am pretty sure that there is one. By settled I mean in a career in which I was enjoying and making a reasonable about of money to keep me in the stupid little things I obsess about for about a month only to change it to something else just as useful the next (as an after note such obsessions have included shoes, boots, duvet sets, nail varnishes, books – which I still have and will never get rid of – brown items of clothing, jeans, perfume, handbags, you get the picture) And the simple fact is I am so clearly not settled. Not even a little bit. I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, trusting that I do grow up that is.
My significant other, my husband, is the exact reverse; he has always known what he wanted to do as a career and is happily in it. Bully for him, I suppose he’ll want another medal for that achievement. He is just as alien to me as I am to him. I can’t for one moment believe that he has never ever thought of jumping ship (well jumping helicopter I suppose since he’s aircrew in the army) and of being something else. I of course have changed jobs loads of times, what can I say I’m not fickle I just have a short attention span and need to be challenged in a role. The point is I feel more than a little like when Mother Nature was giving out careers or ideas for careers I decided to stay at the Lego table and thought I’d make it up by queuing up twice for sarcasm instead. I feel a great deal like a disappointment, like people are looking at me with wonder and asking themselves what I’m going to do next. Call me paranoid if you want but I really am beginning to think some of them have brought sandwiches along and a comfy blanket so that they get dinner and a show when watching me for my next move. That’s hardly fair so you’ll forgive me my pained and disappointed expression.
The depressing and stressful thing is I know time is ticking, that’s not my biological clock by the way because I insist there are no eggs in my basket – I won’t say never, because I’m more than a little afraid of tempting fate, I did say that about getting married and we can all see how that worked out for me. I want to be in my dream job, I want to happy to get up in the morning and saunter off to wherever that might be and I want to be doing that NOW. I want to have to look in my diary to see if I’m free when people invite me places rather than just being able to say off the top of my head without consulting a single thing (not even the tumble weed in the corner) ‘the 15th? Yeah sure that works for me’ It’s not much to want you’ll agree and I’d even give up all the little obsessive things – not the books that’s a deal breaker - I like to purchase if it meant having my dream job. Well, okay I’ll compromise, I’d settle for knowing what job would suit me and make me happy if it meant being on the way to it rather than holding out for my dream job.
What do I like doing? Lots of things really but creative things mostly. I like hand painting flower pots for my garden, I like making cards to send to people, I like baking – I basically like anything that involves making a bit of a mess. I like getting into heated discussions in which people challenge my opinions (constructively) and make me to justify them, usually about books I’m reading and my interpretation. I like entertaining people with stories of the stupid things I’ve said and done. I like writing, although I’ve been told my style or voice is an acquired taste (I wouldn’t want to be anything different because that means I’m unique, special) What I’ve learnt through attempting to complete my Masters though is that just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you are any good at it, or that it will be easy – surprise! – and I’ve learnt that I’m no good at academia. Well, that is to say that it is a monumental struggle for me to articulate myself in an acceptable academic fashion. Communicating orally isn’t a problem for me – a nice person once told me I talk in pictures which I decided was a compliment, feel free to agree with me here – I’m blunt and to the point but articulate my opinion in way that doesn’t fail to be understood. When it comes to writing though it’s a different story, a horrible, plodding, dark tale of struggle and obstacles to be overcome and hardship and failure. Oh alright that might be on the melodramatic side, but it really isn’t that far from the truth, really. There is no hiding from the fact I am not in any way, shape or form, good at it.
So, academia is off the table for me, there really is only so much humiliation I can put myself through when handing in essays etc that my fragile pride can take. Once again I find myself back on the path of self discovery, searching for a career and something that I might be good enough at to make me happy and earn me some money. Any ideas? I’m open to suggestion.
What have I to preoccupy me? Oh the usual – my awful written and still not finished dissertation, my turbulent see-sawing emotions, my lack of libido, the future, my past, my present... if you think of something that I’ve missed feel free to add it to the list.
Here is a question for you – how many of you are doing what you thought you would be doing for a job? How many of you are in your dream job, or are working towards achieving it? How many of you even know what that might be?
My hand can stay firmly at my side for that one. The ironic thing is at no point when I was playing with my cabbage patch dolls in my garden, make believing about being grown up, was getting to thirty-two, screwing up a Masters degree, struggling with my relationships and compromising my sanity a part of that game. Yes, it is true that in playing with my dolls I was doing just that – playing with them – and not envisioning my life as wife and mother. Thank god I am not the second, no offence to those with children, it’s just that if you knew me you would know why me as a mother is an unnatural thought (I haven’t yet grown out of arguing over the red crayon when colouring in... I’ll leave you with that thought) I was never the little girl that had her children’s names picked out, knew they type of wedding dress she was going to wear, and how her day was going to go. I couldn’t even decide out of the two boys I fancied which one I was going to pretend was my husband and which one was going to be my boyfriend – my lover. How thoroughly modern of me. The frustrating and more than a little soul destroying thing is I while I didn’t envision the 2.4 children, 2 cars and nice house future for myself, I always assumed that by my age I would be settled, for want of a better phrase and I am pretty sure that there is one. By settled I mean in a career in which I was enjoying and making a reasonable about of money to keep me in the stupid little things I obsess about for about a month only to change it to something else just as useful the next (as an after note such obsessions have included shoes, boots, duvet sets, nail varnishes, books – which I still have and will never get rid of – brown items of clothing, jeans, perfume, handbags, you get the picture) And the simple fact is I am so clearly not settled. Not even a little bit. I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, trusting that I do grow up that is.
My significant other, my husband, is the exact reverse; he has always known what he wanted to do as a career and is happily in it. Bully for him, I suppose he’ll want another medal for that achievement. He is just as alien to me as I am to him. I can’t for one moment believe that he has never ever thought of jumping ship (well jumping helicopter I suppose since he’s aircrew in the army) and of being something else. I of course have changed jobs loads of times, what can I say I’m not fickle I just have a short attention span and need to be challenged in a role. The point is I feel more than a little like when Mother Nature was giving out careers or ideas for careers I decided to stay at the Lego table and thought I’d make it up by queuing up twice for sarcasm instead. I feel a great deal like a disappointment, like people are looking at me with wonder and asking themselves what I’m going to do next. Call me paranoid if you want but I really am beginning to think some of them have brought sandwiches along and a comfy blanket so that they get dinner and a show when watching me for my next move. That’s hardly fair so you’ll forgive me my pained and disappointed expression.
The depressing and stressful thing is I know time is ticking, that’s not my biological clock by the way because I insist there are no eggs in my basket – I won’t say never, because I’m more than a little afraid of tempting fate, I did say that about getting married and we can all see how that worked out for me. I want to be in my dream job, I want to happy to get up in the morning and saunter off to wherever that might be and I want to be doing that NOW. I want to have to look in my diary to see if I’m free when people invite me places rather than just being able to say off the top of my head without consulting a single thing (not even the tumble weed in the corner) ‘the 15th? Yeah sure that works for me’ It’s not much to want you’ll agree and I’d even give up all the little obsessive things – not the books that’s a deal breaker - I like to purchase if it meant having my dream job. Well, okay I’ll compromise, I’d settle for knowing what job would suit me and make me happy if it meant being on the way to it rather than holding out for my dream job.
What do I like doing? Lots of things really but creative things mostly. I like hand painting flower pots for my garden, I like making cards to send to people, I like baking – I basically like anything that involves making a bit of a mess. I like getting into heated discussions in which people challenge my opinions (constructively) and make me to justify them, usually about books I’m reading and my interpretation. I like entertaining people with stories of the stupid things I’ve said and done. I like writing, although I’ve been told my style or voice is an acquired taste (I wouldn’t want to be anything different because that means I’m unique, special) What I’ve learnt through attempting to complete my Masters though is that just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you are any good at it, or that it will be easy – surprise! – and I’ve learnt that I’m no good at academia. Well, that is to say that it is a monumental struggle for me to articulate myself in an acceptable academic fashion. Communicating orally isn’t a problem for me – a nice person once told me I talk in pictures which I decided was a compliment, feel free to agree with me here – I’m blunt and to the point but articulate my opinion in way that doesn’t fail to be understood. When it comes to writing though it’s a different story, a horrible, plodding, dark tale of struggle and obstacles to be overcome and hardship and failure. Oh alright that might be on the melodramatic side, but it really isn’t that far from the truth, really. There is no hiding from the fact I am not in any way, shape or form, good at it.
So, academia is off the table for me, there really is only so much humiliation I can put myself through when handing in essays etc that my fragile pride can take. Once again I find myself back on the path of self discovery, searching for a career and something that I might be good enough at to make me happy and earn me some money. Any ideas? I’m open to suggestion.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Trash Time
I’ve been in a dark place for quite a while now, struggling to come to terms with a number of personal issues – in fact if I had to pick one word to sum up the last 18 months of my life that didn’t involve profaning it would be just that STRUGGLING – and I haven’t for a long time laughed from the heart. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve done a great deal of hiding within myself and only pretending to be present with others, laughing, nodding, uttering the seemingly right responses in the right place, but I haven’t really been present. It’s all been an act. I hadn’t realised what a consummate actress I was.
Last Friday I was in a relatively good mood; I could in my mind see light at the end of the tunnel with my dissertation. I had spent all of the week working incredibly hard on writing my last chapter on Henry James to my dissertation. I had gone to bed in the wee hours getting up again before it was light to continue working on it. Finally when I thought I had said all I could say I sent it to my supervisor already turning my attention to editing the previous chapters. You see the idea was to refresh myself of the key points of the arguments in them to help me structure my conclusion and drew them together. I was feeling a great deal lighter, eagerly looking forward to and anticipating handing it in today, if not tomorrow... I guess the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I experienced upon seeing my supervisor’s name in my inbox should have forewarned me. Hum jury is still out on that one.
He didn’t directly say it was a pile of crap but I read in between the lines and the tone... and well... I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing my heart out. I was totally crushed. It wasn’t what he said – to be honest I agree perfectly and without a doubt with what he did say – it was that my goal post had been moved. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted to throw the towel in and just give in; I took it as yet another sign that quite clearly I don’t possess the intelligence for a Masters. I was totally and utterly distraught, turning over and over in my mind all the hours I had put in and how hard I’d worked to articulate my ideas – badly it would seem if it needed (and still does need) to be re-written. I felt like yet again the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I had landed unceremoniously on my backside. I kept asking myself why I was bothering to do the academic equivalent of banging my head up against the brick wall. Oh yeah that will be my stubbornness rearing it’s oh so attractive head again (well it would be attractive if it had kept ramming itself against a wall wouldn’t it?) I felt humiliated to think of what my supervisor must have been thinking reading what I had sent him, imagining him to be asking the heavens what he had done in his life time to deserve drawing the short straw of having to supervise me.
I did what any emotional woman does – reached for the phone and called a friend. I’m not sure she managed to understand the first 10 or so minutes of our conversation through me sobbing incoherently down the phone at her. I had full crying dramatics going on; the snotty nose, the high pitched wailing, the starting in the middle rather than explaining from the beginning, you name it I had it. She was fantastic, calmed me down, reasoned with me and talked me into still going to visit like we had planned.
Friday night turned into the craziest night I’ve had in 5 years. I haven’t had that much fun, let off that much steam or been as light hearted and free from my dark place in...Well, let it suffice to say in too long. And strangely enough I can remember it all without cringing. Just thinking about it now still makes me smile and my friend, my best friend did that for me. She picked me off the ground, let me cry on her shoulder, hugged me until my sobbing and wailing had subsided to muffled and dripping snuffling, helped me fix my make up and took me out for the evening. When I say she took me out for the evening I don’t just mean to drink and dance – she took me out of me for the evening – for those 9 hours she helped me be another person.
Friends who will do that for you without thought to what is going on in their lives, physically or emotionally, don’t come along too often. I have to admit I have some weird commitment issues so I tend to be a bit of a drifter – you never know how long I’m going to be around or if I’m going to be back any time soon – at least I used to be like that until I met this friend. She has picked me up and dusted me off more times in the last couple of years than I can say, and for that I’m grateful because without her I seriously doubt I would have been able to retain my stubborn streak and carried on.
I guess what I’m trying to say – I feel like my way of articulating myself of late is the equivalent of a caveman clubbing people over the head, yes that unsophisticated – is friends without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation the most undervalued precious item you can ever hope to possess. My friend, my best friend is one of these precious items and I only hope I can be as good to her as she has been to me. My last thing to say is simply thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being there for me – you know who you are – thank you again.
Last Friday I was in a relatively good mood; I could in my mind see light at the end of the tunnel with my dissertation. I had spent all of the week working incredibly hard on writing my last chapter on Henry James to my dissertation. I had gone to bed in the wee hours getting up again before it was light to continue working on it. Finally when I thought I had said all I could say I sent it to my supervisor already turning my attention to editing the previous chapters. You see the idea was to refresh myself of the key points of the arguments in them to help me structure my conclusion and drew them together. I was feeling a great deal lighter, eagerly looking forward to and anticipating handing it in today, if not tomorrow... I guess the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I experienced upon seeing my supervisor’s name in my inbox should have forewarned me. Hum jury is still out on that one.
He didn’t directly say it was a pile of crap but I read in between the lines and the tone... and well... I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing my heart out. I was totally crushed. It wasn’t what he said – to be honest I agree perfectly and without a doubt with what he did say – it was that my goal post had been moved. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted to throw the towel in and just give in; I took it as yet another sign that quite clearly I don’t possess the intelligence for a Masters. I was totally and utterly distraught, turning over and over in my mind all the hours I had put in and how hard I’d worked to articulate my ideas – badly it would seem if it needed (and still does need) to be re-written. I felt like yet again the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I had landed unceremoniously on my backside. I kept asking myself why I was bothering to do the academic equivalent of banging my head up against the brick wall. Oh yeah that will be my stubbornness rearing it’s oh so attractive head again (well it would be attractive if it had kept ramming itself against a wall wouldn’t it?) I felt humiliated to think of what my supervisor must have been thinking reading what I had sent him, imagining him to be asking the heavens what he had done in his life time to deserve drawing the short straw of having to supervise me.
I did what any emotional woman does – reached for the phone and called a friend. I’m not sure she managed to understand the first 10 or so minutes of our conversation through me sobbing incoherently down the phone at her. I had full crying dramatics going on; the snotty nose, the high pitched wailing, the starting in the middle rather than explaining from the beginning, you name it I had it. She was fantastic, calmed me down, reasoned with me and talked me into still going to visit like we had planned.
Friday night turned into the craziest night I’ve had in 5 years. I haven’t had that much fun, let off that much steam or been as light hearted and free from my dark place in...Well, let it suffice to say in too long. And strangely enough I can remember it all without cringing. Just thinking about it now still makes me smile and my friend, my best friend did that for me. She picked me off the ground, let me cry on her shoulder, hugged me until my sobbing and wailing had subsided to muffled and dripping snuffling, helped me fix my make up and took me out for the evening. When I say she took me out for the evening I don’t just mean to drink and dance – she took me out of me for the evening – for those 9 hours she helped me be another person.
Friends who will do that for you without thought to what is going on in their lives, physically or emotionally, don’t come along too often. I have to admit I have some weird commitment issues so I tend to be a bit of a drifter – you never know how long I’m going to be around or if I’m going to be back any time soon – at least I used to be like that until I met this friend. She has picked me up and dusted me off more times in the last couple of years than I can say, and for that I’m grateful because without her I seriously doubt I would have been able to retain my stubborn streak and carried on.
I guess what I’m trying to say – I feel like my way of articulating myself of late is the equivalent of a caveman clubbing people over the head, yes that unsophisticated – is friends without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation the most undervalued precious item you can ever hope to possess. My friend, my best friend is one of these precious items and I only hope I can be as good to her as she has been to me. My last thing to say is simply thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being there for me – you know who you are – thank you again.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Thank You For The Music
A person's taste in music is an incredibly subjective thing. What moves one person to tears to finally find the lyrics to articulate a feeling, does without a doubt move another to change the radio station.
Last night I went to an ABBA Thank You For The Music concert with my older sister. Most people I have mentioned this to have looked at me strangely. Judging by their expressions I assume this to be for two reasons: 1) why would you, they are beyond cheesy and incredibly bad and 2) why would you readily admit to something like that? I admit to something like that for a number of reasons.
Almost two years ago my best and closest friend was going through an intensely difficult and hard time. Despite talking as often as we could via every medium to hand I lived miles away and so couldn’t physically be there for her. I couldn’t hug her, or make her something nice to eat, or get a DVD to distract her with, or just show her how much I cared. I hated it. I hated knowing what she was going through and felt helpless that I couldn’t be there in person to support her. I did what I perceived to be the next best thing; I sent her a hug in a bag. I thought of all the things that made me smile or gave me reason to smile and I wrapped them up and sent them to her in a goodie bag. They weren’t expensive things, just some chocolate, a new bottle of perfume, a purple necklace I knew she would love, a face pack to pamper herself with and a CD. A ABBA Gold CD to be precise. You see many people dismiss this group as Euro Trash, as a band that shouldn’t be allowed out of the 70s or out of a themed club where you hire a costume and dance ridiculously. But I beg to differ.
I used to share a room with my older sister when we were growing up, and being the youngest I had absolutely no say in what music me listened to. So, the blame for my somewhat dubious taste in music lies firmly at her feet (being the youngest does at times have its advantages). She introduced me to ABBA. I have to admit other than singing along loudly and normally tunelessly or dancing in a hired costume at one of those aforementioned themed clubs, I hadn’t given my taste in music that much thought. That is until last night.
A short while ago we had a pretty serious falling, serious enough for me to still be feeling the repercussions and also to be acutely aware of it whenever we spent time together. Yesterday, through the medium of ABBA I began to repair my relationship with my older sister. As I stood in the middle of Hyde Park dancing (badly and singing even worse) I laid to rest much of my hurt and anger and much of the bad feelings I had been carrying around. I had never noticed before how many of the lyrics to songs I had previously dismissed choked me, how they helped ease the wounds inside and as always, made me smile. Smiling isn’t something I have done much of lately, well, actually for quite some time, but yesterday I did and it was with my sister at my side.
Last night as I made my way home I thought about it all; my husband, my mum, my sister, our falling out, my friend and her difficult times. I thought about my journey over the last two years and how far I had come. I thought how much I had achieved even if it didn’t (and it still mostly doesn’t) feel like I have achieved a great deal. And it occurred to me who would have thought when I sent that CD to my friend to ease her suffering and to give her something to smile about (ABBA does if nothing else make most of us smile) it would do the same for me. My intention had been to make her feel better, to give her a reason and something to make her smile. When she needed a hug, or felt overwhelmed and like she was drowning, I wanted her to reach for ABBA and for it to be and do all the things I couldn’t be there to give her. I wanted it to be her security, her hope and her comfort. I wanted in a nutshell, for it to be me. Last night during the concert and on the way home it was all of those things for me.
So, as cheesy as it sounds I really do Thank ABBA for the music. It might not be to your taste but next time you have a friend in need try singing Chiquitita to her, listen to the words and see if they aren’t entirely fitting. Look to see if she doesn’t smile too, maybe even laugh. When you are out with your friends on a night out, if Dancing Queen comes on, look to their faces and you’ll see they are smiling. Stupidly and perhaps more than a little drunkenly, but smiling none-the-less. If you ever find yourself in the midst of a relationship break up listen to the words of One of Us, I bet it will do more than just annoy you. Go on, give a shot, what have you got to lose?
Last night I went to an ABBA Thank You For The Music concert with my older sister. Most people I have mentioned this to have looked at me strangely. Judging by their expressions I assume this to be for two reasons: 1) why would you, they are beyond cheesy and incredibly bad and 2) why would you readily admit to something like that? I admit to something like that for a number of reasons.
Almost two years ago my best and closest friend was going through an intensely difficult and hard time. Despite talking as often as we could via every medium to hand I lived miles away and so couldn’t physically be there for her. I couldn’t hug her, or make her something nice to eat, or get a DVD to distract her with, or just show her how much I cared. I hated it. I hated knowing what she was going through and felt helpless that I couldn’t be there in person to support her. I did what I perceived to be the next best thing; I sent her a hug in a bag. I thought of all the things that made me smile or gave me reason to smile and I wrapped them up and sent them to her in a goodie bag. They weren’t expensive things, just some chocolate, a new bottle of perfume, a purple necklace I knew she would love, a face pack to pamper herself with and a CD. A ABBA Gold CD to be precise. You see many people dismiss this group as Euro Trash, as a band that shouldn’t be allowed out of the 70s or out of a themed club where you hire a costume and dance ridiculously. But I beg to differ.
I used to share a room with my older sister when we were growing up, and being the youngest I had absolutely no say in what music me listened to. So, the blame for my somewhat dubious taste in music lies firmly at her feet (being the youngest does at times have its advantages). She introduced me to ABBA. I have to admit other than singing along loudly and normally tunelessly or dancing in a hired costume at one of those aforementioned themed clubs, I hadn’t given my taste in music that much thought. That is until last night.
A short while ago we had a pretty serious falling, serious enough for me to still be feeling the repercussions and also to be acutely aware of it whenever we spent time together. Yesterday, through the medium of ABBA I began to repair my relationship with my older sister. As I stood in the middle of Hyde Park dancing (badly and singing even worse) I laid to rest much of my hurt and anger and much of the bad feelings I had been carrying around. I had never noticed before how many of the lyrics to songs I had previously dismissed choked me, how they helped ease the wounds inside and as always, made me smile. Smiling isn’t something I have done much of lately, well, actually for quite some time, but yesterday I did and it was with my sister at my side.
Last night as I made my way home I thought about it all; my husband, my mum, my sister, our falling out, my friend and her difficult times. I thought about my journey over the last two years and how far I had come. I thought how much I had achieved even if it didn’t (and it still mostly doesn’t) feel like I have achieved a great deal. And it occurred to me who would have thought when I sent that CD to my friend to ease her suffering and to give her something to smile about (ABBA does if nothing else make most of us smile) it would do the same for me. My intention had been to make her feel better, to give her a reason and something to make her smile. When she needed a hug, or felt overwhelmed and like she was drowning, I wanted her to reach for ABBA and for it to be and do all the things I couldn’t be there to give her. I wanted it to be her security, her hope and her comfort. I wanted in a nutshell, for it to be me. Last night during the concert and on the way home it was all of those things for me.
So, as cheesy as it sounds I really do Thank ABBA for the music. It might not be to your taste but next time you have a friend in need try singing Chiquitita to her, listen to the words and see if they aren’t entirely fitting. Look to see if she doesn’t smile too, maybe even laugh. When you are out with your friends on a night out, if Dancing Queen comes on, look to their faces and you’ll see they are smiling. Stupidly and perhaps more than a little drunkenly, but smiling none-the-less. If you ever find yourself in the midst of a relationship break up listen to the words of One of Us, I bet it will do more than just annoy you. Go on, give a shot, what have you got to lose?
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Dissertation
When something is breaking you at what point do you throw in the towel? Should that even be an option?
I've just spent the better part of an hour pounding my fists against a punch bag in order to vent some anger and frustration. My knuckles are slightly blue and slightly swollen, and I wore gloves. What's got me in this mood?... My dissertation, yup got it one, there was no possibility it was going to be anything else.
I have it on good authority that doing a Masters is not meant to be easy. I accept that, but, there's always a but with me, I'm not sure it is meant to be THIS hard. I'll backtrack and elaborate. During my undergraduate I had one or two lecturers who made the comment I was good at academia, stupidly my vanity and pride believed them. So, two years on here I am struggling monumentally through writing 20,000 words.
What's 20,000 words right? We must, on an average day, say so much more than that in idle chit chat, in asking questions, to ourselves - come on admit it you talk to yourself too - just saying hello to people we meet. So, how hard can it be to write 20,000 words intelligently on a subject you've got a great interest in? Evidently the hardest thing I've ever had to do because struggling doesn't begin to describe what I'm going through.
The problem, I think, is that I've lost my voice. I've lost my confidence in myself and my capabilities. I have - in a nut shell - lost myself. Writing academically has always been a challenge for me, something I haven't found easy but have just chipped doggedly away at until I somehow reach the end. It isn't a determination thing but a stubbornness thing, trust me there is a difference. But, with this dissertation there doesn't seem to be an end. It doesn't matter how hard I try or how hard I work it doesn't feel good enough or to be making a difference. And I am so tired of trying. I am so frustrated with the futility of it all.
I don't, not for one moment, expect this to be easy. Nothing worth achieving is every easy, of this I am aware. And, knowing myself the way that I do, I won't be giving up any time soon until it is done. Why? Because I don't give in. That isn't to say I have an aversion to quitting. Not at all. There are times when it is simply better to admit perhaps you aren't on the right path and something just isn't meant to be, and gracefully stop. I know this. I'm just stubborn. Once I have set myself in a direction or on a path nothing moves me from it. See, stubbornness not determination. The thing is, I wouldn't mind this trait in myself if the sense of achievement I got at the end was proportionate to my stubbornness. But it never is. I don't feel a sense of achievement any more. So, if I don't feel this, if I don't feel pride in myself, or relief at the end - why am I doing it? For what purpose?
That said, I guess now is the time to get back on with writing it - so wish me luck because right now I feel like I need a great deal more than luck.
I've just spent the better part of an hour pounding my fists against a punch bag in order to vent some anger and frustration. My knuckles are slightly blue and slightly swollen, and I wore gloves. What's got me in this mood?... My dissertation, yup got it one, there was no possibility it was going to be anything else.
I have it on good authority that doing a Masters is not meant to be easy. I accept that, but, there's always a but with me, I'm not sure it is meant to be THIS hard. I'll backtrack and elaborate. During my undergraduate I had one or two lecturers who made the comment I was good at academia, stupidly my vanity and pride believed them. So, two years on here I am struggling monumentally through writing 20,000 words.
What's 20,000 words right? We must, on an average day, say so much more than that in idle chit chat, in asking questions, to ourselves - come on admit it you talk to yourself too - just saying hello to people we meet. So, how hard can it be to write 20,000 words intelligently on a subject you've got a great interest in? Evidently the hardest thing I've ever had to do because struggling doesn't begin to describe what I'm going through.
The problem, I think, is that I've lost my voice. I've lost my confidence in myself and my capabilities. I have - in a nut shell - lost myself. Writing academically has always been a challenge for me, something I haven't found easy but have just chipped doggedly away at until I somehow reach the end. It isn't a determination thing but a stubbornness thing, trust me there is a difference. But, with this dissertation there doesn't seem to be an end. It doesn't matter how hard I try or how hard I work it doesn't feel good enough or to be making a difference. And I am so tired of trying. I am so frustrated with the futility of it all.
I don't, not for one moment, expect this to be easy. Nothing worth achieving is every easy, of this I am aware. And, knowing myself the way that I do, I won't be giving up any time soon until it is done. Why? Because I don't give in. That isn't to say I have an aversion to quitting. Not at all. There are times when it is simply better to admit perhaps you aren't on the right path and something just isn't meant to be, and gracefully stop. I know this. I'm just stubborn. Once I have set myself in a direction or on a path nothing moves me from it. See, stubbornness not determination. The thing is, I wouldn't mind this trait in myself if the sense of achievement I got at the end was proportionate to my stubbornness. But it never is. I don't feel a sense of achievement any more. So, if I don't feel this, if I don't feel pride in myself, or relief at the end - why am I doing it? For what purpose?
That said, I guess now is the time to get back on with writing it - so wish me luck because right now I feel like I need a great deal more than luck.
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