2015: In Which I Was Tired

It’s the end of the year, and I’m tired.

kitten tired

It’s been a good year, in a lot of ways.  I started my own business and made many discoveries about myself, several of them good, some of them far reaching.  I did not starve my family to death in the meantime, so that’s always a bonus.

My mother had a major accident.  She may end up with serious permanent disabilities, on top of her current chronic condition.  I’m, realistically, the only person in her life in a position to support her financially or emotionally.  I feel stretched very thin, and I feel very anxious about how this might play out.

kitten tired two

It’s hot at the moment.  It’s very hot: global warming plus El Nino plus I already live in one of the hottest places in which people live on Earth (probably.  You look it up.  I’m too tired).  It causes me a lot of anxiety.  I’m only this year realising how much anxiety, and how maybe that’s not entirely normal.  It occupies a lot of my mind, when it’s this hot: I spend my time talking myself down off a ledge, reminding myself that there’s no reason to panic, and I’ll get through it, and autumn will eventually come.  I have to do this over and over again, because the fear part of my brain doesn’t really listen, and it gibbers at me, rattling the bars of its cage so loudly that it can’t hear.

That’s quite tiring, as well.

I hurt someone the other day with a careless tweet, without meaning to or thinking much about it at the time, and she lambasted me pretty savagely for it.  And I have a lot to say about that, some of it sad, some of it defensive, some of it angry.  But I don’t really want to.  I just want to move on and forget about it and process it later maybe, when I’m not so tired.

tired sign

And I’m fat, and my trich is a constant struggle, and I don’t want to fight with my own body.  Can’t we all just get along?

Most of what I’m tired of is thinking and feeling.  Who knew it could be so exhausting, living life as a sentient being?  Do I really get no respite from it, because I have addictive tendencies?  That seems unfair.  I don’t drink, I don’t smoke pot, and let’s face it I need to move away from using food as a palliative.  I read a lot of books, I go for walks, I sit with my feelings.  I mean, I know what to do.

But it’s tiring.

A tangle of narrow old streets that are so awful for motorists

180px-Icapturethecastle

I’ve been re-reading I Capture The Castle, have you read it?  You should.  The heroine is a delightful eighteen year old, very intelligent but unworldly, with a wonderful way of puncturing her own pretensions as soon as she writes them onto the page.  Near the crisis of the novel, she is deeply unhappy, and desperate for consolation.   She considers whether she could lose herself in good works and piety, as suggested by her only friends, and just as she thinks it’s the answer, she has a vision of the town.  A wide, straight road bypassing the centre, and then the busy part that goes right through the town itself in a

“tangle of narrow old streets that are so awful for motorists on market days, but so very, very beautiful.  Of course, what my mind’s eye was trying to tell me was that the Vicar and Miss Marcy had managed to bypass the suffering that comes to most people – he by his religion, she by her kindness to other  And ti came to me that if one does that, one is liable to miss too much along with the suffering – perhaps, in a way, life itself.”

I’m in kind of an angry, sad, despairing place at the moment, but mostly a furious one.  I am furious at the world and the ugliness of people who kick those who are down and the stupidity of those who cheer the kickers on, and encourage them, and give them the power to keep doing it.  I am furious at the quicksand that surrounds me and my girls when we try and take a step towards freedom, because it is so much effort to keep fighting for basic rights and respect over and over again.  I am terrified all the time about my life and my job and getting it wrong, and the bravest thing I do is getting up in the morning, taking a deep breath and telling myself that it’s going to work out fine.

steep-stairs-narrow-street-old-town-dubrovnik-croatia-43659692

It is possible that my mood would be improved by more cake and less hormones, but we work with what we have at the time.

But I never think about drinking.  It isn’t an option.  I want to extend Smith’s metaphor about how, instead, I have the fortitude to head into that dark tangle of streets that lead straight through the centre, and I keep going because I am brave these days.  But I am sick of my own words and my metaphors and my neat wrapped-up endings.  There isn’t a neat wrapped-up ending to this one.  It’s dark, and I can’t run my fury out, so I type type type instead, trying to distil it and whittle it down and get to the truth under the flourishes.  That’s another tangle of narrow old streets, right there.

narrow street chania

The thing about sobriety is that it doesn’t solve things because some things can’t be solved.  But the things I am unable to solve are things I wouldn’t even have confronted if I were still drinking.  I mean, I am terrified about my job because I am self-employed and flying by the skin of my teeth, and I would never have attempted that in the first place, drinking.  The things that make me angry about my relationship, or rather about relationships between men and women and the patriarchy as a whole, they’re things that I come up against because I push, now, for my own space.  I used to step aside.   They’re things in the middle of the town, awful and beautiful, and I would rather be here, in the thick of it, than taking the road around.

So here is the post I should have written: Happy Soberversary to me!

A few weeks ago, I bought myself a present, and I saved it up in its little parcel until last weekend, and then I finally opened it today.  It was my gift to myself, because I am one year sober.

Why didn’t I open it earlier?  Because, oh, it’s not such a big deal, and oh, well, no need to make a fuss, and oh, look how cool and insouciant I am, I don’t need gifts or rewards or treats.  I’m happy here with my herbal tea (stupid Whole30) and my crafting and my virtue.

I’ve written before about my tendency to try and do everything better than anyone else, yes?

But I got here because I gave myself the licence to be kind to myself, and have treats here and there, and believe that I was worth the fuss and the trouble that getting sober can be.  So I took the present out of the cupboard.

My presentThe woman from whom I bought this is a friend, and I told her that it was a present to celebrate a year of sobriety, and so she said that she’d wrap it up for me.  Isn’t it pretty?

This was supposed to be a victorious post, full of the fact that sobriety has transformed my life.  It has done, beyond anything I could have imagined.  I said, a year ago, that I decided to get up drinking because otherwise, nothing would change in my life.  I would plod along, raising my children with less joy than I wanted to feel, hating my job but without the courage to try something new, narrowing my horizons more and more so that the only pleasure I had left was the same bottle of wine that was trapping me.

And then I stopped drinking, thinking well, if nothing else I’ll lose some weight.  In fact, I didn’t, but every single other thing got better instead.

At Easter last year, I moved house.  That doesn’t sound like much, perhaps, but I moved to the village I have been dreaming of for eleven years, to a dream home within that dream area, with enough shabby quirk that we could afford it, and which makes it far more lovable than a highly renovated version.  And in retrospect, we could have moved here years earlier, so why didn’t we?  Inertia, fear of debt, a lack of willingness to grasp the possibility?  In the end, I just opened myself up to the fact that I wanted to move, and a friend of mine sold me her family home.  Really.

I started running.

I ate food, without guilt or fear, and I learned to go to bed early with a good book, and I started taking long baths, and my skin shone and my hair shone and – without weight loss – the contours of my face returned.

My parenting experience transformed.  I have so much more love.  So much more joy, so much more gratitude.  And so much more faith in myself, so that even when I get exasperated and yell, I forgive myself because I love them and they love me and it’s alright.  It’s better than alright.  Children need to be allowed to love their parents, and I can accept that love now, in all its sticky physical glory.

I started writing.  And then I started getting published.  And then I was laid off, and with the financial cushion that gave me, I decided to do it for a living.  One year ago, I hadn’t written anything except Facebook comments since leaving university.  And now I make my living as a writer, and I do so successfully.

If, a year ago, you had asked me what my dream life looked like, it would look like this.  I’d like to live in a huge rambling house in Village, I’d have said, with a big garden that the girls can play in, and I’d work from home as a writer, and get up early to exercise, and I’d read more and take up a craft.  And then I’d laugh because it seemed so impossible.

Sobriety made it possible.

My whole life is a gift now, but I deserve one nonetheless, and so I opened my parcel.

towel

This is a Turkish towel, hand-loomed and fair trade.  The weave is beautiful and light as a feather.  I wanted something that would last, something lovely, something that would bring me comfort and pleasure in the everyday.  It’s no use buying myself lovely jewellery that I’ll save for a special occasion that never comes, or stationery too pretty to use.  Remember my scented candle?  I have never set it alight.  In eleven months.  So, something that I need every day, something to add luxury and comfort to a necessary ritual.   Something that would be mine, my special thing, that nobody else is allowed to use because it is Mum’s special thing.

But as I unwrapped it, this symbol of triumph that I so carefully thought through, I felt sad.  And lonely.  Because I wanted people to say well done, and to have noticed, and to share my pride in me, and it felt so anti-climactic, this present that I bought myself and unwrapped myself and hung in the shower.

And then I saw the card that my lovely friend had tucked in there.

cardHappy one year, from me to me.  Well done, me.