It’s been fifty-six days since last I sat to write a story. Fifty-six long, filled with anxiety, days. There has been stuff going on. Familiar stuff, but somehow this time I haven’t been great at handling the load of worry, unsettled thoughts, and exhaustion that accompanies the stuff. I have been tiptoeing the razor thin line of minimal coping. Self-destructive despair has been snapping at my toes whilst my partner and friends march steadily on, holding the safety net underneath in case I take a tumble. And tumble I did. I am glad they were there.
I yearn to be a person of strength, compassion and acceptance. It’s a work in progress and every experience, every encounter, every observation highlights the bits that I am getting right and underlines the bits that I am getting wrong. The wrong bits plague me. They are sharp, ugly and acutely uncomfortable. They creep about on the edges of my awareness, poking at me, stealing sleep, leaving my stomach feeling woozy.
I have an inner person who lurks way down below the surface. Her ability to break through the obstacles I carefully have in place to keep her contained strengthens when I get stressed, over-tired or set the bar too high on my own goals. She’s a right piece of work and I don’t like her very much.
I have a cage I keep her in, double strength locks and a pile of fuzzy blankets inside so she can wrap herself up when feeling fragile or neglected. I try not to feed her. She does better when she doesn’t have things to chew on. I hear her rattling on the bars every once and awhile and it unnerves me. She is a devious sneak and if I am not careful, if I relax my vigil, she can come screaming up from the depths and hurl such meanness about that it takes weeks, sometimes months for me to feel safe again. Can only imagine how long it takes for friends to not feel wary in my company.
Allowing myself to get stretched to the point of snapping, exhausted and dealing with the perceived failures of not achieving some highly improbable goals, I managed to set up the perfect storm for a public exposure of that wickedly nasty bit of me.
A few weeks ago she erupted out of her cage, hair in a mess, eyes wild and words spitting out of her mouth with frustration, anger and a fair degree of self righteous rhetoric that would all have been best left unsaid. That’s the trouble with words, they take on the shape and attitude of the mouth that bore them into being, twisting and biting with no regard for the gentle ears that absorb them. Very unpleasant.
She leaves the party the minute her rage is spent. She simply walks out and slides back down to her cage, pulling her blankets up around her again and turning her back on the chaos she leaves behind. Not a backward glance.
I am left with the monumental task of apologizing to all who were slammed, feeling utterly full of embarrassment. Left with the knowledge that unless I can figure this stuff out, she will be back, sharper, harder and meaner.
Or I could accept this part of me. I could maybe stop caging her up. I could set her loose. Maybe she just wants to go for a walk in the woods, watch the clouds in the sky, skip stones across the surface of still water. Maybe she would wander back to me calm and less angry, less hurt. Or maybe she would just take a deep breath, feel the release and walk away.
This idea of acceptance of my inner demon is somewhat freeing. It’s also a bit daunting. I feel responsible for the awkward, scowling, misunderstood bundle of raw emotional immaturity that is part of me. She has been a companion of sorts for decades, taking the brunt of all real and perceived misunderstandings I have experienced on her shoulders. Misguided or not, she has been a fierce protector of my emotional self and has come out into the world with her fists flying at the first sign of trouble on my account. I owe her gratitude.
More than that, I owe her acceptance.
‘Til the next time, kristine
p.s. I have been remiss in not expressing my continued gratitude to you for allowing Wuzzles and Snippets into your in-box. Your encouragements and generosity of comments are like warm hugs. Thank you.
"I have been tiptoeing the razor thin line of minimal coping"—well put—it's what I did all autumn! And yes, I think making friends with that caged bee-otch is definitely the way to go. By the same token, don't beat yourself up too much for *her* outburst... we've all been under a certain amount of strain of late.
I’m sorry to hear about your rough patch, Kristine. I hope writing about your vulnerable alter-ego has been cathartic. It was a beautifully written story- you’re lucky to be able to articulate your feelings that way, another thing to be grateful for. Take care!