Timshel

I've been reading East of Eden recently. I'd read a run of Chick Lit, and while it's good for my heart, eventually I need to immerse myself in something that challenges me a little more. Something that makes me think - makes me feel something other than the typical RomCom "Awww". 

I've avoided this book for the longest time. Avoided all Steinbeck, in fact for a while. But particularly EOE, as I'm waring of fiction trying too hard to preach to me. I was aware of the biblical reference {Hell, the allusive title says enough} and while having faith of my own, I still prefer not to delve too deeply into it by means of fiction. Add to that how much I hated Of Mice and Men {though while Grapes of Wrath made me miserable, it was an extraordinary piece of literature}, and I just wasn't all that interested. So in all honesty, I'm not entirely sure why I picked this one up, other than that I was craving something 'meaty', and simply - Because it was there.

But there is so much in this book. Not just the story of Good and Evil, Cain and Abel, Choice over Fate. So many lines - truths that have stood up and hit me between the eyes and seemed to ask "Are you listening, Melissa?". Passages that I have read and been struck by, related to....wished I'd written.

Of course, Steinbeck himself - through Lee tells us that it is this that makes a story great. 

“If a story is not about the hearer he [or she] will not listen . . . A great lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting--only the deeply personal and familiar.” 

There are so many quotes, of course that feel personal and familiar. 

And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly—well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands.

Right away, I know Tom. He's an over-thinker. He and I over think everything - what people say, what they do - what he reads. He can't help it. It's not just what I he reads - it's every single tiny word and look and act.  So busy overthinking everything that we never get around to doing anything. So busy trying to find hidden meaning in a look and a word and a touch that we forget to experience them, and respond to them in time.

And this, immediately before the last quote - 

“Tom felt his darkness. His father was beautiful and clever, his mother was short and mathematically sure. Each of his brothers and sisters had looks or gifts or fortune. Tom loved all of them passionately, but he felt heavy and earth-bound. He climbed ecstatic mountains and floundered in the rocky darkness between the peaks. He had spurts of bravery but they were bracketed in battens of cowardice.
Samuel said that Tom was quavering over greatness, trying to decide whether he could take the cold responsibility. Samuel knew his son’s quality and felt the potential of violence, and it frightened him, for Samuel had no violence—even when he hit Adam Trask with his fist he had no violence. 

This - in it's entirety. I felt, at that moment that Steinbeck knew me. Knew I was Tom - and not in a good way {for those that know how Tom ends up}. But my struggle with myself as my own worst enemy - my dreams are so big, so mountainous - but so often it is me that stops me achieving them. Hell, sometimes even starting out. I feel, suddenly that my youth is behind me {is it stupid to say this at 37? When I was growing up - 37 year old women felt so 'together' to me. Like that had their entire lives sorted out. Knew who they were. Were well on their way to achieving what they wanted. For some, even past their glory days and settling down into middle age. 

40 {or the approach to it - I'm 37} feels so different to me now. Am I supposed to have it all figured out? Am I supposed to feel older? I don't, you know. Somehow, in my head - I'm still 23 with all of my life ahead of me. But still - I feel unfulfilled. Not in my family. While I may have had girlish dreams about a huge family and a handful of daughters and two or three sons - this little family of mine - it's the one good thing I've done. It's beautiful - warts and all. 

But the rest of me - I feel like I wasted more than a decade. I wasted a decade mourning and hating and hurting. And worse - waiting. For I don't even know what. To be healthier. To lose weight and start living. To get on top of the depression or the anxiety. To be able to write again. To work, to feel like a contributing member of society. 

Stagnant. Trapped in hurt like a fly in ointment. 

“Do you take pride in your hurt?' Samuel asked. 'Does it make you seem large and tragic? . . . Maybe you're playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as audience . . . there's all that fallow land, and here beside me is all that fallow man. It seems a waste. And I have a bad feeling about waste because I could never afford it. Is it a good feeling to let your life lie fallow?”

Like a hit to the chest - I'm winded. I'm so angry about what happened all of those years ago. So hurt by accusations I never got a chance to defend. Righteous indignation at the way I was treated - the way I felt mistreated. The injustice of it all. 

But how does it help me? Has it not left me, sinking into the mire of hatred and grudges and hurt. Looking backward and forgetting to move forward with the life around me. Always living partly in the past. Busily thinking of all of the things I wish I'd said, wish I'd done - wish I'd told them to cause them just as much hurt as I was feeling. 

And for what? Depression. An anxiety disorder. Just to feel 'right'. What does it matter if I'm right if it's not helping me move on? If I'm letting myself be controlled by the uncontrollable - other people's fights. Other people's thoughts. 

And we come back to "Timshel". Thou mayest. It's not out of my control - not really. Because I, and I alone can simply choose to let it all go. I can't change anyone's mind. I can't make them see things differently. I can't rewrite history. But I can feel my heart suddenly just completely let it go - I can stop looking back. 

Thou mayest. And this needn't just be about Good or Evil. Our fight to do the right thing, rather than believing that as imperfect people we have no choice. Though of course, there is plenty of that. But thou mayest also let go. Forgive. Forget. Move on. 

So I will. I forgive you. I have no need for this burden anymore. I drank the poison and waited for you to die. I realise now how damaging that was for me and for my beautiful little family. How damaging it was in all aspects of my life - my health, my relationships, my spirituality, my happiness, my friendships. ALL of it - weighed down by being angry - a {self}righteous indignation at being wronged. 

And I don't know how to explain how a book made me see it. It wasn't just the book - this has been stirring in my mind for a while now. Signs have been dotted along the way, letting me know how unnecessary and how unhealthy this all was. But now - now I feel it for real. I can let it go. I don't have to be right anymore. I don't have to make them sorry or make them admit anything. 

I can forgive. It is within my power to genuinely forgive any of it. All of it. Forget who said what. Choose to stop remembering. Stop caring. Forgive. Release. Thou mayest. 

And while a story of brothers, of Good Vs Evil, of Genesis might not immediately jump out and seem to be relevant to us individually, there is so much here that is. And so, so much in that one, perfect word. Timshel. 

Though mayest. I can choose. I can choose to start again, every single day. As often as I need to. As often as I fall, I may choose to get up. I may choose to take care of my body again. I may choose to take care of my heart again. I may choose to nurture my faith again. I may choose to make friends again.

I can miss people no longer in my life. But I have to choose whether to keep grieving those friendships, as intensely as a death - or I can recognise that for a little while - they gave me exactly what I needed. For a little while, they provided a new richness and happiness and choose to remember them that way. 

I can hold onto the hurt and anger caused my my siblings, pretend that being right is enough comfort. Or I can forget about being right. I can just forgive them - for ALL of it. 

I can live, tied up in regret for all I haven't accomplished. Or I can start fresh every day. Recognising that there are wonderful things about me - and even more wonderful things about the life Joel and I have built together. 

I can feel sorry for myself for all of the health issues - physical and emotional. Or I can take charge. 

And I may - no - I do choose to move on from all of it.  Accept. Learn. Appreciate. Forgive. I'm setting it all free, and myself in the process.

Thou mayest indeed.

Blogging Fail

Well this might be the longest I've gone without blogging. Still struggling a bit, so haven't really wanted to come here and dump all of that again. 

My anxiety has kicked up a notch lately, so I've been immersed even more in my 'therapy' of Pinterest and Tumblr {surprisingly, the latter more this week! I hadn't been there in such a long time}.  It's really working though - keeping my agitation at a manageable level. I'm not leaving the house much at all, just the school run, really - but I'm also not relying on anti-anxiety medications. 

So maybe for a little while, I'll just post some of the Pretty. There can never be too much pretty, now can there?

A lot of white is appealing to me at the moment. Perhaps I'm craving the calming, clean feeling of white?

I'm kind of in love with this collar - gorgeous. 

And lace - can't get enough lace at the moment.

What about you? Do you like white? Are you particularly drawn to specific colours, depending on mood?

Listen

Right now I am laying on my bed, with the air conditioner working away above me. I smell fresh bread rolls, straight out of the oven. I hear Samuel laughing and Alexander chatting away to his father. Occasionally, Joel's voice breaks through as he indulges them both. 

I'm here, locked away in my own room, away from all of it. I am trying not to spit my own venom at my family, trying not to let my mood ruin everyone's night. It's possible that it's too late, they've already felt the tensioni and looked at me, trying to work out where it all went wrong. 

I wish I knew. I wish I could tell them. I have no idea. I just flipped, in an instant. From happy and smiling, oking with Alexander and being hugged by Samuel. Making everyone's dinner and looking forward to my own. 

Mere seconds later, my shulders are bunched up and my foot is shaking - I can't stay still. I am inexplicably angry and I snapped. I made Samuel cry and Joel feel stressed. He's trying to pacify them, cheer them up. It sounds as though he is doing a good job of it. They sound as though they've forgotten that their mother has been a moody, horrible person for a few minutes, ruining all of their fun. 

So I sit in here, the air moving around, listening to this, trying to get my emotions back in check.

It is beautiful, and with Samuel's laughter in the background, I ought to feel entirely differently. What is wrong with me? Why is this happening? Why can I not just be stable? Why are these swings so abrupt, and so sharp? How can I feel so good for so much of the day, so happy for so many hours, and then shift so completely? How can I help him feel better if I can't keep stable myself.

I need a few more minutes. I need to listen a few more times before I try to go back out there. Before I try to keep a smile on my face, listen to the endless chatter and join in. A few more deep breaths, a little longer with my eyes closed and my door locked. Sometimes, I hate me.

It's been 20 minutes. I've listened about 6 or 7 times now. I hear them in the bath. Alexander is singing his masterpiece - "Rock Me" {They are literally the only two songs in the song. And it goes on for eleventybillion years}. Something is working. It may be the piano. It may be the sound of happy children. It may be just from writing it down. It's probably all three.

But I do so wish that this would stop happening. It's exhausting to be this kind of crazy.

Oscar and Reeva and Stella Young's theory.

You would have to have been living under a rock to not have heard about the Oscar Pistorius Case making headlines all around the world at the moment. The shocking shooting death of his girlfriend, model Reeva Steenkamp.

Oscar Pistorius is, of course famous for being a world Paralympic sprinter, and for famously being the first double-amputee to compete at the Summer Olympics in London last year {I guess you'd call them the Able-Bodied Olympics, to differentiate?}. So it's fair to say that Pistorius is known to the public because of his disability. 

Obviously, this is an incredibly high profile story. There is a media circus happening right now, with speculation and confusion.  At this point, there are few known, confirmed facts. We know that Oscar shot Reeva 4 times through a locked bathroom door. We know that there was a cricket bat with blood stains found at the scene. We know that Pistorius is claiming horrible accident, that he believed there was an intruder. We know that the prosecution is claiming premeditated murder. That is all we know for sure.  As far as I've read, everything else is speculation.

Now, as Pistorius is famous, the profile of this case was always going to be high. That a young woman, with an established career, and seemingly the world at her feet, of course this is also going to make the case even more notorious. 

But I read this morning an article written by Stella Young, a staunch advocate of the section of the population with disabilities {and their carers}. Ms Young so often speaks about disability services and rights, as well as the way that people with disabilities are treated. About looking past a disability and seeing the person for other things, not related to what perhaps they can't do. I often love to read what Stella writes, her insights and perspective are important in our landscape. 

Which I guess was why I was so disappointed to read the way that she approached this case. She wrote on ABC's The Drum that we are all "we are ill-prepared to cope with the idea of a disabled man charged with murder

She writes that Pistorius is placed upon a pedestal and that we need to believe him to be an inspirational, flawless person. And of course, no matter the inspiration found in his career, to believe him flawless {whether guilty or innocent of this crime} is ridiculous and unfair.

Pistorius was repeatedly held as a role model in media and civic discussion. We love "against the odds" stories; narratives like that of Helen Keller are lapped up by a culture hungry for "inspiration".And that's the problem with role models; they are very rarely what we think.If Pistorius is found guilty of murder, he will have committed two crimes. The first is clear. The second is failing to live up to the impossible ideal of a disabled role model.In recent days, allegations of Pistorius' complex character have emerged. And, again, I can hear a sharp intake of breath. In a world that barely accepts the idea of a disabled man who would protest a victory on the track, we are ill-prepared to cope with the idea of a disabled man charged with murder.

Stella speaks as though his disability propels him to hero status that other {not disabled} people would not reach. That the world is shocked by this because he was an 'inspirational' athlete, because of his disablility.

I could not disagree more. And I find it so odd that Stella has chosen to view it this way. In no way have I ever thought of this case in terms of his disability.  While I agree, some portions of the media have done so, for me it isn't remotely relevant in this case.

My shock is a man (any man or woman) at basically the pinnacle of his career (any career), with so much to live for, now having his entire life in the balance, probably over. A young woman with so much to live for, also at the top of her career, being shot down in her prime. 

By all accounts, Ms Steenkamp was a wealthy, beautiful, famous young woman, with not only a career before her but also a person who wanted to be a strong advocate for women, fighting the horrific levels of violence committed against women in South Africa. This {to me} makes this feel even more tragic, such a waste of a life. And by all accounts, though it was early days, She and Oscar were apparently happy together - certainly a glamour couple in South Africa.

I'm fascinated by the case, intrigued as to what on earth went wrong. Horrified at the suddenness and the horror. But I have not, at a single point thought of it in terms of a disability. 

Ms Young so often writes about wanting us to see past a disability.  So I'm really disappointed that that is the angleshe has chosen to use in this article. I feel as though it is simply perpetuating the very thing she {rightly} rails against. 

I felt annoyance that she seemed to tar everyone with the same brush. I feel that most people observing this case are managing to do so without for a moment feeling his disability (and to be honest, I think the fact that he is an incredibly strong, fit, virile man kind of makes one forget the disability except in the context of his races) is important to the case. 

I've not (in my own mind) deemed his guilty or innocent of a premeditated murder. I fear that steroid use (as I've read there were some found in his home) will play a role in this tragedy - as it so often does in cases such as these, with athletes killing themselves or their families. But again, this is simply speculation. Unconfirmed. And a bit of a stereotype (though usually, these are such for a reason and it would not be the first time that terrible violence has taken place as a result of these types of drugs}.

What do you think? Do you feel less likely to believe him guilty because of his disability? More likely? Do you think it bears any relevance at all into this case?

Clouds

It's raining here in South East Queensland. Pouring. It rained all of last week while we were up in Caloundra on our holiday and we seemed literally to bring it back with us - the rain chased us home. 

The forecast is for several more days of this - another week, it seems. I've spoken so many times about just how I love the rain. The romantic, soft rain that brings back the memory of a beautiful, magical moment. 

I've talked about cleansing rain that seemed to come just when I needed it. Rain that inspired me to write, to read poetry, to be connected to that part of me that loves words..

This doesn't seem to be that kind of rain. It's the kind of rain that wants to turn umbrellas in on themselves. Or at least, a wind that renders them nearly useless anyway. It is incessantly dark, heavy and oppressive. Or at least, my mood is.

I have noticed in the past 2 weeks that the tides are shifting. Where a couple of weeks ago I was floating - exercising, taking care of myself, dressing up and feeling happy; now I am not. A week of enforced missed exercise and then food poisoning didn't help. Perhaps not having seen the sun in more than a week is too. Is this what people mean when they talk about Seasonal Moods? This gloomy, anxious depression.

I feel desperately lonely. With just one or two exceptions, I feel almost estranged even from my online friends. And as a dear friend pointed out, I really need to start getting out again, connecting with other people. 

I walk around the school every morning and the ghosts of them are everywhere. A flash of platinum blonde, a tan - there she is! My heart skips a moment, it's P! Of course, it's not. 
I walk behind someone who must be C. It's not, it never is. Oh, how I wish it were.
This school is almost identical to the last, classroom layout, canteen, uniform shop, Admin - they are all where they used to be. My mind plays tricks with my heart and I smile - my girls! Of course it's not. They aren't my girls anymore. This isn't my school anymore. Those aren't my friends anymore. 

I'm lonely. It's hard to admit. I have a good friend or three online. Women that mean so much to me. That I wish so much I lived closer to. But there's nobody here. Nobody who smiles when they see me. No more hugs every day. Nobody to lean on, or who wants to lean on me. I'm not her anymore. Maybe I never will be again.

I don't know how to try again. I don't know how to reach out. My confidence is shot. My trust even worse. For the amazing high I felt for a year and a half, the low has lasted longer. The missing them has now lasted longer than having them. How can I do that again? Best to stay detached. 

But I know that's not good for me. I have to find a way to change my situation. But how?

For now..

Admit it

I've seen news stories just about everywhere over the past couple of days, about the confirmation that the remains found in England back in September are indeed the remains of Richard III, who was killed {rather horribly} more than 600 years ago. 

Word has it that his remains were discovered underneath a car park in Leicester, England in early September 2012. Scientists were fortunate enough to be able to access DNA of one of the last descendants of Richard III and were, by all accounts, rather lucky to do so, as the line was soon to die out. Perhaps a few years from now, this confirmation would not have been possible.

Anyway. The important part. My point.... Does he look familiar to you? Possibly not in situ, but the model that has been made?

No? Still not seeing it?  Let me help you a little...

Come on - you can see Lord Farquaad now, can't you? 

Wobb-a-lies on {Not really} Wordless Wednesday

We purchased a coupon to take the boys to Alma Park Zoo a few months ago. It expired on Saturday and of course, it wasn't until Saturday that we got around to using it. We had been saving it to use in the last weekend before school went back here in Queensland, but that was the week the Big Wet decided to get in on the Brisbane-floods-every-January-now act {3 in a row now? Really?!}. 

Then the zoo was closed down for a week as they recovered from the damage {no animals were harmed in the making of that Big Wet. But the park was trashed - trees and palm fronds galore were strewn throughout. It took them a full week to clean it up}.

Anyway, they opened up on the last day possible to use that voucher. Thank Goodness. I hate wasting money - it may have been a ridiculously good deal {It cost us $38 for the family. It would normally cost $105 to get in}. 

Samuel was really struggling at first. He wasn't familiar with the Zoo, and that was difficult with him. He struggled with the smells, the sounds - spent a lot of the day asking us to go home. Or to the cafe. I hated that cafe by 10am - he would not shut up about it. He'd seen a truck in there that he wanted and that was it. He was fixated. 

But - despite that we managed to have a lovely time together - even Sammy. He fed Kangaroos and "Wobb-a-lies", emus and deer. He held an alligator and patted a boa constrictor. He spoke to the spider monkeys and wanted desperately to be in the cage with them {"so when the peoples comes in to feed us we can ec-scape out of there"}. 

I've not been to Alma Park since I was Alexander's age. We used to go reasonably often {as a child, we lived on the same road}. I'm glad we went, though I can't wait to take the boys to see some more exotic animals at Australia Zoo also.

Linking up to Trish's Wordless Wednesday.