I am surrounded by chaos daily, often of my own creation. Certainly, in the last six months, all the contention in my life has come from me, self-creating it. That’s really not an optimal situation, when all is said and done. How, therefore, do I find a place to be myself, be true to what that actually means, without falling off the World whenever summat goes wrong?
That’s the question that’s been stalking me for decades. I realise, once the menopause stopped hormones from effectively dictating my mood once a month, that calm was possible. It became entirely feasible to spend long periods without a single depressed or angry thought. I did, for some time, sail happily through my life, until it was apparent that lots of other emotions had also… well, vanished.
Then my past decided it was time for an intervention.
Coming out of the other side of this, as is undoubtedly the case, is a little like the inner ear disorientation I get occasionally when water gets trapped in them or hay fever is particularly vicious. It’s obvious everything isn’t quite level, but it’s manageable. Only when something else comes along that eats up too much brain space does the whole thing have the propensity to collapse upon me.
That’s where I realise writing fiction filled an important hole in my subconscious, for probably two decades, without me ever grasping how important living ‘somewhere else’ had become in terms of equilibrium. It is also, and undoubtedly, the reason why escaping to places where I could better control the path of destiny became first a joy, and then a terror. All the bits fit into place. It’s slightly surreal knowing what you’ve done had a bigger point you never really grasped until… well, right now.
That means, like it or not, rediscovering myself in a way that is eerily similar to the period of my later teens and early twenties. Today’s revelation about regret comes on the back of a decent night’s sleep, and sore legs, because pushing through exercise right now is providing an incentive for so much else. I want to be fit, need to be capable of the fight that lies ahead, because it is.
I’m not surviving in a world of fear and anger if those emotions already destroy what little confidence I have already. It won’t be possible to be robust and effective as a partner and parent without finding the means to be objective over the longer term. These things will dictate the effectiveness of everything I do. Regret, therefore, has to be accepted, and lived with. It’s not ever something that mattered, until now.
Before I just pretended all the bad stuff never happened.
So, here I am. Once ‘work’ is done for the day I’ll be re-writing vanity fiction, having had a massive revelation last night over how the plot of this particular tale needs to progress. I’m genuinely looking forward to the task, if truth be told. There’s other stuff as well, but that’s for me to know and not talk about because, hey, you don’t need to know everything.
All that matters right now is enough to move this whole thing forward.