the last two weeks have been particularly brutal.
I’ve had to employ all the survival mental health strategies I ever learned to pull myself out of this miasma of self-flagellation and regret. Questioning every decision I ever made.
Wondering how all those life choices led me here. There’s nothing enlightening about these internal battles, they’re hard to describe and most likely boring to read. So I will skip over that part.
Suffice it to say that my demons are alive & biting. I will vanquish them, at least temporarily.
Spinning, twirling, whirling. I may look like a Dervish, but I’m clutching at straws. What I would give for a respite from this madness. Untethered, unmoored, a derivé that lasted decades. (*See : situationists). Although there are moments of joy. Fleeting, flashing, grasping as they fly past me.
Bundanoon newsagent magazine selection. All the mindfulness, self-care & ageing well money can buy.
The desire to be deeply embedded in place. To find solid ground beneath my feet. Not just as a meditation practice, but in lived ongoing reality.
It’s truly exhausting. Trying to keep the spark alive. We’re going to talk about masking, soon.
All the drive that has gone into keeping that smile girmly in place. Firmly/grimly portmanteau Freudian finger slip. Unmasking is fun. In a burn your bridges, whooops I didn’t need that in my life anyway kind of way. Parsing what is real takes time, when the mask goes so deep, you don’t even know it’s there. Learning who you are late in life.
“it’s only too late if you don’t start now“…
Being forced to stop and take stock by the limitations of the body & intimations of mortality.
Writing this from a long slow day in bed, gazing at the misty drizzle of Southern Highlands summer. Found myself a respite care package and en route to start “Healing your life” with Petrea King.
I will report back as life unfolds.
and for now, we drift, we float, we remain adrift….