Grief, Guilt and Despair

I try to be positive about life. I really do. But death just keeps getting in the way. Two mornings ago, at about 7am, a lovely little fledgling blackbird flew into the kitchen as soon as I opened the door. She and her father have been coming to feed from the bird table every day so I assume she was waiting and eager for her breakfast. I opened the window for her to escape and watched her fly into the undergrowth, presumably to wait for her dad to come and get her. She was born in the garden hedge and must have felt quite safe in her own territory.

Knowing she was at ground level I went out with the dogs to make sure they didn't go near her, then I herded them back to the house. All three were at my feet when I got to the back door but by the time I got into the kitchen, only one had followed me in. I rushed back out but I was too late. Dad was looking for her and knew I had to leave her still warm little body for him to find. He soon did. His tail was flicking with distress.

Two days later and I am still filled with grief and guilt. I knew what the dogs were capable of but I took my concentration off them before it was totally safe.

That's the grief and guilt bit. Now for the despair.

Yesterday I read about a girl who had been abducted when she was 11 and held for 18 years in a compound in her abductors back yard, all with the cooperation of his wife. I wonder how many girls and women are at this very moment being held in captivity in the so-called civilised West (let alone legitimately in the rest of the world). How many have already been murdered when their captors lost interest? When they have another in their sights? I am reminded of the book THE COLLECTOR written in the 60s. Life imitates art. Did John Fowles get the idea from a real event or did he put an idea into the ether, the collective Mind, to spread like a virus?

It gets worse. An 8 year old boy asked a stranger for directions. Two days later police found his feet in a freezer and other body parts in a suitcase. The poor little guy was just four blocks away from his parents who were waiting for him. Just how many truly evil people are there in the world? I try to think better of human beings. I try to believe in the goodness of humanity. I would have liked to have thought that that little boy could have asked 100,000 strangers who would have got him safety to his parents. But he only asked one. Poor, poor little love. As beautiful and as fragile and as utterly vulnerable as that little blackbird.

But I used the word "evil". Why is that stranger any more "evil" than my Rosie? She was as happy as happy can be when she trotted round that corner with a dead bird in her mouth. Her tail was wagging, her eyes were bright and her whole body emanated pride and joy. She knows no guilt. Pure fulfilled instinct. Why, when a human being fulfils that animal instinct do we call it "evil"? If we are just another animal then to kill the vulnerable is natural.

Some individuals have another element to them - empathy, which leads to compassion. The majority don't have it. While their instincts are held in check by sociey just as a trained dog holds its instincts in check, unleashed by its master and given the signal they will torture, mutilate and kill with alacrity. Governments don't like empathy. Empathetic people don't wage war. Corporations don't like empathy. Empathetic people don't exploit. Can empathy be taught? Is it even desirable? Is empathy a sign of an evolved being or is it an aberration, a mutation that cannot survive? If empathy IS desirable, and it CAN be learned, it won't be through slasher films and the like. And if empathy can be taught, then so too can its opposite. We are whatever we let into our minds, both individually and collectively.

Self-hatred and Virtual Makeovers

Felt absolutely rubbish about myself after the glamour of the Royal Wedding on Friday.  It has been referred to as a fairy tale so many times – the commoner marries the prince and lives happily ever after- but it left me feeling depressed that I was never good enough to be a Cinderella/Kate Middleton. Even worse, I felt ugly. I felt so inadequate that I googled “I hate myself” and found this article by Liz Jones. I wasn’t the only woman who found many aspects of it familiar.

It makes me really sad to find so many women filled with self-hatred. It also amazes me that, in so many cases, no-one else can tell. It is not that we present a facade to the world. We are what we present ourselves as being, as well as being deeply, silently unhappy.

I wonder how many men have this dank well at their core. Do as many men find life hard, a constant struggle to appear “normal”? I suspect not. They do not have the pressures of appearance to contend with (in addition to the running of the home which women still do, no matter what men may claim about doing their equal share).

For the good of our species let alone others, we must evolve beyond being driven by our reproductive hormones. We must use our intelligence to understand our own personal as well as communal interests. Look what we currently do to prepare our female children for her only role in life...

And when you are redundant (heaven forbid that you didn’t have children at all) ....

you are left to get on as best you can, alone. No wonder one in four middle-aged women suffer from depression or anxiety.

For the sake of millions of women we must stop thinking that the child-bearing years are the only ones of worth in a woman’s lifetime. It is selfish and narrow-minded to do otherwise, neither of which do anything for the survival of the planet, let alone the happiness of the entire world population (but especially the female half). We are worth it, even without the flowing, glossy locks.

I am not saying we should give up playing with makeup and hair and clothes and shoes and handbags. For some of us it’s too much fun. It’s the age attitudes that get to me. Age should be entirely irrelevant. We have to become age-blind, especially to ourselves, and we have to refuse to kowtow to what other people think we should be "at your age". I think we’d be much healthier too. I know two women in their 90s who are both still living in their own homes, still walking and doing their own shopping. Both said that they do not think about their age. How many times do we hear that now we are a certain age we must be checked regularly for this or that? We even get our prescriptions for free when we turn 60 because we are expected to need them (and, just as fearful, to not be able to afford them). We are expected to be ill and decrepit when we are older, a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Law of Attraction.

I am in two minds about plastic surgery. While I think we should accept everyone as they naturally are, and that everyone has inherent and equal value exactly as they are, if I had a spare £60,000 I might just spend it the way Cindy Jackson has...

Cindy is the same age as me and looks fabulous. It will be interesting to see if she can keep it going. On the other hand look what happened to Michael Jackson...

Anyway, going back to this morning and hating myself, I decided to give myself a virtual makeover with a new hairstyle and colour, both easily achievable.  I also tried different colours of makeup but ended up with the colours I already use. It was great fun and very encouraging. I would post a before and after shot but I came out in a cold sweat at the thought of being recognised. I need my anonymity so that I can speak honestly and also so that I don't hurt others.

My final thought is: We need to give up trying to be perfect – it’s such an impossible task anyway. “Time waits for no woman.” Just look at Brigitte Bardot at 73...

This is life. Life is change. Change is good.

 

The Royal Wedding

Prince William and Kate Middleton

take their vows

Prince William of Wales & Princess William of Wales

exit Westminster Abbey

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge

The Earl and Countess of Strathearn

Baron and Baroness Carrickfergus

I haven’t felt the slightest interest in the nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Their lives are so far removed from my own that we could be on different planets, at least that’s what I felt. But this morning I thought that, since the nation has been given a holiday in honour of it, I would at least watch the actual ceremony at 11am if nothing else. I would like to say that I was moved, and it is true that there were two occasions when my eyes did fill with tears but neither of them were for the bride and groom. The first was sadness that Princess Diana was not there to see her adored eldest son married. The second was singing “God Save the Queen” which I even stood up for, alone in the sitting-room. It was very unexpected.

When I was a child, the National Anthem was always played in the cinema before any film. My mother would not allow us to stand up for it. She had nothing against Royalty as such (she was very sure of her own royal roots) but she was against idol worship. New Zealanders at that time were very proud of their British connections so we got a lot of stick from any adults around us. Actually it was extremely embarrassing so I always stood up and sang if my mother wasn’t with me.

So why did I cry for the National Anthem today? I think it was from a sense of loss – loss of that sense of connection, of being so small yet a part of something so big, it engulfed the whole world. When I was growing up in the farthest reaches of the colonies, England was everything. It was the centre of the Universe and the Queen ruled it all. Now there is so much unwarranted vitriol against the British Monarchy. I may not be able to relate to them but I see the hard work that they do for the country. And they do it unceasingly and without fanfare, not like “here today gone tomorrow” celebrities. OK, they have a lot of people taking care of all the mundane aspects of their lives – what wealthy person doesn’t ?- but they are far from idle as so many of their critics will have it. Most will grudgingly exonerate the Queen herself who still works tirelessly at 86 years of age. Her working day still starts 9am when she goes over the day’s correspondence and arduous schedule with her private secretary. During the day she will receive ambassadors, visit hospitals, preside over inaugurations, confer honours and awards, attend lunches and dinners with a wide variety of people and attend to other social duties. Once a week she gives an audience to the Prime Minister to discuss affairs of state. She is still awake after midnight poring over confidential government papers. She always does her homework and knows exactly what the issues are.  The Queen is in a position to speak with foreign Heads of State on a level that no elected Prime Minister or President could possibly match, and she does so, behind the scenes, beyond the reach of the media. She has an incredible sense of duty which I would bet the anti-monarchists do not share, or very few self-serving politicians either. When you think that the Group Chief Executive of the RBS had a salary of over £4m plus nearly £3m a year in bonuses, plus he will get nearly £600k pa after he reaches retirement age, something that the Queen can never do, I don’t think anyone could fairly disagree that she deserves every penny she gets which is surprisingly little, virtually covering expenses. I hate it when I hear people denigrate her work when they imply that her worth lies solely in her tourist attraction. All the Royals, apart from the Queen and Prince Phillip, have to earn their income just like the rest of us.

So, I cried for the loss of the Empire and I cried for the Queen, in appreciation of her and for shame that we allow the ignorant to shout out against her while her more informed supporters are only allowed to whisper. I cried for fear of the future of the British Monarchy when she is gone and the loss of a nation forever.

                                . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What is there to be critical of in HRH the Duchess of Cambridge? She is every inch the princess. But if she truly does not want the media frenzy every time she pokes her face out the door, she should put on at least two stone and wear her hair in a bun. Wearing glasses would be even better still. I can guarantee they’ll very soon lose interest. Otherwise she’ll have to wait until she is middle-aged provided she foregoes a facelift.

Days Lost to ME/CFS

I have lost quite a few days due to this horrible condition. Life slips away. I couldn’t shower for more than 48 hours or even brush my teeth. Extremely unpleasant. I am not a lazy person. I will try to explain it what it’s like . . . Have you ever been so exhausted that you could have slept on your feet?  I have heard of people doing that when force-marched. Or do you remember how weak you felt, how all your muscles and joints ached when you last had the flu, and how your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool? That’s how I have felt.  And what did I do to cause such exhaustion and pain? On Monday morning I took Rosie for a walk and it was such a beautiful day, I wanted to record it.

Anyway, two days later I had recharged my energy enough to shower, wash my hair and brush my teeth. It felt so good to be clean, it’s worth going a few days without a shower just to feel that genuine appreciation! After a rest I even managed to pluck the hairs out of my chin (another of Age’s little jokes).

We have watched three films since my last entry:

           

Atonement (very moving)

            Apocalypto (very disturbing) &

            Going Postal (very funny)

I also read AGNES GREY by Anne Brontë. I’m too tired to review anything at the moment.

Easter

Easter

Woke up naturally at 8:15. Straight up and showered then back to bed for toast & marmalade, paid for shoes & top on eBay, read Femail (Mail online womens section) and played Solitaire. You will have realised by now that Solitaire is an addiction. I don’t even like it. I don’t know why I waste so many hours playing it. It may be that, whenever I win, I get a sense of that personal power and success I lack in my life. If only I could feel it in more productive ways.

10:33 Brushed teeth and dressed in grey jeans, black & grey striped l/s t-shirt & black Converse basketball boots to tidy and do laundry. At 1:30 J___ made me a cheese & bacon sandwich which I ate while we watched an episode of “Shaun the Sheep”.

While tidying I tried to think of it as like playing a game of Solitaire, aiming for that sense of satisfaction in “winning”. It didn’t take long though, for the fatigue to send me collapsing back into bed after only a very small amount of housework.  I had to consciously fight the sense of failure. Played Solitaire for ¾ hour while lying down. ^[1] Would have been far better to have used that time stretching my brain constructively, by reading or becoming fluent in, say, French.  But my brain struggles too.

Slept for two hours then read “The Accidental Tourist” until J___ called me for dinner.  Ate it downstairs while watching “Poirot” then watched the last episode of “Waking the Dead”. I watch a lot more TV than I used to although even that is fatiguing.

I found this particular entertainment disturbing. I get caught up in “Waking the Dead” but when its over and I analyse what I have watched, I am much more horrified at the filmmakers and at myself than the contents of the programme. The last ever episode of this series was about a serial killer who had a chamber where he tortured dozens of young boys for months before murdering them. It bothers me that someone imagines such horrors, writes about them, people act them out and we watch them to entertain ourselves for an hour or two. It doesn’t matter how often we say, “It’s only a film”, we are training our brains not to react to torture and murder. “Waking the Dead” became more and more horrific as time went on. The storylines and the visual images had to “evolve” to keep us entertained. By the end of the series a single murder committed on the spur of the moment is so commonplace as to be boring hence a 9 year old child who has been so abused, he burns other children with cigarettes and pokes peoples’ eyes out, and the episode mentioned above.  If studies haven’t already proved that exposure to TV violence desensitises us and increases our toleration and acceptance of it then “Waking the Dead” must do so.

I am not in favour of censorship. I am in favour of freedom of choice, freedom to exercise our personal power. In this case it would mean acknowledging the appeal of watching what we know to be vicious and violent events, realising that becoming blasé about them is not conducive to a gestalt of happiness so choosing not to watch them.

I think we are continuously evolving, not just physically. At present I observe four levels of “spiritual” evolutionary co-existence:

[1]      Those who revel in performing violence

[2]      Those who revel in observing violence but who are sufficiently aware of its societal consequences to inhibit themselves from performing it (until Authority gives them license to validly unleash their pleasure in it through capital punishment or war^[2] )

[3]      Those who acknowledge their fascination with watching

violence, who may be aware of their own power to perform violence, but who consciously choose not to participate in it in any form because they cannot logically justify it

[4]      Those who find violence in any form repugnant

At level 2, working on 3, I am obviously not a highly evolved being.

Today is Easter Sunday. I have enormous respect for Christianity and its many great-minded and great-hearted followers (none whatsoever for fundamentalists, Christian or otherwise). And while I think that Jesus said all that needs to be said in the most intelligent way possible, I’m sad to say that Easter means nothing to me.  Sad because I cannot know how good it must feel to be able to face the worst disappointments and miseries with a solid belief that you are loved, never abandoned and everything will turn out for the best, even if you won’t understand  why it is so interminably wretched until after your soul departs this “mortal coil”.  In my dealings with religion, I have seen oppressors, repressors and egomaniacs take something beautiful and twist it into ugliness for their own selfish gain.  This is general primitive, unevolved human nature which one would expect in the Power Halls of politics but it is peculiarly out of place in the religious arena, albeit dishearteningly commonplace. “By their fruits you shall know them” indeed.

Anyway, back to Easter, the child of paganism disguised with the new mask given it by the Christian Church. Worship of the goddess Ēostre or the semi-god Attis or the Son of God Jesus . . . all of these seem equally primitive to me. I can see a case for celebrating the vernal equinox,  sans sacrifice,  human or otherwise, as long as we are fully conscious of what we are celebrating and appreciating . . . the departure of long, cold,  dark, miserable Winter and the arrival of warm, light, joyful Spring.  That does not necessitate dancing naked around Castlerigg Stone Circle or encouraging our children to stuff themselves with hare or egg-shaped chocolates until they are sick (a literally poisonous state of affairs that makes both them and the manufacturers fat). As for Wiccans and their celebration of Beltane next Sunday, all I would say is, “Have fun and don’t take yourselves too seriously.” At least they take human responsibility for the care of planet Earth seriously.

[1]         The second main cause of death in ME/CFS sufferers (suicide being the first) is heart attack. Research has shown that the mitochondria which supply energy to the cells, fail in ME/CFS. The heart muscle therefore cannot work properly so cardiac output is low. When lying down CO is acceptable but standing, the sufferer is in borderline heart and organ failure.

[2]         Some societies include public beatings as valid occasions for unleashing the pleasure in observing violence. I think TV programmes like Waking the Dead are modern versions of the amphitheatres of Ancient Rome.

The Beginning

Its 10:30 and I am still in bed. My first thought on waking was, “I want to die.” For one reason or another, very few of my 19974  days have begun with any other thought.


I don’t think I really want to die (although there have been times in my life that I have really wanted to). Actually, I would like to live before I die. It just feels like nothing delightful will ever happen again in my life. Logically I know that as long as I am here there is potential for excitement and for fulfilment.  It’s just that my life has been so unceasingly difficult and joyless for so long, years, that I am hanging onto hope by a thread.


I am inspired to begin this blog after coming across one this morning by “Evil Barbie”.  She is a 46 year old, lovely, blonde, clever, highly creative actress . . . She writes about the daily events in her life and shares her thoughts on the things that are important to her. I like the way she includes the mundane parts of her day – the cleaning, the clothing she wears that day, the TV she watches - amongst the more sensational. Evil Barbie is fascinating and completely the opposite of me.


Of course, Evil Barbie’s life is nothing like “ordinary” but here’s the thing . . . No-one’s life is ordinary. Just different. Totally, amazingly, uniquely different. Everyone’s life is fascinating. Everyone’s everyday life should be documented. What an awesome, wonderful kaleidoscope LIFE is when we view all of our individual lives together. We owe it to each other to blog.^[1] We also owe it to ourselves. I like the idea that when I am dead, my thoughts, through this blog, will be in the ether forever. A not entirely unmarked life. ^[2]  I also hope that it will make me accountable, pushing me to do what I can finally to achieve a fulfilling and happy life, instead of going under. Staying in bed playing Solitaire won’t cut it.


I think we need a lot more of the mundane realities. We all know that the media have a vested interest in bombarding us with selective images of the lives of celebrities (this is what you should be), even those showing them looking the worse for wear or on their own because their latest relationship has broken down (this young rich skinny model with her phenomenally expensive designer handbag is just like you). Adverts show us supposedly ordinary people in their immaculate show homes. We then feel dissatisfied, depressed even, because we don’t look like that (and for a number of reasons, never could). Our lives aren’t active and exciting. Our homes are chaotic. Our family’s at war (or non-existent). Our job’s a bore (if we have one, that is). I think we need to know that that is what life, real life, is like for everyone, regardless of the symmetry of their face and body, or their wealth or fame . . . long periods of banality interspersed with brief moments of  adventure, ages of uncertainty interspersed with flashes of clarity, instances of hilarity interspersed with aeons of dread.


I think there is potential for happiness in the mundane. I used to enjoy doing housework. It gave me a great sense of satisfaction. But now I am incapable of doing it. Besides, J___ thinks he does everything better than me and he hates anything that’s systematic or organised, particularly my system and my organisation.  No sooner do I tidy than he messes it up again. I wouldn’t like to accuse him of doing it consciously but if it isn’t, it must be subconscious which is almost as bad. J___ needs to be dominant but he is also genuinely uncomfortable with tidiness. I am, on the other hand, a perfectionist, or at least I was until my body gave up on me. ^[3] Untidiness makes me uncomfortable but because I am beholden to J___ (not to mention wary of his easily ignited rage), I feel I have to accept his preferences mutely.  But it’s a conscious inner battle for me to feel that this is my home. 


I have, as usual, been surfing the Net and playing Solitaire since waking at 6:30ish. Very apt. I am emotionally solitary despite being married.


J___ made me toast & marmalade for breakfast and a ham & tomato sandwich for lunch. He brought them up for me to eat in bed. He also brought me copious mugs of tea. I am very grateful to him for constantly feeding me and for never complaining about it. But don’t be deceived, thinking he has a hard time in having to care for me. I get what I’m given and he gets to be in control which is his heart’s desire. (I suspect that “Home is a Battlefield” will be a running thread through this blog.)


15:30 Spent the time since last session typing my About Me sections (plus a few games of Solitaire and checking out my favourite blog which I’ll elaborate on in a future entry). Decided that it was too late to shower so just had a good wash instead, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair and tied it in a ponytail. You may think these too trivial to mention but every day I do any one is an accomplishment for me. I have gone three days at times without even being able to get out of bed let alone wash or brush my teeth. ME/CFS is crap.  Anxiety and depression are crap.


17:30 Dressed in dark grey jeans and white t-shirt, had afternoon tea (cake & biscuits), held a couple of bits of wood for J___ while he nailed them to other bits of wood then prepared dinner (sausage casserole (packet sauce), mashed potato, frozen peas & corn & Aunt Bessie’s Yorkshire Puddings)^[4]. I was knackered afterwards but that is a real achievement for me.  Watched an Agatha Christie “Miss Marple” episode while eating dinner on a tray (spilt sauce down my clean t-shirt as usual) then played a few rounds of Solitaire and perused clothes and shoes on ebay before watching the penultimate “Waking the Dead”.



[1] I am reminded of Nella Last, the wartime housewife who began her diaries for the Mass Observation Archive. Her observations and life were so interesting that ITV made them into a Bafta winning drama. I like the fact that she was from Barrow, home of my great great grandparents and quite close to my own village.

[2] Everyone dislikes a boaster, a “show off”, those who “blow their own trumpet”. Self-important people should be “brought down a peg or two” so my instinct is to be self-deprecatory, to say that my life is a complete bore in which no one could possibly be interested and that my opinions are ignorant and not worth reading. Although that may be true (and one should be leery of self-fulfilling prophecies or, as it’s more popularly referred to now, the Law of Attraction), my equality as a human being is the authority for this blog and the fact of my creature hood its justification.

[3] There is a connection between childhood abuse, perfectionism and ME/CFS. A child abuse victim (emotional, physical or sexual) feels powerless in addition to shame and fear. As adults some try to feel in control and to compensate for their lack of self-worth by doing everything “right” and by striving for a flawless life in which they are highly respected. Abuse triggers the brain’s “Flight or Fight” (or Freeze) Response, mostly via the Sympathetic Nervous System and the Endocrine System. In nature any danger is usually over fairly quickly but for abused children the high levels of anxiety are continual and without solution. The brain becomes hard-wired to experience unrelenting anxiety, even after the initial source of it has departed. The “Flight or Fight” mechanism now cannot switch off and since no one and nothing can be perfect, the feelings of fear, powerlessness and shame do not abate. In fact their validity is affirmed as stress is added to stress (very often a result of subconsciously-motivated choices) in an ever-increasing cycle. Eventually all the overloaded and overworked organs and systems of the body break down.

[4] Carbs & obesity/diet and depression etc. – subjects for another day.