Today I went back to Body Psychotherapy, and fell once more into the sea . It was tough, and now, I’ve hardly written a word of my book – my ‘real’ work. My brain is numb and exhausted, my head sick and stuffed full of concrete. I feel like crying or throwing up, maybe both. Maybe nothing. Writing to unlock, to discover, to be who I am. To focus and breath. To show up on the page and exist in this moment. Here.
Today I acknowledged all that I have done and the way I have come. I saw it, and yet at the same time spotted that the summit is still up ahead. I saw it through the mist and fog and thought perhaps I’d reached it, but I know it’s not quite there yet. I see now there’s another rock face to climb, one more stone slab to scale, but the top’s in sight. I’m not sure how to articulate it but at least I see it now. The climb infront of me awes and terrifies me.
When I was growing up I used to surf. Well, I used to try! I wasn’t very determined, I didn’t much enjoy the cold or getting beaten over the head with my board, falling onto rocks in shallows, spun and held down by churning water. I didn’t enjoy the too-cool-for-school older kids who acted like they’d been born on a surf board; bleached-branded-teenagers who treated the waves as if they were their private property, which I was not worthy enough to enter.
Despite that, what I do remember, of those rare minutes, when I caught a wave, stood, felt the ocean beneath me and looked ahead of me, is the feeling of being totally in the moment, of achievement, of pride, of simply being part of the world, in the sea and happy to be alive! A feeling of sheer joy – followed up usually with a slap of freezing-english-sea reality, as I crashed undignified off the wave, face-first demonstrating my superb sand-eating skills! That moment, that feeling of being consumed by the moment, and absorbing all of the world, is, I think, what I’m still seeking. I’m still holding something that’s stopping me getting it. Something I’ve put up walls around and buried so deep I don’t even know what it is. Something hidden deep amongst my chronic pain, epilepsy and PTSD, something that I have yet to name. Yet to eyeball. Something that still burns with fury.
I didn’t continue surfing; blaming time, location but mostly lacking in courage. But I never lost my love of the sea, and still today the beach is where I go to calm my mind when all about me seems to flame and burn. After all these romantic thoughts about ‘chasing-the-moment-maaan’ I thought perhaps I’d like to get back into surfing – well as ‘in’ it as I ever was! So this afternoon I geekily tried out a little surf-warm-up at home……… and now words fail me… what I discovered was; my arms are currently so weak I can hardly push myself up, my legs shake when I jump up (pop). And my body’s breathless and sick after just three attempts! Am I really that unfit?! Potentially. Or is this TMS whispering ‘unfit-loser,unfit-loser,unfit-loser,unfit-loser,’ into my ears? Either way, I know this much, being fit is something I crave. Getting back out in the waves, is my new target. Something realistic, achievable, that I’ve done before and can do again.
Thoughts on ‘Disability’
You say; You have to take these drugs or else
I say; Or else what? I’ll hurt myself? Others too? Surely it’s my body, my choice? No?
You say; I thought you were ‘better’?
I say; Better than what?
But you don’t look sick.
and you don’t look stupid.
But you’re disabled
No I’m human.
But you’re not normal.
but neither are you.
But you can’t drive a car
I could, of course I could.
Oh yes, my sister’s-lovers-boyfriend’s-dog’s-budgie had that
…a four letter word to you!
You say; Well get better soon.
I say; There is nothing to ‘get better’. I am human, You think I’m broken and fucked up but I am great, I am perfect. I am just like you. I am how I am meant to be. I am wife, sister, daughter, friend. I am writer, cooker, painter and decorator, I have scars inside me that you can’t see. I bet you have some too. Rule-makers have labelled my scars and put them on a list. I’m not sure why, perhaps they’re scared. People are scared of what they can’t see. But you don’t need to worry my scars don’t need labels, they are just there and they help make me, me.