Music to my mind is a most puissant form of magic, and has the power to invoke such strong memories and emotions, that tune that always reminds you of your first love, or the song that could be your own biography, and all those happy reminders of your past.
When Liz first played Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Valse Lente for me, she did so in the hopes that I’d like it enough to start learning it myself. I did, I really loved it, instantly, it spoke sweetly and dearly to me. It spoke to me of childhood memories; merry-go-rounds, music boxes and the Italian commedia dell’arte and its comedic and tragic characters, the Pierrot doll I had as a young girl, and still have to this day. And I played it for my son, and to him it spoke of a fantasy computer game he used to play. Ah, the generations! Music speaks differently to people.
This beautiful piece however soon became a reminder of great loss, the last piece Liz and I worked on together. I stopped playing it and listening to it after her sudden death two years ago. I always knew that when I eventually returned to it, I would have gained at least some acceptance of what is a great loss for me.
I made a promise to you Liz, that I would keep working it, a promise I intended keeping. I’m back working on it now, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to talk to you about it. See I still forget at times, that you’ve gone, and I cry when I’m on my own, and oh I still see you walking down the street. However I also think of you often with joy and happy memories and thankfully there’s more of these than tears these days. And I think happy thoughts of a beautiful Valse Lente again.
For you my dear, dear Liz, for all the wonderful memories I have because of you, of music and books, the love of which we shared, lovely evenings with wine and chats, of laughter and silliness and an eternal friendship that will never fade. I love you. I miss you.
Cheers and shine brightly.
Introversion and extroversion became part of Carl Jung’s typology, a theory of psychological types defined by three dichotomies in ‘The Collected Works of C. G. Jung’ published in 1921, his works were extrapolated and expanded to include a fourth dichotomy and this became the basis of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, a psychometric questionnaire for understanding human behaviour. The purpose of this test is to make Jung’s typology understandable and usable in helping people develop constructive and positive changes in their lives by coming to an understanding of their strengths and weaknesses.
There are many definitions for introvert and several will have you believe that an introvert is a shy, reticent person, and while some introverts are shy, this is a misconception. It is important to remember that introversion isn’t a personality flaw but a character trait, and is not the same as social phobia. The main difference between introverts and extroverts is the source of their energy, extroverts thrive on social interaction and external factors, whereas the introvert thrives on solitude, creative pursuits and introspection. All humans fall somewhere on the introvert/extrovert scale, we all have a propensity to lean one way or the other, however no one will be 100% either way, as Jung put it, “there is no such thing as a pure extrovert or a pure introvert; such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.”
However the modern world and society is geared toward the extrovert and yet it is estimated that the worldwide figures for introverts is 1/3 to 1/2 of the population. We tend to think of extroverts as the movers, shakers and reformers. But look again, many great achievers are introverts, think Barack Obama, J. K. Rowling, Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Mahatma Gandhi, Rosa Parks, Steve Wozniak, Steven Spielberg and Abraham Lincoln, to name a few. And while these famous introverts have done great things, it’s in a world skewed toward the extroverts strengths.
The world is a noisy place, and society today, embraces gregarious, chatty personalities, the brainstormers, the quick problem solvers, and overconfidence. Introverts are often seen as socially awkward, ruminating and dull, whereas the extrovert is sociable, friendly and outgoing, so right from the get go, the extrovert sounds more appealing. But would it surprise you to know that there are many extroverts that are shy and many introverts who love to socialize. While the gifts of extroverts seem to be obvious, introverts are excellent at the details, learning through observation, creative and solitary pursuits, and are considered to be thoughtful, self aware and empathetic.
Many of our writers, musicians, scientists, therapists, actors, computer/IT designers, and according to Buzzfeed professional Netflix binge watchers tend to be introverts. However introverts can be found in every profession, in boardrooms, offices, courtrooms, in fact anywhere, where minds meet and ideas are exchanged, introverts have much to give. With the extroverts confidence, enthusiasm and momentum, and the introverts attention to detail and creative thinking, just imagine what could be achieved.
The secret to my own personal contentment is self awareness and today I am a self confessed introvert, but for many years I forced myself to be other than what I truly was, in the belief that there was something wrong with me. I tried to be Superwoman, to be all things to all people, the ‘yes’ woman, committee member, volunteer extraordinaire and the life and soul of the party, in my efforts to fulfill my desire to be wanted and needed, but in the end I was left mentally exhausted, unhappy and unwell. When I stopped resenting and ignoring my introvertive nature, I found a wonderful inner peace. Today I still belong to committees, but they’re the groups where my gifts, talents and knowledge are recognized, valued and appreciated. I still attend parties and social events but carefully selected ones, and I love going out for dinner and movies and spending time with those I love, and some of those are incredibly wonderful inspiring extroverts. But when I feel the need to retreat, I now embrace it, enjoy it and nurture it, it energizes me and then I’m ready for my next great adventure.
Cystic Fibrosis is a genetic condition that affects approx. 1 in 25,000 newborns. Although technically a rare disease, cystic fibrosis is ranked as one of the most widespread life-threatening genetic diseases. Cystic fibrosis (CF) is a chronic illness that affects the digestive and respiratory tracts resulting in generalized malnutrition and chronic respiratory infections, there is currently no cure for CF however early diagnosis, better treatments and significant research has improved both the quality of life and the life expectancy.
However 18 years ago I knew none of this and was blissfully awaiting the birth of my fourth child. At the beginning of February, my beautiful little boy made a speedy and timely entrance into the world. Like all parents’ I spent the days following his birth, gazing at my wonderful little boy, falling in love with him and imagining a long, healthy and happy life filled with wonderful adventures and experiences. Although he was a little small, I breast fed him as I had done with other children and he thrived, and at his six month check up he had gained 10 pounds.
He was my perfect blonde, blue eyed boy, he slept well, ate well, rarely cried and when he was awake, he smiled and cooed at everyone, but at 7 months old, all that changed. He was hungry all the time, so I introduced solids, which seemed to help for a little while, but he became fretful and unwell, my GP was a great support to me at this time and we agreed it was probably an allergy, so I tried other foods which again only worked for a short time. I did some reading at this time, and what kept cropping up was allergies, coeliac disease and cystic fibrosis. But I pushed cystic fibrosis to the back of my mind. That couldn’t happen to my family, it just couldn’t. I delayed returning to my GP because I was by this time terrified and I was also very unwell myself, with repeated attacks of painful mastitis, as a result of his sporadic feeding. I kept hoping that something would click into place and everything would be well again. Eventually though I had no choice, he was losing weight and something had to be done.
He was admitted to hospital immediately, and tests were done as an emergency, including a sweat test, and I awaited the results. As the time passed by, I became a little more reassured, surely if it were something serious I would have heard by now. Shortly before 5pm though, a group of people started collecting outside our door, and my body went cold, I started shaking and this voice inside me was screaming ‘go away’ over and over. My little man had cystic fibrosis. My first thoughts were you’ve made a mistake, you must repeat the test, and that I was going to outlive my child. But they were in no doubt, the sweat test had showed a significant level of chloride. Everyone was very kind and supportive, but I was in shock and had started grieving for the life my child should have had. I was raised a Catholic but hadn’t practiced or prayed in a long time, but that night after Fin had fallen asleep I went to the hospital chapel and cried.
What I remember most though about that time, was the young couple across the hall from us. Their 2 year old son had been brought in to hospital to die. I’d never before or since seen that much pain, terror or desperation etched into someones face, or sheer physical exhaustion in their bodies. Shortly after the doctors and nurses had left our room, there was a gentle knock on the door and she came in and sat down and said in a very quiet voice, “I’m not going to pry, but I know you’ve just had bad news and I thought you might need company”. In the final hours of their sons life, she was there to support me, and that to me was humanity at it’s finest. In the days and months that followed, when I started feeling sorry for myself, I thought of her and it gave me great strength. Their little boy passed away that night and they slipped quietly out the hospital and I never saw her again, but I have often thought of her and her kindness and gentle strength.
Over the following days, we started meeting the CF team, Phsyio’s, Dietitians, Cathy the CF nurse and Dr. Brendan Watson our consultant, more tests were done, medication started and relevant information was given, to enable us to have better understanding of what was happening. Cathy was amazing, with her wonderful and kind nature and she reminded us that it was important to always keep hope alive and to keep a sense of humour. Dr. Watson, who sadly passed away 6 months ago, was equally inspiring, and always referred to the parents as his Mummy’s and Daddy’s. A wonderful pioneer in the treatment of CF in children and kind and compassionate man.
My son responded rapidly and well to treatment and we’ve been blessed that he hasn’t had many chest infections, in fact his first serious infection which required long term IV antibiotics only occurred when he was 14, he’s had a few since then, but the treatment is excellent and he has had no permanent damage to his lungs. He is a very healthy 17 year old with cystic fibrosis. We’re a long way from the death sentence I imagined all those years ago. Treatment for CF has improved greatly over the last 20-30 years and CF patients are living longer and healthier lives as a result. Granted our days revolve around his medication and physiotherapy, but that is a small price to pay. Fin’s understanding of his condition isn’t great, he also has Aspergers, which can complicate matters, and we’ve had to gradually give him more information as he has been ready to comprehend and understand it, but as time as passed, he has started taking more responsibility for his treatment and physiotherapy. We are very hopeful for his future.
We moved to adult department at the beginning of last year, a change that was more of a struggle for me, than for him. Foe me, it was like the final stage and despite everything going well, it was the slippery slope, but we’ve been reunited with Cathy, who moved to the adult department a number of years ago and that was great. Our very first visit, I explained to Cathy how I was feeling. She understood and reassured me with facts, they have people in their 60’s and 70’s in the clinic and with the advancement of treatment, they are for the first time having to treat people with cystic fibrosis for age related disease.
While Fin’s health has been great and we are one of the lucky ones, and there are many more like us, it hasn’t all been plain sailing. I’ve gone through great emotional turmoil, as a parent, I’ve played the blame game, I’ve sobbed and screamed and I’ve grieved for all those hopes and dreams, especially in the early days, but it does get better and all those feelings lessen and you just get on with it. It may not be the life you dreamed of for him, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be a great life. And we’ve had some wonderful experiences and met some wonderful people along the journey. And we’ve also had experiences which we can laugh at now, such as the time we arrived at the clinic at 8 in the morning, to utter the immortal phrase “The cat pulled the iv out”, I’m quite sure they’d never heard that one before or since. You don’t think that’s funny, well maybe you had to be there. All in all, I’m a better person for my experience, I’ve learnt what’s important, of how strong I can be and of how important and precious every minute of every day is.
So why am I writing this, my son is shortly turning 18, a wonderful milestone and I wanted to explore my own personal journey. But more importantly, I’d wished that I’d had someone who understood what was happening for me, someone to talk too. The team were brilliant and answered any questions or concerns I had but it wasn’t the same. I wished that there was someone there to tell me, things will get better, that everything you’re feeling is normal, and that I know what you’re going through. Another parent. It’s okay to cry, it’s okay to grieve, it’s normal to blame yourself, but ultimately in the end, it’s not your fault. I still cry, I’m crying today but that’s okay too, because sometimes waves of grief and sadness just come out of the blue and you just have to go with it. Keep hoping, laughing and smiling, it will take you far.
So have you ever experienced something you can’t explain. Oh I know, a lot of you will probably be thinking, oh no, she’s finally lost it. Granted I’ve never tried to make sense of my experiences, but they are my experiences and they are very real to me.
So how did I come to think of all this again, well one thing led to another, as it does, and here we are. I’ve been laid up in bed the last three days with the dreaded lurgy, alright probably a virus, but should be right as rain for tomorrow, Monday, typical. I got to watching documentaries on Tudor history and one ‘Tudor from Above’ transported me back to the late 1980’s and the wonderful village of Lavenham in Suffolk England. Lavenham is noted for it’s wonderful 15th century church and medieval and tudor cottages. To stand in the High Street and gaze at the houses snuggled neatly together but tilting in all different directions, backwards, forwards and sideways as they have settled over time, was a wonder to behold. The cars whizzing by, an anachronism to a backdrop of times gone by. I fell in love with that village and it’s history and wonderful character filled buildings.
This of course then led me to recall Elm Hill in Norwich, a cobbled street lined with more medieval and tudor houses, nearby the great Norwich Cathedral. By the way cobbles look wonderful but they’re murder on the feet and in high heels deadly,and after many months of walking on them, they no longer hold any romance for me….
And on to the first house I lived in when I returned to this part of the world.
I shared this house with my aunt, three cousins and my sister. My aunt owned a gift shop which was on the ground floor, and this was my first job on arrival. The house had been a tavern in it’s early days, and was a wonderful house with lots of nooks and crannies, crooked walls, tilted floors and narrow stairways everywhere. Five storeys including the cellar and attic and it was haunted, purportedly like a number of other houses on Elm Hill, but my story doesn’t begin here.
My aunt is unique, it would be safe to say, a witch, dreamy and flighty, and quite frankly a little nuts, but I wouldn’t say that to her face, who knows she might actually be able to turn me into a frog, but she could also be very kind and affectionate. One of the first things she said to me after all the hugs and kisses was, “Do you remember the grey lady”. I didn’t, but I’d grown up hearing the story.
I was born in London and lived there until the age of 5 when I moved to Australia. When I was 2 we moved into police flats in Grove Park, my father having just joined the London Police Force. The flats were relatively modern having been built on the site of an old house that had been torn down. We grew up listening to many of my fathers stories of his time as a London Bobby. His regular and friendly meetings with Harry Secombe of The Goons, who nicknamed him Blue, a name that stayed with him during his time as a policeman, and of whom he was a great fan and the actor John Mills, as well as encounters with the infamous Kray twins and a very young and lets just say, under the weather Mick Jagger. It was at this time that my father received the Queen’s commendation for bravery, he’d attempted to save two men from an overturned burning newspaper van by going in several times to pull them from the vehicle, but was sadly unsuccessful. However it left him with severe burns to his hands and face and damage to the eyes which left him severely shortsighted for the rest of his life. He was rightly proud of his silver laurel leaves, but to my young mind, leaves should not be silver and I attempted to rectify this with the aid of a green felt tip pen. While my parents were able to remove the green from the laurel leaves, there is still evidence of my mischief on the velvet lining of the box they are kept in.
But the story that fired my imagination was of the grey lady. There was a glass wall divide between the hall and the sitting room, of the flat, where I would go and sit, head raised and smiling and babbling away toward the corner of the hall, for long stretches of time. When asked what I was doing, my only reply over and over was “the grey lady is smiling”. My parents were of course unnerved, but it became such a regular occurrence, and they never felt overly frightened by it, that it just became Gill’s friend, her grey lady. While my parents took it in their stride, my uncle was so frightened and upset by experience and witnessing my babbling conversations, that he ended his one and only stay early and abruptly and refused to ever visit the flat again. When I saw him again twenty years later and asked him about it, he refused point blank to discuss it with me. So it went down in infamy as one of my extended families collective stories and events.
I don’t myself remember this episode, but I have experienced similarly unexplainable events since that time. As I go through life, I realize there is so much mystery out there, an infinite expanse of mind, energy and universe and sometimes you don’t need an explanation or a reason why, it just is.
When I was working in the gift shop in Elm Hill, during a quiet afternoon, with my friend and colleague Denise, I experienced something, that although time softens and blurs the memory, still sits strongly with me. I took a step back and bumped into someone, that is all I can describe it as, the clumsy meeting of two bodies, I apologized as I turned around to be met with no one. I have no idea what happened, but I will swear till the day I die that it happened. Of course Denise was overjoyed as was my aunt on hearing the news, but then she always seemed to have an affinity for things spooky. Most of our day trips were to very old and eerie places including Blickling Hall in Norfolk, the reputed birth place of Anne Boleyn and is said to be badly haunted. There is a picture emerging here, I think my aunt looked on me as her own personal ghost hunter. Yes, no, maybe. But more upsetting was a feeling of great unease in the attic bedroom I shared with my sister, which I felt in no other room of that wonderful house.
To my own home, which I would like to state is a very happy and warm house, and yet I’ve experienced many things over the years. Running footsteps in the back garden at night, mirrors that shake on the wall, a kitchen door that frequently opens on its own to a glass on my bedroom dresser that started shaking then fell to the floor and smashed. But there is a place in the house that don’t hang around near and have felt myself being watched more than once. But the closest I came to being frightened was the little blond boy who appeared in the back sitting room as I was bedding down the fire late one night. Although the child was smiling and in many ways reminded me of my youngest, and who out of the corner of my eye, it first appeared to be, it was gone in the blink of an eye, and this experience chilled me to the bone. Of course I checked all the kids rooms and all were sound asleep, fortunately, I’ve only experienced that once. Several members of my family have experienced some of these events, so I’m certain I’m not imagining all of this.
I don’t know what happens after death, but I do believe our energy, spirit or soul, call it what you like, continues long after our corporeal existence ceases, so it is within the bounds of possibility that we can still communicate on some level with those that have passed. I have two very strong reasons for believing this to be that case. Some 25 years ago, shortly after I’d moved into my home, I was alone one night and woke to very powerful and vivid thoughts of my grandmother. I lay awake thinking of her for some time and vowed to write the letter I’d promised her the next day. I woke several times more that night and again those same vivid thoughts. I woke the next morning to the news that she had passed away during the night. I believe with every fibre of my being that she was with me that night. And to my father, shortly after he’d passed away in 2000, I was outside talking to him, when suddenly I heard his laugh. He had a wonderful infectious laugh, and it was like he was sitting next to me. I know some would say it was a memory of his laugh but the timing was perfect, I’d just been telling him a funny story of something that had happened that day, then this wonderful laugh. Call it what you like, but for me it was the first time since he’d died, that I felt he hadn’t gone from me forever.
Perhaps this is all down to a fantastic imagination, and perhaps even believing, allows us to make sense of our loved ones passing, it gives us a sense of acceptance. But I do wonder why some experience these things, while others do not. Like I said, I’ve never really tried to make sense of it, it just is, and that’s good enough for me.
“I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks…….”~William Shakespeare.
I had my last therapy session today, and I have mixed feelings. A little sadness for an ending, very few of us embrace change easily, but I am certain that though my journey in your safe and inspiring presence has ended, I will continue to grow in my own loving care. My journey hasn’t ended, it is transitioning to a new phase and as my life moves forward, I meet many other transitions and I think I’m going to be just fine.
I’m thankful for the space, the tools and awareness and the ability to transcend beyond that awareness to a place of contentment and strength and growth. I’m thankful for your humour, your wisdom and for pushing me just a little bit further than I thought I could stand. For the safety and trust you inspired, when I was at my lowest and stripped raw. I’m thankful for all the wonderful prose that brought tears to my eyes, not from sadness but from resonance. And finally I’m thankful, for your teaching me, that I’m not alone. That there is safety in numbers and there is always somewhere to turn.
I’ve learnt that forgiveness for me is not about accepting and condoning someone else’s actions or words, but in no longer giving them power over me. That my greatest demons weren’t my past, but myself, all that pain, shame, guilt, grief and anger turned in on me, till all I could see was a worthless, loveless, hateful tortured soul. Unworthy of any love or happiness. A mask of acceptance to the world, yet inside a seething mass of self hatred. I’m free from that today and if I ever feel myself turning in again, I have my toolbox, mindfulness, meditation, self hypnosis and breathing. Concentrate on the breathing and mind follows till I can centre myself again and move on. That which ails and troubles us, is not from without, but within and only we can make those changes. It’s not our past or events or people that bring us to our knees, but how we process and internalize and turn that against ourselves. External factors are not our enemy, but our mind can be, and it’s vital we make peace with her.
My last words to you, John was that you’ve given me back my freedom, something I haven’t had since my childhood. The freedom to take risks, the freedom to say no, the freedom to not have to make apologies for my choices and finally the freedom to get to know and love the me that is, still slightly broken but oh so lovable and so worthy of everything life will offer and no longer seeking the need for approval or acceptance.
Happiness today for me is the simple pleasures in life, mesmerizing stargazing; playing the piano; making time for relaxation; gazing at a beautiful scene or image; beautiful flowers; wonderful memories, and looking to the past only as it makes us happy and reconnecting and touching base with my dear friends.
Thank you John, for helping me to make this all my reality.
And now I think it is time for a song dedication, I know just the right thing, how about a little James Blunt. Yes!! No, ok I can hear the moans and groans from here. So that won’t do. Well then how about that infectious and boppy Pharrell Williams song, Happy. It seems appropriate and it’s playing away in the background as I write this. Farewell for now. So how about that certificate now.
I grew up surrounded by books, my parents were avid readers and encouraged us all to read widely. When I was twelve, my parents purchased a set of encyclopaedias. I still recall vividly the visit by the sales rep with a few demonstration books, as we poured over the pages with such enthusiasm and anticipation. An anticipation of a world opening up to us, and those encyclopaedias were still in the bookcase, where they’d always been when I left home for the last time. Although I always remember reading, especially lazy afternoons, lying in the garden, my overwhelming passion for reading was ignited at 14, when I read for the first time ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. No other school curriculum book, or for that matter any other book I’d read prior to that, had that same hold as this gorgeous book. For the first time in my memory, I could see the book coming alive for me in pictures, in my mind. And that has been my guide to this day.
I’ve now a home and family of my own and like my childhood, books are everywhere. There have only ever been two rules regarding books, don’t scribble on them and don’t damage them in any way. They’re grown up now and I no longer have to remind them. I’m guessing like most people I have my favourites, genres and authors, and I tend to return to them over and over. However joining and belonging to a book club has opened me up to new and exciting authors and books. I have one personal rule, if a book doesn’t grab me, I won’t finish it. My time is too precious and passion for reading is too important to waste on a book, I find unworthy. The greatest of books, take me on a journey, to a new place and time. They’ve been my life line many, many times and have lifted me for the darkest hours and the darkest times in my life. I owe them everything and to me there is a sacredness in reading, a very personal journey and great privilege in being able to read. There was a time when reading only belonged to an elite few, and I wonder at how small their world and lives must have been.
Right now I’m re-reading for umpteenth time Pride and Prejudice, and before you all start saying, ‘oh she loves her romances’. The only thing Jane Austen went dewy eyed and gaga over was real estate, Pemberley and to a lesser extent Rosings. Any marriages that take place are swiftly pushed off the page to make way for Austen’s social satire, wicked wit and the glorious grotesques that grace the pages of this wonderful book. Lady Catherine de Bourgh (of the piano “If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”) one of her more unassuming proclamations, Mr. Collins, the loquacious and laughable parson. But then I can laugh, because I don’t have to live with him, if I did have to live with him I think I would probably have punctured my own ear drums. The delightful Mr. & Mrs. Bennett, solo or in tandem and to a lesser extent the hapless and bitchy Caroline Bingley.
There are however two proposals which get more time than one or two sentences, the painful and cringe worthy fumblings and mumblings of Mr. Collins trying to woo Elizabeth Bennett and the first attempt at a proposal by Mr. Darcy….
(Cue romantic background Baroque/Classical music)
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
………..He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness then of pride. His sense of her inferiority – of its being a degradation – of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, …………… (music skids to a halt)
Yikes….you haven’t done this much, have you Mr. Darcy.
And just for good measure, he adds.
“……….Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They are natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
If you want to know where the pride in Pride and Prejudice comes from, he was shocked and stunned when she says no.
Jane Austen wasn’t a romantic, she was by all accounts a practical, acid tongued and occasionally coarse woman. I think I like her. Marriage for her was a contract, one of very few options for a gentlewoman of little means. And this is very evident in her writing, Pride and Prejudice is a comedy of manners and Austen is at her greatest when she’s holding up a magnifying glass to the arrogance, vanity, stupidity and pride of many of the great characters in this wonderful and delicious book.
I tend to use my kindle a lot these days, apart from the obvious advantage of being able to store 1000’s of books in one place, it’s less likely than a mighty tome, to leave me concussed when I fall asleep reading at night. However I often return to books, there is something magical about the act of turning a page in a book, a physical and emotional response and interaction, and an empathy with the characters and story that I don’t get in using a kindle. There is a progression and immersion in books, that make you believe you’re living the story, that’s missing with an e-reader. My kindle is a moment in time, disconnected and static.
E-readers do have a purpose but I don’t believe they will ever replace the book. And thank god for that, I say.
I’ve been going back over my old posts recently, two reasons primarily, the first to reevaluate my own personal journey. The second to explore how I’ve developed as a writer. So today I’d like to revisit an old post and explore it further in light of my recent experiences, my own story rather than my growth as a writer.
I do like what I wrote back then, it spoke to me at that time, of how I wanted my life to be and I recall a feeling of being uplifted on completing it, but did writing it make any difference, the short answer is no, not then, not for a long while. We think if we say something often enough it becomes real. If only it were that simple, the reality though is that, we are what we believe we are and back then I still had to hit rock bottom before I could start believing in a better, happier, worthwhile me. Why are some people perfectionists, in a nut shell, we have low self esteem, we strive to prove our worth, to ourselves and to others by reaching for unattainable perfection. In believing in our low self worth we anxiously strive to prove ourselves, there is no in between, we’re black or white, all or nothing and success or failure. Low self esteem patterns of behaviour are extensive, but for me I’ve always listened to and analysed the words or statements of others. That was my trigger, my pattern of destruction, and believing myself to found wanting fed this cycle of perfectionism/procrastination. Words hurt, nuances and tones crush.
Harking back to an old mantra of our childhood and the schoolyard.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
If only we’d learnt to believe that, all those years ago. But words have the power to be the most inspiring or the most destructive force on earth. And the careless words of a thoughtless person, became the catalyst to all that came after for me. Do I blame her, not entirely, not even mostly, if my own worth had been strong, those words could never have held that much power, but we all need to take responsibility for what we say and the consequences that unfold. So were those words, derogatory, offensive or damning. No they were fairly innocuous in themselves, but to me, with low self esteem and reeling from having just lost my job and security, they were overwhelmingly devastating and undermined everything I had worked hard for. Those words only lost their potency in recent months, when I came to a powerful realization, so powerful that with the tears and release, went so much negative energy. That was the moment when everything started clearing for me, when I accepted and let go. In letting go of those words, everything else started falling away. The need for approval, the need for constant company, the need to always say yes and the need to be perfect, all gone.
My inner demon is quiet now, I hardly ever hear from her, and if she does make an appearance she gets ever so quickly gagged and pushed to the back of my mind. So how then too is the perfectionist in me fairing, I honestly don’t know, I haven’t been in contact with her for awhile. That feels so good to say.
I’ve completed my Advanced Diploma now, although it very nearly became another casualty, what kept me going, the support and friendship of the three very wonderful women that I met through my studies, without them I would have pulled out, without a doubt. The final part of my advanced diploma, a thesis on the practical application of hypnosis and hypnotherapy, was completed in April this year, was it perfect, no but I was happy with it. And the best part of all of this was when I stopped worrying about how good it was, it freed me up to do a paper that my teacher thought worthy of publishing on his website. Yeah I’m never doing that perfectionist rubbish again.
In letting go, I’ve also started taking more risks, and no longer living a life of ‘what ifs’, I’m ready to start working again, and to start seeing clients. And best of all, I’ve grabbed hold of nerves and doubts and reconnected with an old friend. To my memory, the sweetest and kindest boy I’ve ever known and it’s been great getting to know him all over again. I could never have done all this two years ago.