Category Archives: Divorce

How to be a grey rock

31 Wednesday Jan 2024

Posted by in Divorce, Domestic abuse, mental health, Motherhood

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It involves considerably less paper mache and craft supplies than you might think!

Grey Rock is a technique that people who have been in abusive relationships can use to deal with someone they still have to communicate with – for instance an ex they’re co-parenting with, or a close family member like a parent they’re trying to set boundaries with. It also works with difficult work colleagues.

It’s about being practical, boring, and unreactive – like a rock – so you stop feeding your abuser with emotion and reaction.

It is also very much easier said than done…

So here’s some top tips from women who visit this page, to help you put the Grey Rock theory into practice.

1. Write where possible

It’s much harder to consider and control your reactions and emotions face-to-face. If you are split up from an ex-partner for instance, or estranged from a parent, it’s highly likely you don’t communicate that well. It’s up to you to break the cycle and re-set your interactions, and the time and space written communication can give you to do so is key.

There is the added advantage, of course, that your interactions are recorded. This can stop an abuser from gaslighting you by making claims about what you said or didn’t say, agreed to or not.

It is also evidence, if you need it, for legal proceedings.

2. Think about the outcome you want

In every single interaction, it’s important to always have the end in mind. What is the outcome you want, and how can you best achieve it – or get as close to it as possible?

Don’t feel the need to rebut every point they make – it is a skill to mentally sift through the rubbish and find the nuggets you actually have to or want to respond to.

Take a step back, consider what you REALLY want to get out of every conversation.

3. Use single subject emails/texts

Don’t stuff an email or text with paragraphs and paragraphs of every little thing that needs to be decided. Pick one battle at a time. Keep it short.

4. Use short sentences

Imagine you’re talking to a stranger from space – or sending a telegram you pay for by word. You have to keep it really clear, really simple and break it down into easily understandable and actionable points. (Actual bullet points are probably going to annoy them, but THINK in bullet points).

If you go over 3 sentences, you’ve probably written too much.

5. Don’t rise to the bait

Don’t get bogged down, side-tracked, or distracted by other topics, accusations, grievances, or recriminations. Your abuser’s correspondence will inevitably be peppered with all of them.

I know you’re angry. I know you want to shout at them about how AWFUL they are, how that’s not what happened, how they’re wrong, how they can’t control you anymore – but you will only make things worse, mostly for yourself.

For so many people who have been abused, part of the problem is that you could never win the argument. You were always the one that was stupid, and over-emotional, and misunderstanding, and getting it wrong. Now you’re finally free some of you wants to fight back. I get it. But here’s the reality: YOU WON’T WIN. I’m so sorry. They’ve had more practice. They know your buttons. They ARE your trigger. And it is not going to get you the result you actually want…

The only way to proceed is to CHANGE the argument, by not attending it. Don’t rise to the bait.

The truth is this. When you rise up, when you show your strength, all they will want to do is push you down harder – back into your place. That’s not going to get you what you want or need from them.

6. Save your emotion for the right people

Obviously you have to vent. Because they are a WANKFOFFLENOODLE. But do it to your friends, not your abuser. Laugh at them together. Share the absurd responses. Cry and scream and shriek at how they still talk down to you. But only show your abuser the Grey Rock.

They don’t get your emotion anymore.

They are not worth the energy, or worthy of the honour.

7. Cut the chat, but be civil

With that in mind, forget everything you know about interacting with normal people.

Don’t ask how they are. Cut the preamble. You are not there to make friends all over again with this person. But neither are you there to make them more of an enemy… Be civil, but impersonal. Be clear about what you want/need. But do not wander into the thought process behind it, or how you feel about it, or why you think it’s a good idea.

Don’t let them IN. Channel Queen Lizzie – be aloof, unattainable; never complain; never explain.

8. Pacify, but don’t pander

It’s best to treat your abuser as a bomb that’s about to go off, or as an extremely extremely tired toddler, which we all know are much of a muchness. Don’t make any sudden moves that might startle them, or confront them too directly. Give options. Make it easy for them to ‘win’.

If you don’t, they will just come out swinging at you – and back you’ll go round the circle again.

That’s not to say you should roll over to their every demand. Those days are OVER, darling. You don’t have to go back there. But setting up the back of someone you are obliged to keep in your life is foolishness – and you are no longer anyone’s fool. Be reasonable. Be fair. Be gone.

9. Walk away

With that in mind, don’t continue a conversation that has become unfruitful. If you are going round in those never-ending circles, just step away. And don’t be tempted back into response once you’ve done so. Here’s some phrases to help:

I don’t think we’re getting anywhere, so let’s leave it for now.

I’m disappointed you feel that way.

I don’t agree. Let’s leave things as they are.

No.

10. Just say no

Oh, that’s the hardest one isn’t it? But you can just say no to your abuser, you know.

I know you’re used to making excuses, and trying to please them. I know at least 80% of you secretly still thinks they’re right and you’re wrong, because that’s how they’ve trained you. I know you’re afraid deep down. Even though there’s that rebellious bit that wants to fight now, you’re afraid of them. Even though they may never have laid a finger on you, you’re afraid of them.

But you can just say no. Honest. And it can be empowering:

No, that doesn’t work for me.

No, not this week.

No I can’t do that.

No, we’ll leave things as they are.

11. Don’t panic

It is in the abuser’s manual to make threats when they don’t get what they want – including the reaction they are used to from YOU.

When you say no, they will threaten you with court, with safeguarding concerns, with parental alienation accusations, with telling everyone what you’ve done and setting them against you, with phoning your workplace, etc etc.

Hell, they may even follow through.

Don’t panic. This is all quite standard.

Remember, just because they’ve said it, doesn’t make it happen, and doesn’t make it TRUE.

You don’t have to believe them, anymore. And other people won’t either. They can see through them from the outside far more quickly than you did, trapped on the inside.

12. Set correspondence boundaries

One of the best ways to Grey Rock is to stop being so responsive, literally.

They do not get to bully you by appearing constantly in your life – pinging in your pocket several times a day. Set rules. They are not allowed to contact you at a weekend unless it’s an emergency. They can only email on a certain address (set up a new one just for them), or call on a certain number (get a burner phone).

And then enforce the rules! Turn off the phone. Don’t look at the email address on your ‘rest’ days.

This will be hard. You are still in fight or flight and you want to know what they’re going to hit you with next – but stepping away is VITAL to help you re-charge the Grey Rock.

Be disciplined, with them but mostly with yourself.

13. Sleep on it

Except in the most simple of circumstances, never EVER respond to any correspondence with your abuser straight off the bat. This is for two key reasons. First, it trains them that you are no longer at their beck and call. Second, it gives you a chance to check your Grey Rock is grey enough and rocky enough.

It’s HARD to take emotion out of an emotional situation. Write your response, but then sleep on it. Read it again with fresh eyes before you send it.

I’ll bet money you change it for the better after a kip.

14. Find a Grey Rock buddy

Even better than sleeping on it is getting someone ELSE to read it before you send it!

You just can’t see clearly when you’re so embroiled in something. Find someone not directly involved who can check your message for clarity, reasonability, length and focus.

Tell them about Grey Rock.

In fact, tell everyone.

xxxx

Post separation abuse

08 Tuesday Mar 2022

Posted by in Divorce, Love and sex, mental health

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I’m not particularly interested in Kim Kardashian. But I am interested in post separation abuse.

Post separation abuse is coercive control or emotional abuse that continues after a break-up. And that’s what’s happening in a very public way to Kim.

It will be familiar to a lot of people who’ve been through it, because it is depressingly common.

One of the many complex answers to the facile question ‘Why didn’t they just leave?’ is post separation abuse.

Because far from getting away from the abusive situation, leaving actually puts you at more risk of abuse.

In the worst cases we all read about, post separation abuse kills women. Sometimes it kills children, too.

In less dramatic, or at least less fatal, cases, post separation abuse still causes immeasurable harm.

[I am going to put the usual caveat in here that it has been statistically proven many times over that women are more likely to be the victims of domestic abuse, coercive control, and post separation abuse than men. This is not to say men cannot be victims, and women cannot be perpetrators. They absolutely can].

WHAT DOES POST SEPARATION ABUSE LOOK LIKE?

Post separation abuse takes many forms, but there are consistent and recognisable patterns of behavior.

It can be financial. That can mean cutting off access to money, evading child support, closing credit cards or accounts, moving funds, not passing on bills or important financial correspondence/information, or running up debt in your name.

It can be legal – a constant barrage of frightening solicitors letters, dragging you through the court system arguing over every point (especially if you are experiencing financial hardship and can’t afford a solicitor). It is common for perpetrators to claim safe-guarding issues or parental alienation – and to use mediation to intimidate you under the cloak of reasonability.

It can take the form of harassment. That might look like ‘love-boming’, extravagant gestures and gifts, often in public, turning up randomly at your home or work, refusing to give up house keys, letting themselves in, constant direct messages, social media bombardment, or enlisting messengers to get to you. That is often alternated with criticism, online tirades (either angry or sympathy-seeking), and attempts to isolate you, discrediting your reputation, your sanity or your parenting – again often publicly or even directly to the authorities.

It can be intimidation – direct threats, stalking, making sure you know you are watched, that you are monitored, that you will be punished. It could be damaging property, or threatening your children if you don’t do what they want.

It can be through co-parenting – or ‘counter-parenting’ – undermining you and your ability to parent, arguing over every little parenting point – often through the courts. It could be refusing to honour bedtimes, feeding schedules, school hours, clubs or commitments. It could be not giving children back at agreed times, constantly changing or pushing for extra contact time. It could also be taking them to inappropriate places or to see inappropriate people.

It can be directly through children – getting them onside with extravagant gifts or treats, telling them you’re to blame, asking them to report on your movements. It could look like emotionally abusing them, or coercing them. It could also look like physical abuse.

HOW DO I DEAL WITH POST SEPARATION ABUSE?

If you think you could be physical danger, or think your children are in danger, or if you think someone you KNOW is in danger, it is imperative to call the police and report it. Every time something happens. Awareness of coercive control is improving, and they CAN do things to help.

It’s really important to get a solicitor on board to help fight your corner, particularly in cases of legal abuse. If you can’t afford it, you might be eligible for legal aid, and it’s time to turn to places like Refuge, Women’s Aid, and other agencies who can offer you specialist advice and support.

In the meantime, here are 6 things you can do TODAY that might also help.

1. Keep a record

Start a diary of every interaction. I know you’re tired. I know it’s the last thing you want to do. But record it. Dates, times, incidences. Take pictures of abusive messages and save them. Record your conversations. Document, document, document.

Not least because once you see it all together, maybe you’ll finally believe yourself that it’s true, and happening, and you’re not actually mad or misinterpreting it.

2. Talk to authorities

It might not be time to call in the police, but it IS definitely time to talk this through with your GP, and with your kids’ school.

It’s part of keeping an official record of what’s going on, and it’s part of how you can get access to expert support and extra resources.

3. Ditch social media

Social media is a great way to torture you, if only with pictures of how great their life is without you. More ominously, it’s a great way to keep a track of you.

Even if you think you’ve culled every one of the people ‘not on your side’, I promise you some sucker who belives your abuser’s propaganda is still lurking – and has possibly been persuaded to report back on you.

Start over. Go anonymous. Keep your contact lists very, very small. Never post pictures or personal information, especially about your whereabouts. Tell your friends not to tag you.

Consider just using social media apps as a news feed – or to follow your favorite pages or influencers.

4. Get a burner phone and email account

It can be really traumatic to see the name of your abuser constantly popping up on your phone and email – places you can’t escape from. Get a cheap burner phone, and get a new email account that is just for them. Set very clear boundaries about when they can contact you, and ONLY check for messages a couple of times a week.

This will take discipline. You’re going to have to put it on silent and make yourself not look. If they continue to use your other, banned, channels, you may need to get solicitors involved – or the police.

5. Go ‘Grey Rock’

Grey Rock is a method you can use to make yourself a less attractive victim. It means being factual and functional and taking out all emotion and expression from every single interaction you have. Make it so boring to talk to you and so impossible to get a rise out of you that they don’t have ANY of your energy to feed off.

They don’t deserve it.

It’s important to understand that Grey Rock is not about being rude, or curt – it’s about being dull, and pragmatic, and not wasting your words.

6. Cut out the flying monkeys

Flying monkey is the term given to the enablers and entourage of abusers.

Some of them are the people telling (Kan)Ye they’ll ‘get’ Kim’s new boyfriend if he says the word.

Some of them are the people saying, Ahhh, he’s just fighting for his family, look how much he still loves her.

Some of them are the people that think the love-bombing actually has something to DO with love.

Some of them are the people that don’t believe it, or minimise the experience, or believe the lies being told about the victim.

Some of them will be saying, look, it didn’t look that bad to me – they’ve never treated me that way, so it can’t be true.

Some of them are the mutual friends and family who turn a blind eye, justify the behaviour, or justify their own inaction by ‘staying neutral’.

If you have children, you are obliged to have what can hopefully become a working relationship with their other parent.

You are NOT obliged to have a relationship with the people who knew about how they treated you, but didn’t care enough to help you – or the people who were more ready to believe you were a ‘psycho’ than that they were an abuser.

Women in particular place a lot of value on social relationships, and peace-keeping. Setting new boundaries can be very, very hard. Cutting people off may feel dramatic – it even may feel like you’re giving the flying monkeys more ‘evidence’ that you were the unreasonable one in the first place. But who really cares? This is not your circus, and these are very definitely not your monkeys – or your friends.

They do not get to be part of your new life.

HOW DO I HELP SOMEONE GOING THROUGH POST SEPARATION ABUSE?

You can listen, and you can signpost, but one of the most important things to remember if you know someone this is happening to, is that THEY might not know it’s happening to them.

Because before the question ‘Why didn’t they leave?’ comes the far starker question ‘How didn’t they know?’

And the answer is because they’ve been trained not to see it, and not to believe themselves.

One of the best things you can do in this situation is to keep that person’s incident diary on their behalf. Write down everything they tell you, everything you witness.

And maybe, when they’re ready to see it – before or after separation – it will help them believe it, and ultimately deal with it.

The argument

08 Tuesday Mar 2022

Posted by in Divorce, Love and sex

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I recently had my first argument with the Boy Not Quite On The Nether Edge.

And when I say I had my first argument with him, what I mean is that I had it entirely in my own head – without his knowledge.

And when I say I had it entirely in my own head, I mean I actually had it with my ex. Or at least my memories of conflict with him.

God. My life, both personal and professional, would be SO MUCH BETTER if I could successfully handle conflict. Or any sort of difficult conversation.

In this case, instead of saying, ‘My feelings are hurt’ when they were hurt – and sorting things out like a grown-up – I got the wrong end of the stick and ran with it.

I proceeded to wind myself up, make assumptions about intent and responses based on old echoes rather than current facts, find familiar red-flags to obsess over, flash-back to all the powerlessness of the past – and generally dive off the deep end.

When I did finally let The Boy know about this process – of which he’d been blissfully unaware – in written form BECAUSE THAT’S HOW I PROCESS – needless to say he was somewhat surprised.

And immediately apologetic.

And he didn’t say he couldn’t be bothered to read it.

Or respond to my written diatribe point by point to prove me wrong.

Or try and justify himself.

Or call me a psycho.

He just said sorry.

And asked if I was okay.

And no, I’m not.

I’m not okay. And the annoying thing is I thought I was. I thought I was done healing from these wounds. But I went right back to the state I was in when conflict was all at its worst. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t breathe.

That’s the trouble with trauma. It’s never quite finished with you. But this time I’d done it entirely to myself.

Because this isn’t on my old relationship, it’s on me. These are MY mistakes. Because I stopped watching. I stopped watching myself so I didn’t fall back into old unhealthy behaviours and patterns. So they snuck up. I stopped thinking. And learning. And growing. And trying. I… settled. Into numbness, into routine. And I inevitably went back to what I know in my bones.

I’m a natural born conflict avoider, you see. And to be fair to me, I can usually charm difficult people to get what I need out of situations. And I do it by giving up power to them, so they feel comfortable. But sometimes the charm wears off. Sometimes it doesn’t work. And then I struggle to take the power back, and advocate for myself when I need to.

I have lost jobs because of this.

I have lost friends.

Because I’m scared of conflict, the feelings get so big they stick in my throat and I can’t explain them. And that affects my behaviour, and my judgement. And I can fall into an explosion, but more often into retreat – or into victimhood – none of which are great reactions. And then even worse – I can’t hold onto the big feelings when the moment passes. Like they weren’t real – and then I feel stupid, and deflated, and the one at fault – the one to blame. Like the feelings were wrong in the first place and I can’t keep the narrative straight in my head. And then because that makes me feel bad I bury the feelings, and I don’t bring up things that bother me, and I tell myself I’m not stressing the small stuff – but I am – and it’s building up slowly in the background until it’s something worse than it was if I just dealt with it in the moment. And the whole thing starts all over again.

I went back to look at the beginning, and the very first messages the Boy and I sent to each other. We were both rather broken, and we both wanted something different. So we promised to be honest with each other. And I haven’t been. But not so much with him – with me.

I stopped being honest. I stopped being introspective. I stopped being vigilant.

And the thing is, the work to work on me DOESN’T stop. I’m not fixed. I’m not perfect. No one is. But it’s been a reminder to me that I need to check in with myself, and not get bogged down in the daily drudgery of life and forget who I am, where I came from, who I want to be and where I want to go. A reminder to start working on myself again.

I wish this is the sort of stuff they would teach in schools. A mixture of management training and therapy – like how to have difficult conversations.

How to deal with different types of people.

How to give and receive negative feedback.

How to be outcome focussed, how to keep the end in mind, how to work towards a goal.

How to lead people.

How to manage yourself.

How to communicate well.

How to feel your big emotions and acknowledge them, but also how to not act on them in the moment.

How to look for facts, and evidence, and truth – how to make a plan to respond after the feeling.

How to argue well.

How to persuade.

How to manage anxiety.

How not to hold onto resentment.

How to say sorry.

How to be angry.

How to be happy.

How to be sad.

Because these are the skills of people who are successful at life. I really wish I’d learnt them before now, because I’m a pretty old dog – and I’m still getting it wrong A LOT.

But more than anything, I really, really wish I wasn’t in charge of having to try and teach these skills to my children, because they deserve a better teacher.

So to them, and to the Boy, I’m sorry.

And I promise I’m going to remember to keep moving forwards, keep thinking, and keep trying to do, and be, and get, better.

And I will respectfully and healthily fight anyone who gets in my way. Especially me.

xxx

It’ll be scary this Christmas

02 Saturday Jan 2021

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood

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It’ll be scary this Christmas.

For so many people, struggling to make ends meet.

Worried about what fresh hell 2021 is going to bring…

I’m lucky enough not to be scared about having enough food, or heat or presents.

But I am very much afraid about being on my own.

Every year I have offered to share the day with my ex, and he’s said no. He’s said the day itself isn’t that important to him. What he meant was he had other plans…

This year suddenly it IS important to him – and it is undeniably His Turn. And he doesn’t want to share it because all of those presents will be ‘too much for the kids’. Personally I think it would be their idea of heaven, but I am now overruled by the circumstance of recent history I didn’t choose, and the universal law of turns.

And of course, OF COURSE it’s the year I can’t see my family, 3 hours down the motorway and shielding still. I haven’t seen them in nearly a year.

It IS only a day, I know in my head. And I know I’ll see the Smalls the next day, and I know I have to share and he’s their parent too, and that really it’s the best thing all round – but I am still scared to wake up by myself.

I’m scared in my heart.

Because Christmas is a cornerstone of childhood, a cornerstone of memory, a cornerstone of MAGIC – a dying commodity. It IS important. To me. And I am missing it.

I think that’s what I’m most afraid of. Of missing it. And not just Christmas – all of it. It slides away so very quickly, doesn’t it?

My Big Small is 9, and on the final cusp of belief, and I’m so conscious that I don’t have long left. I am more than halfway through my time with her. I have maybe three or four Christmases before she’s lost to monosyllabic teenagehood and a phone screen.

This year has been a huge change, the turn from 8-9, summed up in a Christmas list that falls directly between toys and teen stuff, and includes both Polly Pocket and leopard print jeans. She’s growing up. And I feel slightly panicked by how fast it’s happened, how much I’ve forgotten already, and at the risk of sounding like a white rabbit – how little TIME there is.

And in the time left half of the Christmases won’t even be mine. And then it’ll be gone. This incredible season where magic is real, for children – made so by communal cooperation and parental hard work. This time of year where I can actually feel it, too, where I almost believe in it – just for a moment, through them. And I really, really want magic to be real. This year I NEED it to be real.

I suppose I also feel much the same way about summers. About weekends. That there is only so much childhood left. And I am afraid I have not made the most of it, and that I have not made the right memories, the right choices, the right impact. That I’m not doing any of it right and there are no do-overs. When it comes down to it maybe I am still afraid of who I am when I am not their mother. Who I will be. What there will be left over when they are grown and gone. Whether I’ll still be able to taste magic.

And of course it is another milestone where I suddenly look up and in at THEM being the perfect family I wanted, and worked for, and stayed too long trying to achieve, and finally broke for – and I am shocked it still has the power to hurt me, years down the line – and I am afraid I will never actually get over it. Layers on layers of fear…

I wish things were different, corona-wise, and that I could do what I wanted to do on Christmas Day, which was to spend some time doing something PRACTICAL for people who are afraid for much better reasons than me, volunteering somewhere and taking a much needed lesson in perspective, humility and GRATITUDE. But we are where we are.

Christmas is going to look a bit different for everyone this year. I think it just means we have to work a little bit harder to feel the magic. And to MAKE it. In our own way, on our our own timetables. And sometimes on our own.

xxxx

Ideas for places to donate: Mind Christmas Appeal, Shelter Christmas HopeWomen’s Aid – Gift of HopeFind a Foodbank – The Trussel Trust

Parent like someone is watching

12 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by in Divorce, Humour, Parenting, Uncategorized

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Sometimes I like to parent like someone is watching.

Oh, not in the Instagram-ready, photo-story, Facebook Life way.

I haven’t posted pictures of my kids on my personal FB account for years. (I haven’t been on it for years, to be fair). I don’t even TAKE that many pictures. I stopped in silent protest when I realised my now ex was living a life on FB I didn’t recognise – our life – but he was a person, husband and father in pictures and pithy sentences that I didn’t know – that he couldn’t be in reality.

There’s a lot that’s been said about the social media fakery, the presentation of the perfect life, perfect family, or perfect body. About how disingenuous that is – how dangerous. And about how refreshing an antidote warts-and-all is, the cellulite bikini shot, the tantrum; the exposure of the art of posing and posturing.

But the truth of the matter is that we all repackage what’s happening to us all of the time to make sense of it – to make it more palatable. To ourselves or to others. And the warts-and-all stuff is as much a virtue-repackaging as the perfect picture is.

We all choose how to tell our stories. How to present ourselves. In many ways that’s what this blog is… processing. Repackaging on the way.

And sometimes it’s a good thing.

One of the ways it works for me is by DELIBERATELY repackaging my parenting in the moment – especially in the difficult moment – by the act of PRETENDING someone is watching it. Thinking forward about how I want to report it, to present it. How I want to have behaved. How I want to feel about myself afterwards. How I want my kids to feel about me…

So I pretend that it’s all being recorded, that someone is watching – that it IS going on Facebook – that I will have to watch it back and feel okay about it. I find it helps me keep my cool when the smalls are pressing my EVERY SINGLE DAMN BUTTON.

Someone IS always watching, of course. They are. And I am often conscious of the Small Gaze, what they’re learning, how I might be inadvertently finding new and subtle ways of messing them up, as all parents do. But the Small Gaze isn’t the one that helps me keep my temper. It’s that Imagined Gaze.

Dance like no one is watching – parent like someone is…

Of course sometimes other people ARE watching. The gaze is REAL. And that throws me off my gaze-game because I find I’m also reacting to THEM, to their approval or disapproval.

Like all socially awkward people, I have always been aware of eyes on me, and while it is a good thing on occasion, it mostly trips me up and over myself. Sometimes I perform for gaze; some MORE times I crumble under it…

Sometimes, I wonder who I am when I’m NOT being the person I want people to see, or myself to be. When gaze, real or imaginary, doesn’t define me or shape my actions. Is true authenticity even possible with other people? With myself when I want to like myself? AM I STILL ME IF THERE’S NO ONE IN THE WOODS TO WATCH ME FALL OVER????

This of course is all on my mind because the person who has most recently had the dubious felicity of watching my parenting is Boynotquiteonthenetheredge, who escorted me and the Smalls on holiday to the little village in Devon I’ve been to every year since I was a kid.

This is a person who’s gaze I’m particularly keen to keep admiring, in a place with lots of echoes, spending an unprecedented amount of time in confined, close, rainy quarters with me and my Smalls… and my parenting. And my sister.

I would like to be able to repackage this experience as an unprecedented success, but life is rarely that neat.

Blending different people together, and the different MEs I am under their different gazes, is HARD. And the Smalls are watching too, reacting to the changes, gazing themselves, gauging.

There was some challenging behaviour – mostly from the children and not me, I’m pleased to say. The Boy was sanguine and supportive, which is not the Male Gaze I have been under in the past, and weirded me out in it’s own way. Possibly being under a disapproving gaze for so long has changed me in ways I haven’t noticed until this time, this same place, with different eyes on me… Meanwhile, the Big Small was discombobulated, territorial (‘Do you love BNQOTNE more than you love me?’), and unwilling to share our family, all to a backdrop of the Small Small’s never-ending and entirely self-serving monologue (centered around the enduring paradox of ‘this is the best/worst day of my life’).

There were some lovely moments, and some memorable ones, but a lot of it was sheer hard bloody work – the navigation of expectations, and of gazes.

Since getting back, I have had several long, long naps.

Sometimes the only way to escape from eyes, including my own, is just to shut them.

[TOP TIP for rainy day holidays: bring googly eyes and the hot glue gun].

The cat the boy and the leg

12 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by in Divorce, Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

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It has not been a good week for Catonthenetherege.

It’s not been a good week for Boynotquiteonthenetheredge either, come to that.

These two unfortunates met at the top of the stairs in semi darkness. The former never having lived with the latter’s kind, at least not for a long time, lacks the instincts of cat-owners everywhere – which include a firm grip on the handrail and a slight pause for the thunder of paws, going past in either direction on an errand made suddenly urgent by the presence of a person.

Their meeting was not an auspicious one.

He hurt his knee.

And landed heavily.

On the cat.

Breaking her leg in three places.

Pandemonium – and some very expensive vet bills – ensued.

The children were hysterical, difficult to console, and not terribly happy with The Boy.

Well, Big Small is more philosophical, but Small Small shows distinct signs of harbouring A Grudge. (This is something she does well, and definitely gets from me). [Top tip for blended family interlopers: don’t break the kids’ pet’s leg. You’re welcome].

The poor Boy has clearly not been unaffected either, suffering not only the Small Small’s disapprobation, but also sleepless nights remembering the crunch. He has since admitted he now sees cats in the street several hundred yards away and gets palpitations lest he unwittingly damages them.

The cat herself made a sound I’ve literally never heard an animal make in my life, and hope never to again.

She has, however, since found solace in savaging every veterinary professional trying to help her, and I’ve had several conversations with people asking me whether Catonthenetheredge is usually a ‘challenging’ animal, and requesting my permission to sedate her in the interests of preserving HUMAN life and limb.

Having chosen, with the blessed assistance of insurance, to keep the limb most in question, Catonthenetheredge is now officially BionicCatonthenetheredge, and will likely set metal detectors off in the airport next time she goes on her holidays. Hence the Frankenstein scar.

Not content with this meagre suffering, I myself then proceeded to make a further attempt on her life (thank God she’s got 9) by being functionally innumerate and somewhat overtired, and massively overdosing her on the opiates she was sent home on – my first clue being how unusually compliant she was. It was not a fun wait for the vet to open and check her over…

Poor, poor, poor kitty. (She is fine. Stuck in a cage for 10 weeks for her leg to recover, and not happy about it, but otherwise fine).

The whole thing, all in all, has been something of an Adventure. The sort I could have really done without – and the Boy is not the only one it’s left with palpitations.

The thing about the Anxious, though, is that it turns out we’re actually pretty good in a crisis, you know.

I calmed children. I caught the damaged cat. I soothed the Boy. I got to the emergency vet. I got the insurance sorted.

Having something on which to focus our worry for a while – particularly where there is positive corrective action to take – is far easier and more rewarding than dealing with the generalised and universal worry we normally live with, and which we are powerless to mitigate.

I’ve found that to be true for the whole of the last four months, as well as for this specific domestic disaster.

The whole pandemic, really, has played into my hands. I’m not just anxious, I’m OCD, so I LIKE washing them. I LIKE knowing what mysterious forces are out to get me and mine and how to combat them with face coverings, distance and disinfectant.

The trouble is, of course, that crisis mode can’t last. Once the ‘crisis’ is over, the anxiety is still high, and it throws long shadows. Oh, they might not be reasonable shadows, and you might well know it, but they LOOM.

Right now in the dark mine whisper about the fragility of life, of bodies, of bones, whisper the what ifs, what if it wasn’t just a leg, what if a stupid accident happened to one of the kids, the crunch of THEIR bones in my mind’s ear, and the lack of control over all of it, how we are all just hostages to capricious fortune…

It’s made worse right now of course by the fact the Smalls aren’t even here to squeeze and defy anxiety with reality.

They’re on their first ever 7 day holiday with their Dad, and I feel like I’M the one who has lost a limb…

It physically hurts. And if I can’t keep them safe when they’re here, I sure as hell can’t keep them safe there. So here I am all wound up and dressed up in protective tiger-mum gear, with nowhere to go.

When I have spoken to them, they are obviously having the most wonderful of wonderful times. Which is of course what I want for them… but which also hurts in its own way. All the times I don’t get to see, or be part of. All the times I am not missed. All the times I am irrelevant.

If there’s a silver lining at all, I suppose it’s that at least there’s someone to look after and soak up the surfeit of directionless love. Even if it does scratch me every time I dare reach in to change its litter tray.

I may not be able to squeeze it, but at least I have the scars to prove it is alive, healthy, and reassuringly unhappy.

Catonthenetheredge, you are a mean, rubbish cat, but I love you.

Not least because that wobbly pink swelling I thought was the gross part of your wounds turns out to be your naked tummy, and proves we ARE kindreds, after all.

xxx

The voice in your head

12 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood

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About this time, three years ago, a voice I tried for a long time to block out whispered in the dead of night at the very back of my brain, that this really wasn’t right, and it really, REALLY couldn’t go on much longer.

It was the beginning of the end of my marriage.

I’ve learned in the intervening three years to listen to that voice a lot more.

I think it saved me.

I’ll always remember a story a probation officer friend of mine tells, about a lad she was working with, who finally admitted to her one day that he heard voices in his head. After some probing (the chief job of a probation officer) she worked out he was actually talking about his THOUGHTS.

And when she told him that’s what everyone hears when they think without saying the words aloud, he cried.

Possibly he cried because he wasn’t mad, after all. But I like to think he cried more because she had given him HIM.

You see, the voice in your head is the real you. In all your glory and hideousness and joy and despair and spiralling, kaleidoscopic iterations. It is your conscience, your inner monologue, your instincts, your raw, gut feelings.

YOU.

And when you stop listening to the voice, when you become disconnected, you can get very, very lost.

Sometimes it is trampled down, or quieted, or ignored. The things it’s telling you are too hard to hear so you pretend you don’t. You avoid, and numb, and mask, and redirect. You tell your own story loudly over the top.

Sometimes you are just too busy or too damn tired to listen anymore.

Sometimes it is undermined. You are taught that it cannot be trusted, that it is wrong, and you are wrong, and the voice in your head slowly becomes someone else’s, instead. Overruled. Replaced.

When I started listening to the voice in my head again after a very, very long time, it was like taking off ear defenders in the middle of a concert.

The thoughts I had were new and jagged and disturbing and poured in like an avalanche. My instincts were raw. They were BIG. The feelings I’d ignored or battened down were BIG. My own reality knocked me over and tore me up and I was filled and hollowed out on painful repeat, again and again.

I think the hardest bit was trusting the voice.

I’d lost my confidence. I still believed him over me. I thought all my thoughts and feelings were wrong – but also KNEW they weren’t – and I couldn’t reconcile the gap.

God, there were so many gaps, back then. Between fact and fiction and experience and representation – and I fell hard into every one. I’d lost what was real, what was true. MY truth. I’d lost me.

I didn’t believe me, or believe in me, and I was desperate to BE believed, to be seen.

I spent a long time looking for validation – searching for people to hear my voice, recognise it, confirm it, confirm ME. But no one could ever give me what I needed, could ever believe me enough.

Gradually, slowly, and very much to my surprise, I have grown to trust myself.

I look up now, look back, and I trust my own experience, and my own eyes, and my own evidence, and my own feelings.

My own voice.

I find I have very nearly reached the point where the only person I need to believe me, is me.

I am enough for me.

I have given me, myself.

And just like my friend’s probationer, finding ME has saved me.

Being at peace with the voice in my head, being able to tap into my instincts, being able to TRUST them, is one of the best feelings I have ever known.

In the last three years, I have learned to listen to myself.

I have learned to reflect on myself, and my motivations.

I have learned to be both self critical, and kind.

I have learned to seek truth, and evaluate it.

I have learned to be (mostly) honest with myself, for perhaps the first time in my life.

I have learned to grit my teeth through the big waves and wait – wait to hear the thoughts beneath the feelings.

And I have learned to let the thoughts settle before I act. At least sometimes (okay it’s still a work in progress).

I have learned that when I am truly me, when I listen, I am POWERFUL.

I think women have become very used to not being heard. To not being listened to. To losing our voices in the world – to being told they don’t matter.

It would be nice to think the voice in your head can’t be taken from you – but it’s clearly more complicated than that. Life creeps in and creeps up on you and suddenly you’re disconnected from who thought you were, from your thoughts themselves.

But if you can tune back in to your inside voice, and believe it, that’s when you can use it outside, loud and clear – and BE believed.

That’s when our voices are strong enough, true enough, powerful enough, to be heard.

Being YOU is superpower.

And maybe by tapping into it we can save not just ourselves, but the world.

The Wuwwier

08 Saturday Feb 2020

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood, School

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The Wuwwier.

Ahhh, literacy, my old friend. Here we go again.

It’s safe to say the literacy journey is not an easy one for the Smalls-on-the-netheredge, especially at the start.

This is probably my fault. I didn’t learn to read until I was 7. I still can’t really spell.

My mother swears she sat on the sofa with Roger Red Hat open on her lap, me on one side, the dog on the other – and that the dog learned to read before I did.

(She gave up on trying to teach me how to tell the time, which is why to this day I can only have digital watches. I CAN read an analogical clock, now, but it takes several minutes, a lot of counting round in 5s, and I’d never bet on someone’s life I’d got the right answer).

It is now the smallest Small’s turn to struggle with her reading, writing, and spelling – and something is just not CLICKING.

It’s my second time round in the Mum-role of the literacy-rodeo. I’m sure it WILL click, in time, possibly with a bit of extra help from school, just as it did with the Big Small (sort of – there’s still some interesting flipped characters and spellings are a struggle) and me (sort of – I doubt I’d be employable without word processing and spellcheck).

But it IS something of a worry, which is why I was particularly delighted to get my very first note from her this week.

OK, it’s not perfect. Mummy is spelt entirely with Ws instead of Ms, which is an understandable mistake, and frankly, a rather alarmingly accurate one.

It made me laugh. Because I am a WUWWY.

I am a Mummy who worries… Sometimes a lot.

I AM worried that she can’t hold a pencil properly and can’t seem to recall the shapes of letters or process phonic sounds, and what does that mean, and is it just a starting blip or is it going to be a bigger problem, and what can I do to help, and should I back off when she gets frustrated, and how DO you actually make getting things wrong FUN?

I worry about her cough, every time she coughs, and how bad is it this time, and when to go to the Dr, and how many antibiotics she’s having, and about the operation she has to have, and the general anaesthetic and how she didn’t go out well last time, and how awful that was to watch, and what will they find this time, and will she be okay, and what if it’s serious?

I worry about how much the Big Small worries, also inherited from me, and ranging from what’s going to happen at school today to failing the spelling test, to who said what about whom in girlville, where she’ll get changed or what if there aren’t any toilets – and her hysteria over anything new or unusual, from me dying my hair to a change of pick-up routine or not having the right bloody tights.

I worry that she won’t do clubs where she won’t know anyone. and she doesn’t get to go to the ones she WILL go to every week, and what’s she missing out on, and how it will impact her opportunities and friendships when they all do stuff without her, and how to help with the friend issues, and when to intervene and when to stay out of it.

I worry about the school and club trips and what if something goes wrong, and what if mine is the one in the headlines standing up on the ride, falling through the gap, not strapped in the coach properly, messing around, in the wrong place at the wrong time – and what that phone call will sound like.

I worry who I would be if I wasn’t their mother, and if I define myself too much by them, and if that’s fair, on them or me.

I worry I’m not doing enough to support either of them, and there just seems to be no time, and certainly no way to carve out one-on-one time, and am I listening to them enough, or too much? and is it better for them to feel heard and accommodated or to just have things decreed for their best interests and maybe that makes them feel safer? and do I negotiate too much and have I set the right boundaries, and am I showing weakness or modelling humanity – and what if I’m getting it totally wrong and mucking them up?

I worry I’ve passed on my crappy worrying and spelling genes.

I worry we’re not having enough fun together, that we’re just plain routine and chores, and the time is short and I won’t have them for long and am I wringing enough out of it all, and am I enjoying it enough, and are they, and am I making enough effort and enough memories, and what WILL they remember, as they grow?

I worry they don’t know I love them, or that I love them too much, and what if that’s stifling, and CAN you spoil kids with too much affection, and am I spoiling them in other ways because I’m making up for the broken home, and how do I stop?

I worry how much my strained co-parenting relationship is affecting them, and how to make it better without just agreeing to things I don’t agree with, and how to talk to them about those disagreements – which they see and ask about – and if I’m answering the questions right, and if they know we both love them to the moon and back, and if they know that actually makes them lucky?

I worry if they will still love me back every time they come back from his.

I worry about the state of the world they’ll grow up in, and global warming burning the planet, and the rise of nationalism and the far-right past threatening to repeat itself, and War, and local violence in The Star, and homeless, hopeless families right on our doorstep, and Ebola, and acts of terror, and my inability to protect them or do anything at all to make any of it any better.

I worry I’m failing them, in big ways and little ways, all of the time.

I worry I worry too much.

That last one is something I’ve been accused of, recently.
That my anxiety impacts my ability to make ‘sensible’ decisions for the children.

I thought about it long and hard. The Wuwwying. And then I realised that the reason I thought about it long and hard is because actually, THAT’S WHAT MY ANXIETY DOES.

Look, there is clearly a downside to worrying. I know it well. If you let anxiety rule you it CAN impact the decisions you make (possibly stopping you from making any), and even your personality – because worry can come out as anger.

The thing is, when you know about the anxiety, you can watch for it, FEEL for it. And ultimately manage it. (Possibly with medical or theraputic support). But when The Fear comes down on you and stops you breathing, it is possible to both recognise it, and do something about it. You just need to learn what, and how.

I have learned that the way to deal with worry is not to let it bully you.

You can arm yourself with information to combat it, gathering the evidence to undermine it, and put it back into perspective.
You can refuse to listen to it, and think and do other things.
When it does get the better of you you can stop, and breathe, and make amends.
When it is too big, you can break it down, and do the little things that you CAN affect.

My anxiety doesn’t stop me from letting the kids go on school trips, for instance.
If it has led me to shout, I say sorry, and explain why I got angry.
If it is loud, I play louder music and I run to outrun it.
When it gets big, I go small, with recycling, food bank donations, teaching them tolerance.
When I question myself, I weigh up the pros and the cons, I take advice, I look inside myself, I test it out, I sleep on it – and then I make the best decision I can at that moment in time.

Because that’s the flip side of anxiety. Over-thinking involves THINKING, and that’s actually a GOOD thing. Questioning whether you’re doing the right thing, for the right reasons, at the right time – the very fear of getting it wrong – can actually lead you to make GOOD decisions. In fact, I’d rather make decisions with and in spite of anxiety than make them with and because of arrogance.

The stopping and thinking bit is okay, just as long as you START again.

Self-doubt can be harnessed into self-analysis, and that deliberation can translate into careful, powerful, and very deliberate action. Parenting with anxiety doesn’t necessarily make you a bad parent. If you can work through the overwhelm and the paralysis, it could make you a considered and considerate one. It may even make you a BETTER one.

What’s more, being afraid and doing things anyway is actually the very definition of being BRAVE.

So if you recognise any of this, if you are a Wuwwier like me, or just a Worrier, if you are doing it all anyway, remember you are also a Warrior.

As the Small Small reminded me, it’s all in the spelling.

And sometimes turning things upside down isn’t a mistake.

ELF WARS

08 Saturday Feb 2020

Posted by in Divorce, Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

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ELF WARS.

I blame America.

They bred the Elf on the Shelf. And they infected us. And now we face Elf segregation, Elf division, ELF WARS!

First there is the deep and deepening divide between parents who ELF and parents who, for the sake of their ‘elf, don’t ELF.

The first group hate the second group because a large number of them secretly sincerely regret making such a foolish month-long annual commitment of unsustainable creativity, but can’t say so, because the ‘magic of Christmas’.

The second group hate the first group because they have to explain to their children why their home DOESN’T have an Elf, while simultaneously maintaining the ‘magic of Christmas’, which essentially after infinity cyclical conversations with Smalls boils down to BECAUSE MUMMY HAS A BLOODY JOB.

Some within this group will secretly feel guilty: others militant: still more generally aggrieved, which is the British Way. The militant will talk at length to the generally aggrieved about the moral, ethical and consistency issues with telling one’s children a creepy toy-spy is watching them for good behaviour while simultaneously moving about the house at night and performing ‘hilariously’ naughty deeds. A few extreme crunchy outliers may even debate whether or not we should by lying to our offspring at ALL, about Santa, magic, Christmas, etc.

Within group 1 there will be the hardcore Pinterest Parents, who become evangelical about their cause and Competitive (big C) about it, often utilising the classic humblebrag and the medium of Facebook – or worse – the class WhatsApp group. “Oh Little Martin loves the Elf! This morning he made a hammock out of Mummy’s bra and put shaving foam all over the cat!” ENDLESS EMOJIS.

Somewhere a funny-man Dad will have put the Elf into a compromising position with Barbie, Oh the LOLS, What are we like? Monkey covering eyes, When Daddy’s left on Elf Duty, Etc.

Other Elfers will then be spurred to share their own Comedy Genius Elf Antics, thus putting up the backs of the Non-Elfers still further and inciting Non-Elf Extremism,

AND THE WHOLE OF PARENT SOCIETY CRUMBLES AND DESCENDS TO WAR.

Sooooo….

I have an Elf.

I try not to get competitive with it, or indeed particularly creative, or traumatise my children through it, or even judge/admire the non-Elfers.

I have an Elf for a very specific reason.

Two Octobers ago, my husband moved out. I had two very upset little girls (well okay, one pretty oblivious baby and one very upset little girl) and the days were dark with more than Daylight Saving Hours. I was desperate to do something for us, to bond our new smaller family, and to create a bit of light and sparkle for the Smalls. So my lovely sister suggested and then sent us an Elf.

We called it Elfie, like approximately 75% of all Elf on the Shelfs the country over, we put a Barbie skirt on her, and the Smalls were smitten.

Ours is not a naughty Elf, or a Santa-Espionage-Elf. She is a Kindness Elf. And through December she reminds the Smalls to be kind, to give to others, and to basically not be selfish greedy little boohoostards. This often isn’t inventive, because I’m tired. It can be simple as smiling at a stranger one day or giving someone a hug. There are definitely year-to-year repeats (I keep the notes). She also writes the girls a hello poem, with a poetry treasure hunt around the house to find her, simply because rhyming makes me happy and making them happy makes me happy.

Last year the Smalls found the Elf book in the summer, and missed Elfie so much she had to turn up to visit in August. IN AUGUST.

Elfing, you see, takes commitment, and energy, and frankly – desperation. That’s what Elfie was really born of. Desperation.

This year, there has been a new twist in our Elf journey.

The ex has now got an Elf.

It is called Snowy. It wrote them a poem. It introduced itself as being best friends with Elfie.

And I have Feelings.

I am now in my own internalised Elf-War.

One half of me thinks that it’s great he’s showing this level of interest in Christmas (he literally never even helped me decorate a tree). It’s great the kids get that at his end, and they love Snowy! And that should make me happy, right? I mean, I don’t own the Elf on the Shelf concept.

But.

This was… my thing. It was special. It was a bit of magic I created, that I carved out for us when there didn’t look like there would ever be magic again. I wanted to make my own Christmas tradition, and if feels like it’s been nicked. Or at least piggy-backed.

And now I’m dreading them coming back and telling me all the SO FUNNY things Snowy did, because he and she have a team and time and they’re not on their own at 11 o’ clock trying to think of something for it to do, and they’re not two years into Elf-fatigue, and I have to smile and say how lovely and keep up the pretence my Elf is best buds with theirs when really, really what my Elf wants to do is STUFF A CANDY CANE UP SNOWY’S TIGHT RED ARSE.

And that, my friends, is the Spirit of Christmas!

I hate myself. Although I think I’m having a pretty human response…
And I hate him, too. Which is also human.
And Elves. Who aren’t human. Or a sub-species. Look, no one really knows.

Particularly though, I hate having been dragged into the competitive Elfing world of the ELF WARS, which I never really wanted to be a part of.

Luckily, it’s nearly over.

In January all parents can negotiate a peace treaty and find other reasons to judge and compete with each other, and rouse ourselves to arbitrary indignation!

I can’t wait.

xxx

(PS. Now you know EXACTLY what Barbie is thinking about where the candy cane is going to end up in this picture. I like to think she’s taking revenge for all Barbies used and abused by Elves and Comedy Dads).

EDIT: For the last 2 years me and the Smalls have also done matching Xmas pjs. If even a hint of a picture of the four of them in matching pjs crosses my consciousness that candy cane will be REPURPOSED. Also I’ve had mulled wine. 😉

Project Stop

08 Saturday Feb 2020

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood, Parenting

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There’s a phrase that has been bouncing around my head for some time now.

What if you’re defined by the worst thing that ever happened to you?

What does that make you?

Who do you become?

How do you seize back control of your own story, as someone who DOES and not someone who is done TO?

Well the worst thing that ever happened to me wasn’t all that bad by Terrible Life Stuff standards.

I just got divorced. People break up. Families split. It’s as common as, well, you know, RAIN IN SHEFFIELD.

But 2 years on, it is still rubbish. It still hurts. And dammit, it IS still defining me…

For the last few weeks, it’s once again been the first thing I think about when I wake, usually at 3am, by the call of miscellaneous dread.
It’s the last thing I think about before I eventually go to sleep.
Some days, I am wandering again through the motions of everyday feeling like a stranger in a life I don’t recognise and never wanted.
Some days, I can’t hold a normal conversation with people about anything that’s not THIS, because it’s all there is, and they won’t understand, and saying what I think or feel or even just the facts about what’s happening is BORING, 2 years on, or inappropriate, or even just plain bitter.

That’s the trouble with 2 years on. People want you to be ‘over it’ by now.

But how do you get over something that’s not actually over? That keeps coming back around, like a vindictive groundhog day?

I was working on it. I was actually getting there. I was BETTER for a while (one very significant letter’s difference to bitter).

But then it started up again. It’s still alive and kicking and BITING. It’s still impotence and fear and anger and ridiculousness and lack of good choices and being backed into corners and there is no respite or even keel or even clarity – even REALITY – because it is lost in the he said/she said and twisted logic and semantics and anti-correlation and blame and accusations and ultimatums and reasonable vs unreasonable dressed up as reasonable in sheep’s clothes, howling at the damn moon.

And the only thing, the ONLY thing I can change about any of this – the only thing I will ever be able to change – is me.

MY reactions.
MY actions.
My choices, such as they are.

And sometimes that’s the hardest thing of all, isn’t it?

Especially when you feel powerless. When you feel done TO. When you feel the world can see but simply doesn’t care. When you feel alone.

So I do what I always do, when I feel my feet scrape the bottom of everything that is.
I Weeble.
I roll back up.
I show up.
I plan.
I invest.
I TRY.

But mostly, I DO.
(Ironically words I have come to sincerely regret…)

I throw myself into Christmas early and all the fab stuff we can do together, and crafts, and trips and tickets and friends and festive, because now I only get 2 December weekends to do it.
I try and use my alone time to do all the doing that needs to be done so I can just do Mummy when they’re back, and do it properly, so they remember me. So it matters.
I clean, because that means I’m coping, right? Look – mopped floors, everything must be fine!
I buy too many presents I can’t really afford to make up for everything that I know they see and don’t say, but comes out at odd times, and I’m sorry they have to live with all this, and I buy cheap sparkly clothes I won’t wear because I don’t go out, but sparkles make me happy – or at the very least sparkly, and maybe that will do – and I try and not look at the families in the shopping centre.
I try and build ME and be a growing, flourishing, rounded PERSON and not (only) a diminishing, scared and exhausted shell, so I plan activities and start courses and hobbies and write bad poetry and draw bad pictures and reach out to people and gatecrash friends’ activities but then don’t always respond or show up because I can’t face it.
I run until everything aches and I can’t breathe and then I drink wine so life looks funny again and have sex until it’s the only thing I can feel and blocks out everything else.

What I don’t do, very often, is stop.

I think I’m afraid that if I stop, everything that I’m fighting or running from will catch up with me.

I think I use momentum, I use DOING, randomly, so that I feel like I’m the one in charge of my life. That I’m the one doing the DOING, not having the doing done to me….

And I think that isn’t always the right call.

Sometimes stopping IS doing something positive for yourself.
Sometimes stopping is an investment.
Sometimes silence is golden.
Sometimes doing nothing is renewing.
And sometimes you need to stop before you fall over….

I suck at it. Stopping.

It feels like the enemy.
It feels like admitting defeat:
it feels terrifying.

Because, who am I when I’m not going?

How do I find a forwards, an out, an exit, if I stop moving?

What happens in the empty space that follows?

What is in my head if it’s not full of plans, and can I actually bear it?

What if all I am IS the worst thing that ever happened to me, and it has eaten away everything else and there is now nothing left underneath?

STOP.
STOP.
STOP.

I suppose that’s my new project, in my overall campaign to REdefine me – Project Stop. (which may in fact undermine the whole stopping ethos by being planned and attacked as a project, but it’s the only way I know how to tackle it, because old habits die hard).

So one of the things I’m going to DO this month is to learn to not DO, and take myself off to a pamper evening, run by a lovely friend of mine.

If any other Sheffield-based Weebles out there fancy Project Stop, I’d love to see you there.

It’s a Feel Good self care and pamper evening, at St Gabriel’s C of E Church, Sat 30 November from 19.00.

Here’s the Eventbrite link: http://bit.ly/FeelGoodEventbrite

xxx