Therapy

I’ve written this on the back of a lesson on Mindfullness and Wellbeing. My take on how to cope with the lows and the highs. The worries and the woes.

Every day now since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve felt moments of dread, I’ve been loath to rise from my warm bed, my place of safety, even if it’s not always my place of slumber, nightmares and bad dreams swilling inside my skull.  I open my eyes, look out at the daylight and I shut my eyes again.  Relax.  I hear the murmur of the traffic and I try to imagine a running river, feel the spray from the current touch my cheek. 

The clock ticks, and I’m a child again, restrained into quiet time on the living room sofa, mindfulness and wellbeing recognised even back then.  The quiet time being for my mother’s benefit of course, but it paid off.  She stayed sane.  The dawning sunlight warms the right side of my face as I check out the insides of my eyelids, where a lone eyeball expands and contracts, checks me out.  My shoulders feel tense, and I realise my teeth are clenched, the taste of my night terrors on my lips, and a constant buzzing perforates my ears.  This sound, a lone piper playing, a skirling, birling squeal, is unfixable.  It’s my buzzing and I have to embrace it.    

Like I’ve been trying to embrace my other condition.  Germ phobia.  Outwardly I don’t fear contracting diseases, but inwardly, I can’t get rid of the fear that was driven into us at the height of the pandemic.  It’s been plunged so deep I can’t expel it.  I cannot cough it up, splash it unceremoniously into the spittoon.  It’s rooted.  A defiant residue of my fear for my mother. 

I still dodge dragon vapour breaths and cuddly people.  I step back from close proximity.  My hands are dry and prunish from too much washing or sanitising.  And buses are fun.  I can brave a bus journey but when forced to sit next to another body I’m like a poker with a slight lean towards the aisle, avoiding body contact.  It doesn’t matter that it could be the puffer mad Mitchellin man I’m sitting next to, touching only layers of padded material, STILL, please do not touch me.  Eye contact too, I avoid.  I’m masked, cloaked and daggered.  When I pause for a moment and think about it, I may always have been like this, the pandemic the ideal excuse to play it out to full effect.     

Throughout it all I’ve written and this has helped.  I’ve written down my innermost thoughts.  Thoughts I couldn’t say out loud for fear of opposition or alienation.  But writing is a solitary aid.  I’ve walked amongst the trees also, another solitary pastime.  I’m attracted towards the trees when suffering throws out its clouts.  Being amongst the trees I’m alone, but solitude is my emollient, only the tiny little beasties to hear me rage, sending them scurrying with all their little legs under bark strips, leaves, rocks.               

So, this morning after a slow start, I have a word with myself.  I look to the left shoulder and I say, ‘self, you really must do something about this behaviour.’  Then I look to my right shoulder and say ‘You’re damn right I do.’  After one hundred squats and fifty press ups, showering, cleaning my teeth for three minutes, laying the toothbrush in the cupboard out of toilet spray contact, dress, dry my hair, moisturise, dress, I’m ready to go.

I drive to Dobies. It’s a Garden Centre not too far from my home. The shop is stocked with lovely little gifts which will take me out of myself.  I look around at the landscape, to ease some tension, the landscape I passed many times with my mum. We came here a lot.  I’m soon there and I cannot help but look across at the disable bays where latterly I used to park.  I step out the car and walk towards the entrance. The house plants, ceramic pots, bamboo chairs, baskets, cushions, scented reeds, books, floral wellies, food store, and cafe.  That’s where we sat with our tea and our scone, and our unhinged chat.  It hits me like a punch in the gut.  Everywhere I look, I’m reminded of the woman who introduced me to quiet time.  My eyes fill.  I will them back as I often do.

Let’s have a look at the summer houses we never managed to reach, too far for my mum to walk.  They are tempting, but one a bit further afield than my back garden would be preferable.  Say a beach hut, or a mountain lodge, a chalet by the loch.  Alone.  Beyond the summer houses there’s a pond with ducks.  Three of them, peacefully paddling in their own ripples, comfortable in a two’s company, three is a crowd scenario.  They swim backwards and forwards, nothing too urgent calling them.  Beyond the pond fields upon fields, crawling with nature.

I leave empty handed and make for the car where the tears eventually show face, pooling up inside my sun specs.  Sometimes that’s all you need to do.  Cry.  I drive home.  I give in, forget my busy life, forget the busy, crazy world around me, forget madmen and dour men, illness, death and dying and I lie down, alone with my thoughts.  Sometimes, it’s as simple as putting on that it’s all about me blindfold, breathing deep lavender snuffles, and spilling the heavy load.