Stupid

Epiphanies seem to happen in the shower. And good blog ideas, most of which I forget as soon as I turn off the tap and the last drop falls half-heartedly from the shower head. The final splat as the drop explodes on the tiles by my feet, seems to time perfectly with the shattering of the whole perfect drop of idea. How is it that the perfect wording exists for the few minutes you are under the water and then dissipate as soon as you step out? Is it the sensation and the noise of the water finally blocking the outer world and allowing the inner full-reign? Or maybe I am just so hypoxic from the heat of the shower draining all the blood to my feet, that I mistakenly believe I transform into a creative genius as the water falls? Some days the hint remains just long enough for me to reach the keyboard. Dripping wet, no glasses, and typing haphazardly from my very piecemeal memory. I know there are keys and roughly were they should be. I tap away furiously hoping that I am making some semblance of sense rather than accidentally activating Skynet. That I can throw down misspelt word salad just in time to get the essence onto the screen. Some days it works, and other times it is an insensible jumble of nothingness. Today it was melange of ideas prompted by a single song.

Just as I was about to step/drag my protesting body, into the shower Sarah McLachlan's song, Stupid came up on my playlist. And I instinctively started singing along:

Night lift up the shades

let in the brilliant light of morning

but steady there now

for I am weak and starving for mercy

sleep has left me alone

to carry the weight of unravelling where we went wrong

it's all I can do to hang on

to keep me from falling

into old familiar shoes

Old familiar shoes. The story of my life. So often I fall back to what I've always done. Even when it hasn't worked. Even when it has ended up leaving me worst for wear. Since becoming ill I have teetered between trying to forge a new and more positive way of doing things and my old anally retentive, must do everything, all the time, push, push, push, way. That old way has served me well over the years. It's very familiar and very comfortable. In some ways it has worked over the last 8 years as well. It led me to a diagnosis, a good team of doctors and treatment. In many ways it has kept me going through the hardest times. But it has also been destructive in many ways. 

how stupid could I be

a simpleton could see

that you're no good for me

but you're the only one I see

The sicker I get, the more I push. It invites failure. It invites trips to the ER and in the end, a poorer quality of life. How stupid could I be. A simpleton could see. It means that I sat out in my backyard this morning contemplating planting two little herb pots. Even though I have had a flair in symptoms the last few days. Even though today I alternate between wet tissue and chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. I sat there at war between my need to plant those two plants, my need to win, to say "suck it body you aren't going to beat me", and my need to rest. To pace myself so I can get over this latest slump. Win what? That is unclear these days.

love has made me a fool

it set me on fire and watched as I floundered

unable to speak

except to cry out and wait for your answer

but you come around in your time

speaking of fabulous places

create an oasis

dries up as soon as you're gone

you leave me here burning

in this desert without you

Love has made me a fool. And I do love control. I love it even when it doesn't serve me. I love it when I don't really have it. When I deceive myself and believe that I have it all in hand. When I bow down to that control freak part of my personality and wait for it's bidding. Give myself over to that portion of me that is set on one path and devoid of caring. Just can't win for losing. I love that line from Rob Thomas', Her diamonds. I lose out every time I allow that win to happen. I lose, yet I keep doing it. I am so attached to the win that I can't see the loss until it's too late and I am stuck once more unable to stand or on the cusp of an ER visit. How stupid could I be. A simpleton could see. I push and I push and I push some more. I set myself up for failure. So I can beat myself up for failure. I often enter into the push with complete clarity of what will happen. The monkey on my back that I happily feed every day. You're no good for me, but you're the only one I see.

everything changes

everything falls apart

can't stop to feel myself losing control

but deep in my senses I know

I know things have changed. I know I have changed. I know I can't do what I once did. Control is an illusion. A beautiful, comfortable illusion. Everything changes. Everything falls apart. Then you have to find a way to pick up the pieces and build anew. Because doing the same thing time and again and knowing that it'll never work is the height of stupidity.

I need to follow the Japanese philosophy of Kintsugi where the cracks and the broken pieces are woven back together with gold or silver resin. The breaks, the changes, the history of the piece are celebrated as part of the whole not hidden or despised. And the whole, that has changed, fallen apart and been rebuilt, is loved.

I need to change and move on from the old way of doing things. I need to be kind to myself and stop the stupid that is deceptively attractive. I will slowly put myself back together and let the cracks shine golden. Stories on the path to self-compassion. 

One song. One shower. A jumble of ideas. A new path. And two little pots of herbs that are still sitting, waiting, until I am truly well enough to plant them.

Michelle.

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