Weather is now boiling hot and sticky. So that’s nice. Yesterday the heating was on. Today all the doors and windows are open. It feels like a toddler has been left in charge of the weather thermostat.
Therapy yesterday. I thought I might be at a point where I could leave things for a bit. It appears not. I suspect this is good, as I am lazy and tend to leave things until they’re bad enough for me not to ignore them and that’s not terribly wise. I plod on. It will end eventually. I say end. It never actually ends, does it? But there may come a more comfortable plateau on which I can loaf about for a bit. That would do, frankly.
I have more writing to do. I have a slightly different theme this time. I am moving away from childhood things to my disastrous first marriage. I thought this would be easier to deal with than childhood stuff because I have written about some disastrous first marriage stuff before. Some of it here on the blog. I am not in denial about how rubbish it was (at times. There were good bits) and yet it seems clear that there is some unresolved stuff. It would be good to get rid of it. Nobody wants to be haunted by an ex-husband forever. I am slightly annoyed that I will need to spend time thinking about him and rather upset that I will be raking over some of the more painful and grief filled days of my life.
I got home feeling like a pot that was about to boil over on the stove. I threw myself into all kinds of displacement activity and then ended up bursting into tears over one of the cats later on. So that was nice.
I don’t want to do the work, which is usually a sure sign that the work needs to be done. I started writing some stuff today. I’m giving myself a good long run up by wading into my disastrous history of men who I have loved and lost and would, in hindsight rather not have loved or found at all. Why is it that you always see the patterns after you’ve flogged your way through this stuff? I should have written a note and had it stapled to my forehead. No addicts. No co-dependents. Twats get in the sea. It could have saved me a lot of grief. But it was not to be.
I remind myself that it is not for them that I am writing any of this stuff. It is for me. I am coming to the conclusion that a lot of my more self-destructive programming are just behaviours that got embedded really early on, and which I was too young or naive to question or think about. A lot of this stuff, when you are a kid, is simply presented to you as facts or ‘the way things are’, or ‘because I say so’. And because you are short and young and you rely on these people for food and love and shelter and you don’t get out much, you accept it. Before you know it, it has either become a habit or a belief and it’s embedded in that part of your brain that does all the unconscious stuff and unless you have a torrid time of it, you never actually get it out and look at it properly.
And sometimes, even if you do get it out and look at it properly, you’re not in much of a position to do anything about it, because you’re busy or tired or up to your eyes in looking after other people first and putting yourself last and so it goes on.
But my new theory is that if most of this stuff is habit, habits can be broken and new habits can be formed. So, it’s worth putting up with the sheer bloody anguish of dredging all this stuff up to the surface and staring at it, because then I get to decide if I want to keep it and what I want to replace it with if I don’t.
And that’s what I’m telling myself so I keep going. And things are changing. When I started doing this I was crying pretty constantly almost every day. Now I only have a serious weep three or four times a week, which is progress. Some days I don’t cry at all, which is, after the last eighteen months, frankly miraculous.
On top of all this we spent most of last week trying to help mum and dad sort out their complicated financial situation and what they may or may not do in the future. Today they came round and we went through things like power of attorney, which you now have to have two of, and which are slightly daunting due to the considerable number of pages in each form.
And that’s turning out to be about as much fun as you would expect.
In less challenging news, I excavated a bit more of the garden by the wild bees’ nest and Jason crow barred up one of the slabs which we thought might have a well underneath it. It turns out that it isn’t a well. It’s a deep, square, brick shaft with a drain running along the bottom of it. We have no idea of where it is coming from or where it is going, but it’s there, about seven feet down. We dropped the slab back on top of it and Jason jumped on it to make sure it was in place. I nearly had a heart attack as I was convinced I would be calling an ambulance as he went through the slab and plummeted to a sticky end below. Thankfully the slab held.
Our house is full of surprises.
I’m slightly disappointed there wasn’t a body or some doubloons to be honest.