My therapist was right. You do or, rather I do, need 5 or 6 human adult interactions or connections a day.

I feel better already for having had that this week, meeting old friends as they pop in for lunch or a tea and the kids hide and play.

Interestingly two of the questions they all ask is 'are you happy?', 'is he treating you well and making you happy?' I always answer truthfully, that while I may had the bad days and the odd demon, I am happy, content and yes, he is and has done everything he can to make that happen.

Long may it last. For him to me and me to him. And may we always drink wine and dance around the island choosing paint colours, discussing which walls to knock down, which ones to keep and what on earth shall we do with the basement….? May we always share our darkest, scariest thoughts as much as our hopes and dreams and may we always go to bed smiling and wake up happy.

As with any demons, I am learning that they will always enter, but I don’t have to let them stay.  An acknowledgement and then I can take back control of my mind.

 

Sometimes easier said than done. Like the middle of the night conversation I had in my head, between me and her as I stroked the poorly belly of a 7, nearly 8 year old.  That took me 2 hours before I was able to take a stand and walk away from the thoughts and words that were not serving me.  No matter how hard she tries to tell me she is still a presence in my life even with me knowing this time, I am in control of her.  She isn’t a secret.  She is now only the lodger in my mind and nothing more.

 

Other times, it is far simpler.   My old professional self came back to haunt me today and taunt me of my ‘unfulfilled potential’.  My mind’s response to a text from my old partner in crime, who is still in the game.  But as I sat around a kitchen table, surrounded by happy kids and a friend eating BBQ in the rain, I know I have made the right choice for me but more importantly my boys;  my unfulfilled potential is nothing compared to the fulfilment I gain from influencing and guiding their full potential, nurtured by love and attention.

 

My demons.  Without them I wonder who I would be?  Over a sip of wine, I recognise they have made me a stronger person, more determined, more steadfast, more resolute. And in the long run, a far happier person and being true to myself.  And that is the best demon repellent!

 

 

I am no gardener.  I have no idea what I am doing most of the time.  However, I seem to be able to produce beautiful blooming roses. Especially the climbing sort.  At the old Coach House, the courtyard wall was a spectacular array of pinks, oranges and yellows, reaching right up into the eaves.

 

My only trick, or tip, is to find the strong, key stems, the ones climbing tall or wide.  Anything else, anything flimsy, flaky or going in the wrong direction, I cut right back.

 

I have found that over time, while it can seem rather harsh and look rather bleak for a while, in time and usually, during the following season for flowering, they completely flourish, with more life, more blooms than any time prior.

 

As I took my lethal secateurs to the climbing roses at the front of our new home, I reminded myself of this act of pruning for future strength and growth.  And while both the bay window and our social circumstances feel rather bare, I know my labour will bear fruits and flowers in the next appropriate season.  I know I have surrounded myself with the strong and reliable stems that have always been there and I look forward to the fireworks of colour to come as we continue to grow.

 

In the end, no screaming in to a pillow required.   In fact, all that was needed was release and recognition.  And perhaps a little romance.

 

The release of tears and words; clumsy words, tumbling and gulping out as the Big Man stroked my head.

 

The recognition that the same thoughts, feelings and emotions are still there, that I am just getting better at managing them.

 

The romance of walking around our floodlit garden, under the stars, hand in hand.

 

I must remember my antidote for anger.  Being heard and being loved.

 

I should have expected it really. But the white hot molten anger that I woke up engulfed in this morning rather took me by surprise. Especially when everything seems so 'back to normal'.

I have learnt through the multiple cycles of grief or trauma that after my sad period, comes the anger. It's been a good period of calm for a while and perhaps that's why the sad and now the anger have been quite so intense.

I am struggling to find an outlet. Spin was a distraction. Cooking too quick. Tom hitting me on the head with the gull wing door nearly had my spew molten lava all over him. I hope he just saw a grumpy mummy.

For the first time in a long time I am taking to my head to hide under the duvet and silent scream into my pillow and wait until the next emotion takes over.

I'll take the guilt. And the shame. I hate anger the most. Hardest to hide. And I need to be on form to go out tonight to celebrate another big family birthday.

I'll take the guilt. And the shame. It's quieter. And easier to see through, more transparent, so I can see the good things I have around me to bring me back to base.

Anger gets the pillow.

People are just people, all different, all made up of their own collection of stories and challenges.  That is what makes us all unique.  A mixture of Radio 2’s pause for thought today and a line from BBC’s ‘In the dark’ brilliant drama.

 

Our uniqueness is something to be celebrated and the embellishments of our being to be cherished.  I know I am rubbish at that and far quicker to critique…  Perhaps today was the day to look at myself in a different way and look a little deeper than the superficial.

 

What do people see when they see me?

 

The died blond hair.  Or the story of a girl who couldn’t bear to look at her sad dark face any longer, only wishing to see light in everything and she needed to shroud her face with a softer but brighter frame.

The blue gold eyes framed by wrinkles and tired smudges.  Or the story of a girl who loved to laugh until it hurt, but now is still plagued by nightmares of loss, grief and panic.

The rounded shoulders.  Or the story of an ex-computer geek, 12 hour days in front of a screen, now mum and housewife with the weight of the world on her shoulders as she tries to fathom life out and make it better for everyone, including herself.

The lycra and trainers.  Or the story of a girl whose mother told her she was fatter than her sister so many times that stuck so she is paranoid about any orange peel or ounce of gained weight, but who is actually now grateful for the drive and love of daily health and exercise.

The stretch marks and saggy, little pouch of a belly.  Or the eternal gratitude for 2 healthy, strong, strappy, gorgeous sons and perhaps, the love of any wine with friends …  or chocolate.

The happy smile.  Or someone wearing a mask to hide the lack of confidence and temerity that seems to be plaguing her, someone ‘faking it’ til she makes it true…

……

I read back what I have written earlier in the day. As a friend to myself, I am sad that that is how I see myself.  If I had done the same exercise a year ago, the confident, joyful Ali would have probably written something far different.

I look forward to her returning, or a better, stronger, just as unique momentary version of her when she is ready to blaze and dazzle everyone again with her sparkle, rather than sprinkling sad words.

But right now, I am the unique person living through this particular challenge, this particular story of intense self-reflection, of past acceptance and future nervous intrigue.

 

 

AS I was driving along yesterday and again today, I was pondering my new found loneliness status, and I wondered how on earth this could be, when I was constantly bombarded with the many characters and their voices in my head?…

 

Am I going mad?  Or Is everyone like me?

 

Over a power coffee and tour this morning, I was quite relieved to hear that on discussing with a friend, I am not.  Or perhaps it is just the 2 of us that are going mad…..or, even better perhaps we are sane and the rest of the world is madly boring with their quiet heads and thoughtless brains.  But I wonder if anyone is quite at the same extent as I am?

 

I decided to capture my thoughts… over a 5 minute period from driving from the gym to the petrol station… afterwards obviously.

 

 

“I must get cash out to pay for babysitter … and taxi.
What shall I wear this weekend – I must shave my legs.
Don’t forget AA batteries and some more of willy’s bread.
Ask nutritionist friend about best food to promote growth, in coeliacs especially.
Must make lunch – what shall I have that won’t bloat me, make me fat or feel guilty – the nutritionist on lewis howes was good – the fab 4 for all meals – protein, fibre, greens and good fats… I will go with that.
Shit – babysitters for my sister in law back in Boston spa – I wonder if the girls are back from uni ?
Remember to tell friend junction 50 is shut and to come on slip road
I think I can see some muscle formation coming back on my shoulders – high five me!
Must ask tom about his new book / he looked like he was enjoying it this am.
Where’s the cat? Did he get out?
What shall I cook for Sunday lunch for the family?
Ring my bff and send card for 10th anniversary.
Don’t think you should wear short skirt – legs not yet up to it
When did I last wash my hair? Is it 3rd or 4th day?
Bollocks – I left my water bottle on the spin bike…
Fill up the car with petrol
Am I giving the boys enough attention? If I died tomorrow would they know how much I love them and how incredible they both are? Tom’s curls are to die for and I just want to kiss Willy’s little brown furry back… sounds weird..
I wonder if James is sad because or me … or Job stress … or life? Is she back in his life? I have just seen 2 number plates with her name on and the woman speaking on radio is lady Pamela…
Fuck fuck fuck…
don’t think about that…
The last architect was quite dishy … but would you? Don’t be daft….makes my skin go funny…

 

….

 

…I think I might be sick….

Redirect!
So when the boys leave home what will I do? Shall I retrain in something? Pt? Nutrition? Write my book?  Go travelling?
Crap – still haven’t got Ivan a present.
Must ring dad – think he is going away again!  Love that.
Good god, what shall I cook for tea?  I can’t remember what is left in the fridge?

Oh – look at that.  I am still blond!  Better than grey!

Can you all shut up? Please??? “

It is no wonder I have fallen in love with meditation and mindfulness….

 

A while later, this evening, I raise the point in our counselling session, about my loneliness.  She says we need about 6 interactions or connections a day;  meaningful ones.  Not just a nerf gun to the head or a grunt from a mobile phone…. Or conversation on social media.

 

I think I need more power coffees with people who have busy brains like mine.

 

 

I am feeling better.  No more hardcore niggling.

 

Perhaps a glass or 2 of Montepulciano is the medicine and cure of niggles?

 

No.  I would hate to think that…   But perhaps being invited for kids tea with an old friend was….and the realisation that there are good friends close and newer ones on the horizon.

 

But maybe.  Maybe the lovely, warm, slightly spicy red helped see things in a newer light, or help me focus more on the moment and what we were doing and where we were and that overshadowed any deepseated niggles, for they were there this morning and bellowing like a siren at lunch time.

 

The rollercoaster continues.  But at least they are just an annoyance rather than the triggers that used to cause the feeling of a juggernaut to pass through my soul and heart and life.  Now that I am accustom to the speed and depth of the dips and lurches, I no longer shut my eyes to the world around me, but keep my eyes firmly on the beauty of the ride and my surroundings and I am able to keep awake, alive and thriving.  And cling on tight when it gets wild, recognising the discomfort until it passes.

 

 

 

Today I was still.  I think I found ‘the niggle’, it was the cigarette.  The rebellious, off the balcony, while I wasn’t watching cigarette.  The one that said, ‘Because I want to, because I deserve it, because I just don’t care.. and she will never know.’  A dangerous little thought to have.  One that you can apply and then apply again, more confidently to something more than a cheeky fag, until it escalates and results in breaking your life down and everyone around you.  Until you realise, you do care and you didn’t deserve it… and you really didn’t want to.

 

That was the start of the uncomfortableness.  And that little trigger in to the past has made me notice other key feelings that have stemmed from that one little stab to the heart, that perhaps I have been dancing around, not wanting to recognise them.  But the stillness crystallised them.

 

The loneliness I have been feeling, because of our life breaking down, borne from leaving my good friends behind so I feel a little lost, no one to have a coffee or a walk with locally.  The loneliness born from keeping many people at a distance, so that even when I am surrounded by friends, I still feel a little lost and lonely because I can’t show how I am really feeling – my happiness seeming too ‘fake’ and too early…  my sadness or even anger seeming too depressing and inappropriate for a family time.  The loneliness of being in a new community, on the edge of friendship groups, waiting to be invited in, waiting to feel like I fit in….. My smile a mask for a loneliness I don’t want to admit.

 

And the shame, a different shame I have been feeling.  Not the shame because everyone knows, but the shame because they don’t know, the shame when someone eyes you up and down, notices the empty ring finger and your two blond sons. The intrigue in the eyes of the women and the discomfort I feel from some men.  I haven’t worn my rings for over 9 months and I am not sure I will again.  I know I have come a long way, a really long way in terms of forgiveness and trust, but the chasm ahead of me still feels a dramatically long way away and no rings will bridge that.  My smile again, a mask for the shame I don’t want to justify.

 

The worst thing about a niggle is not knowing the origin or where it is hiding and just wanting it to disappear.  I have learnt today, once you can find it and turn around and look at it, you can giving it some care and attention and then either let it go or take action to alleviate it. I already feel a lot lighter without my niggles for just writing it down and letting them know, I have found them and now I can do something for them.

 

I look at my screen saver and it reminds me that ‘all is good in my world.’  And it is.

 

So what is this niggling feeling of discontent?   A knot in my stomach and an frustrated itch of annoyance that I can’t quite shake and I can’t quite work out where it stems from.

 

And as that niggle is elusive, other little niggles, niggle it even more.  Like the pop of nerf gun wars, the dog disappearing only to be found by kindly car owners stopping to catch her, the dog whining (all day) as she is tied up to save herself, the smell of cat litter, the lack of pound coins for a trolley in a contactless car park, spilt milk, a smashed cream carton, the masticating of food, rice on the floor, the elephant feet thundering on the floor above, the scream of an overtired boy, the scatter of gravel and the squeal of brakes, the twinge of my back from lifting dead weight sleeping child, the lack of bad chocolate in the house.

 

The little niggles.  Nothing.  There every day to gloss over and in a way be glad they are there and noticed, better to have some friction than none at all, or I would slip up on the boredom.

 

So what is the underlying niggle?  It is on the peripheral of my consciousness, darting away before I can catch it.  Tomorrow, I will be still enough to let it reveal itself to me and then I can catch it and smooth it away.

 

I don’t want to end up like Blackadder…  constantly grumpy and annoyed.