Chronic Illness

 Having a chronic illness is:

1. Have symptoms
2. Ignore them for years/not realise there's a name for what you go through
3. Have most medical professionals ignore/dismiss/gaslight you about your symptoms
4. Discover there IS a name for your Thing and advocate for diagnosis
5. Spend actual years jumping through ALL THE HOOPS and finally get diagnosed
6. Move on with life because, other than diagnosis, those medical professionals offer no help, advice, support, or signposting
7. Experience specific problems relating to your diagnosis
8. Research how to deal with said symptoms
9. Find recommendations online
10. Introduce those new ideas
11. Exacerbate something else entirely and, not only be unable to fix the initial problem, but give yourself another symptom (or three)
12. Realise that the new ideas you found are for typical bodies and you are a Zebra, not a horse
13. Get angry and buy a bunch of books on your condition in the hopes that they help
14. Repeat steps 7-11/12 ad nauseum

 

I have begun a routine of going outside every morning while the machine makes my coffee. 

On mornings like today, I wake up earlier than I would like but I am then rewarded with views like this. 

I greet the sky and the trees, say "hello" to the stars when they're there to meet me. 

I say "I love you" to the moon when I am graced by its presence. 

I thank the Universe, broadly, for too many things to list, open-ended gratitude. 

I stand and stretch and take several deep breaths of the fresh air. 

As I head back inside, I pause to thank my home. She has a name. A name that only I know. 

I then begin my day. 

 Now that my life - again - looks wildly different to what it did just months ago, I find myself - again - wondering where this blog fits into the whole scheme of things. 

I am compelled to write, I am compelled to share, but as my writings are now split between fiction and non-, I wonder if it's time to also split my posts ... to have different blogs dedicated to different things.

And then I struggle with indecision because the non-fiction I want to write about is extremely personal and I am debating writing entirely under a pseudonym for those works because they're about my life, my childhood, my traumas at the hands of others. 

Some of those people are long gone but some of them are still very much alive. 

I imagine the ones who are still alive would take some not insignificant offense to having their actions revealed to the vast number of one (1) persons who read(s) this blog ... and this is something I debate almost-constantly and what holds back a lot of my writing ... I'm kind of waiting for the remaining players in this saga to pass before I write my story ...

But that isn't "fair" to me, to the story inside my brain, inside my very cells that is crying out to be told, to be released, to be known. 

So, the questions I ask myself are: 

• Would I start an entirely new blog and literally not tell anyone that it's there? 
• Do I not blog about that side of my writing at all and just hope that it's published someday? 
• Or do I say "eff you all" and start peppering my non-fiction writings in here, too, offense-causing be damned?! 

It is said that if you wish for nice things to be said about you, you should do nice things in life. The people I am trying to ... protect(?) did some very not-nice things but I don't believe them to be entirely "bad" people. They, too, are borne of trauma and assaults of various kinds but, for myriad reasons, have been unable and/or unwilling to break the cycles in which they have found themselves. (Some don't even understand there are cycles.)

And what if the person I'm most desperately trying to protect is myself? What if the reason I haven't been able to write my truth while my abusers are still alive is because I know they will come for me (Proverbially and largely digitally. Physically, I am very safe.)

But the story still begs to be told. Hence the dilemma. 

I guess the real purpose of this post isn't to find the answer to any of these (and more) questions, but rather to get my teeth back into writing and sharing because I have to start somewhere, right?

Right.

The chasm of the selves

 That lost, detached, adrift feeling you get when the foundation upon which you relied for certain truths reveals itself to be significantly less structurally-sound than had long been presumed.

How does one honour their own truth and yet simultaneously keep the promises made to never destroy another?

R E S P E C T

To whom this very much concerns, 

I will be fine.

That's something you need to not only know but to comprehend: to fully, wholly, and in all other ways ... to know… I. will. be. fine. 

You have chosen me as your pariah, your outcast, the target of your distaste, your rage, your ire, your judgement, your inner-pain, your insecurities. You have made it more and more obvious over the years that we've known each other. 

You're spending less and less energy in attempting to hide your obvious contempt, the disgust you feel toward me. 

Deliberately manipulating events to ensure my exclusion is one thing but when you make it clear, beyond any remote chance of confusion, that your own entertainment is more important than my life, you have decided and made it known to me, to everyone involved, that you are literally willing to risk my actual life instead of making a small, relatively simple change that wouldn't negatively impact anything or anyone.

And you know what? 

I'll be fine. 

I have survived magnitudes worse than you…

and I have thrived. 

My “favourite” part is that, in spite of everything, you have now asked a favour of me. 

Except, we both know it’s not a favour, don't we? 

We both know there will be no reciprocity in this - or anything we share. There never has been and there never will be because you. do. not. respect me. 

I give and you take. You ask and I give and you take. You expect and I give and you take. 

And, as much as I will actually enjoy doing this most-recent “favour”, as I have every time I've performed it in the past, it will be the last “favour” I do for you. 

I accept that you do not respect me but let me make this perfectly clear here:

I. Respect. Me. 

I cannot control how you feel about me. I cannot control what you say about me. 

I control who has use of me and you ... you are not worthy of such a lofty privilege.

I am through letting you use me. I am through enabling you your blatant disrespect of me.

Sincerely, 

Over it and over you. 

The Self in the Esteem

 The Self in the Esteem

For decades, I've struggled with self worth, self-esteem.

My past taught me early on that my value lay only in how I could be of use, be of service, be pleasing to and for others. It was a lesson painfully learned and oft repeated when I dared to consider another way, that I may have a worth that wasn't only attached to those around me and their ever-fluctuating opinion of me. 

Now, I find it's no surprise that a large part of being unable to value myself is due to having been unable to develop a sense of Self in the first place. How could I consider myself to have any value if I didn't develop a Self in the first place. 

Children of narcissists, of abusers ... children born of and into trauma often find themselves preoccupied with learning what their caregivers needs are during the stages of development when they should be learning what their own needs are. 

This missing element in a child's development creates myriad complications as they grow and develop. Interoception, body dysmorphia, damaged (if present) self-esteem and self-worth and, at its worst, it can prevent the development of a true sense of Self. And these are just the ones I can think of in the moment. 

It's only now, in my late 40s that I am realising, accepting, wading through what has brought me to be the person I am today ... the traumas, the determination, the intelligence, the refusal to be the person I could have been ...

Because the person I could have been didn't break the cycle - she followed, dutifully, obediently, unquestioningly, and she was broken. 

I am not she. 

I am me and I am worthy. 

The curious case of the incurious

As an adult, I consider myself to be quite curious, even inquisitive but when I think back to my childhood and adolescence, I'm dismayed that I don’t recall any such feelings from those years. It's as if I experienced that period of my life in some sort of senses-numbing fog. 

It wasn't safe for me to ask questions. It wasn’t safe for me to wonder.

When you experience severe and repeated childhood traumas, you learn to accept everything around you because you fundamentally understand that you cannot trust your own senses. Everything around you becomes unreliable and, by extension, inconsequential.

It becomes vital for survival to understand that anything and everything can change in an instant. Moods shift, the meanings of words change, stationary inanimate objects suddenly become fast-moving dangerous weapons … it’s safer to accept the environment, the surroundings knowing that, expecting that the truth of the given situation only exists in that singular instance. 

I think this is a large part of why survivors of chronic trauma experience such notable self-biographical memory gaps and why it’s often difficult to imagine, to hope for the future. 

If what we know is unreliable, how can we possibly speculate, hypothesise, dream …

The puzzle

When you’ve spent the past three decades thinking you’ve had your shit together, only to learn that it was a façade and that denial is, not only real, but also a real mean bitch; how do you pull yourself apart and heal the broken or missing pieces of yourself so that you can have a hope of reassembling everything into something even remotely whole?

This is the puzzle I have been dealing with in every waking moment (and in most while asleep, too) since early October 2019. 

Childhood trauma, abuse, and neglect are powerful forces that, over time, inflict more damage, create deeper wounds, than is often fathomable. 

PTSD triggers seem to come from nowhere at times ... feeling a compulsion to grab house keys every time I take the bins out in case someone locks me out of the house; accepting blame when it is warranted but becoming almost debilitatingly anxious at the faintest whiff that I might be blamed for something that isn’t my fault; the anger that seethes through me when someone innocently asks where I’m going ...

Some of my triggers I have been aware of for a long time (the smell of chicken noodle soup makes me anxious and nauseated; when I feel I’m being ignored I want to just run away, far and fast) and some arrive suddenly, violently, swelling from some unknown abyss, leaving me drained, empty, confused, and wounded all over again. 

It’s bittersweet, opening up these sudden scars, realising past traumas that my subconscious decided to bury. I oscillate between “gods, I didn’t realise it was so bad!” and “that explains *so* much!” and both reactions are valid, if perplexing in their symbiosis. 

As I meet each one, systematically tearing it down to get to its roots, to unearth it’s core, I’m exhausted from the pain of remembering, the effort of disassembling ... and yet, I’m exhilarated by pride in what I’m accomplishing, how hard I am working to help the one person who always took a backseat in my life; myself. 

I work to put these delicate pieces of myself back together, discovering how they all fit, finding forgiveness for the hurt, scared, lost child I once was. 

And each piece finds its place within me anew. Strengthening my foundation. Building my sense of self. 

Me; my favourite and most challenging puzzle. 

Please be patient

Please be patient with me

Please be patient with me as I accept and navigate my new reality

Please be patient with me, this suggested diagnosis is difficult to swallow -- as much as I know it fits, it answers so many questions -- as much as it's almost epiphanic in its simplicity

Please be patient with me, I truly thought I knew what was going on

Please be patient with me, the path through "severe depression" cannot be rushed

Please be patient with me -- I know you're used to my highs, my "everything's fine"s, my ability to know the bright side of everything

Please be patient with me -- I, too, am used to those highs, that vantage point

Please be patient with me, the realisation that it's all been a cover, a facade over something deep, something tumultuous -- is difficult for me to handle

Please be patient with me as I (again) work to rebuild myself

Please be patient with me as I struggle with the amount of work still yet to be done.... especially when I feel I've come so far

Please be patient with me as my own patience, my sense of self, are battered and torn and shredded

Please be patient with me as I search for the right words, the definitions, the explanations, the realisations that I hope will serve me well in communicating what I, myself, don't understand

Please be patient with me as I struggle

Resolution versus Intention

As defined by the OED, a Resolution is: A firm decision to do or not to do something. Stemming from “Late Middle English: from Latin resolutio(n-), from resolvere ‘loosen, release’ (see resolve).” To resolve a problem.

An Intention is defined as: A thing intended; an aim or plan. The etymology being: “Late Middle English: from Old French entencion, from Latin intentio(n-) ‘stretching, purpose’, from intendere (see intend).”

Greece - December 2018

Words have meaning and the inherent meanings of words bring power to the messages conveyed using those words. Consider the impact of some of the greatest speeches held in the annals of history, the words therein where carefully chosen for their meaning, to increase the intended impact of the message being conveyed.

As a writer, I am blisteringly aware of the power of words, so it recently became important to me to understand my aversion to the concept of making New Year’s Resolutions.

Each time the Gregorian calendar approaches the 1st of January, friends and family members begin discussing the concept of Resolutions – some in earnest, some in jest, some even with a hint of sardonicism – and each year, my participation in the conversation wanes markedly.

My hesitance in sharing what I resolve to do in the coming year is that I find resolutions to be strict, unyielding, unaccepting of change, of movement.

A firm decision to do or not to do something. Historically, I have decided to “go to the gym 3-4 times a week”, as an example. I had been resolved. I had made a firm decision to do something. When an unavoidable change in circumstances then happened and I could no longer afford my gym membership, my resolution ceased to be, it failed. I felt, on several levels, disappointed. I was let down by life, the Universe, and by me. I had made the decision and I hadn’t been able to fulfil my own rigid expectations.

After several such disappointments, I decided something I now believe to be invaluable:

I don’t need to resolve. My life isn't a problem to be fixed. I don’t view my life as something for which I need to make ‘firm decisions’. I don’t live my life in such a way that my life needs to be resolved, released, loosened. I my life has a purpose. I live my life in such a way that I am ever stretching; my mind, my body, my goals, my plans… My life has purpose, it has direction. I intend.

When things happen that are unexpected, or ‘against the plan’, as they inevitably will, I merely adjust the plan, I re-aim, I stretch.

This flexibility, I find, is crucial when it comes to my emotional, mental, and even physical health. The knowledge that I am allowed to change, to adjust, to just “go with the flow” as life brings me new challenges and opportunities enables me to better accept my place in the world.

Each year, as I age and learn and grow and stretch; I make intentions… Flexible plans that perfectly fit the life I am designing for myself.

I intend. I intend to choose my words carefully. I intend to live my life free from limiting, damaging language.

I intend.

"She'll be fine"

Not so long ago, I had my feelings dismissed. This is nothing new to me.

When questioned about their decision, the person in question simply said (of me), "She'll be fine."

To that person, I write:

Of course, I'll "be fine".

Your summary dismissal of me and my feelings isn't enough to do me any real or lasting damage - you're not that important. 

Far greater people in my life have treated me far worse and done much deeper damage. 

Dismissal and neglect are the hallmarks of my childhood - a childhood that has caused me to develop PTSD. 

A childhood for which I have undergone countless hours of very expensive and comprehensive therapy.

Let me assure you that, if my psyche can withstand the childhood I endured, no damage you can do would compare nor could compete with what I have already endured and, most importantly, overcome. 

I will be fine.

But not because you have decided that my emotions are unworthy of your consideration but because I have decided that you are unworthy of my emotions. 

I will be fine.

Our relationship, however, will not. 

You have just proven to me that, like may adults before you, you do not respect me. 

I will act accordingly.

I will be fine. 

It's what I do.

Learning to Advocate for Myself

A recurring theme in my life, not being "Good Enough", has reared its ugly head again.

I am allergic to the wool carpet in our new house. This is a known allergy and we presumed I would suffer a bit when we moved in but had hoped that it would be mild enough that replacing the flooring could wait until we went, room by room, and redecorated the whole space.

Unfortunately, my reaction to the house has been swift and total. Inhalers needed, skin erupting in rashes... the works.

In dealing with all of this, already feeling low physically (it's exhausting being itchy 24/7) and emotionally (I find I'm still horrendously embarrassed by my eczema, even after more than 40 years with it), I took a backseat. I sat back and allowed Spouse to make decisions about how and when the flooring would be replaced because I didn't want to make waves, I didn't want to add stress where it wasn't necessary. And I started to feel worse. My health, I felt, wasn't being taken seriously. I wasn't being "heard".

Spouse and I got into a very slightly heated discussion about the flooring and timings, etc, about what I thought we should be doing versus what Spouse thought we should do... And why my needs were being ignored... and it was pointed out to me that I wasn't being "heard" because I wasn't saying anything!

I had been grumping around the house, miserable, sore, itchy - not telling Spouse how bad I felt, not communicating how much I was suffering.

I expected Spouse to know - and then was upset to discover that they didn't. Not to the extent that I was feeling it. Of course Spouse knows I'm suffering. It was obvious to anyone who sees me.... What Spouse couldn't have known, however, was how I am feeling, how much it's actually affecting me, how I feel emotionally and mentally because of the situation.

I briefly struggled to figure out why I would have trouble telling Spouse what my needs were. It didn't take long, though, to work out... In various, large portions of my life, the things I said, when I declared my needs, fell on deaf, impatient ears.

Throughout my life I had been ignored. Directly, wilfully, deliberately, indirectly, ignorantly, unwittingly... I have been ignored by my most primary relationships. Not all the time, of course. And sometimes, I was simply dismissed.

Through all of this, I learned. I learned that telling people what I needed, how I felt, what I wanted, even, was an exercise in futility at best and, at worst, in pain. It hurts to be ignored or dismissed and I can't tell you which is worse.

Now that I'm in my first healthy relationship, I'm having to relearn a lot of my behaviours and responses... I'm having to learn that it's not only OK to express what I need, it's essential, it's vital in a healthy relationship.

And I'm having to learn that my words will be listened to, that my voice will be heard.

I am learning that I am Good Enough.

10 Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me...

As it's been a while, I thought I'd ease myself back into blogging regularly(ish) with something simple... One of those ubiquitous, annoying "10 Things..." lists.

Bugger off. It's my blog and I can do what I want to, so there!

Potters, Hopton-On-Sea August 2017

Here goes!

10 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me:

1. I absolutely loathe photos of me. The above photo was taken by my lovely Sister-In-Law at her insistence. I understand her reasoning, hence why I stood for the photo(s! She took more than one!). Hopefully, someday I'll be able to look back on photos of myself and be OK with them. (Let's see if I can leave that photo there and not chicken out and take it down before this post goes live!)

2. I struggle with the concept of Good Enough. This has been an on-going theme throughout my life and I have actually had some very good, very expensive therapy regarding it. Throughout my life, I have felt that I am a disappointment to others, to myself. It's coupled with a strong sense of Perfectionism/Fear of Failure that means I hold myself to a far higher standard than I hold others and means that I am often overly, and even damagingly, self-critical. I have a fear of starting things, projects, because of this fear of failure - because if I don't start then I can't fail, right?! I frequently need to remind myself that I am good enough, that I am deserving of good things, deserving of being treated well and with respect. I am far better than I was but I acknowledge that I still have a long way to go... and that's good enough!

3. My favourite colour is Aurora Borealis (AKA "Iridescent"). It's actually a collection of colours; blues, greens, pinks, etc.

The surface of my bed-side table. Glitter under bartop resin. iPhone camera. Unedited.

4. I can't stand the word "toppings". Even saying it in my head makes me feel weird. This makes loving and ordering pizza rather difficult!

5. I have never eaten shrimp in any form. Does this make me strange(r)?

6. I am a big child. One of my life mottos is: I am forced to grow old; I refuse to grow up!

Card-carrying member. iPhone camera. Unedited.

7. We're moving! We're moving (further) away from London - eek! When I moved to London in 2004, I presumed that that was it. I fell in love. Love, I tell you!

I was first an "EastEnder" (but never on the soap). Then, in 2009, I moved "south of the river" gasp! And, again, became an EastEnder in 2012ish for a short while. Since then, I've lived for about 4 years in Essex, just beside London. London, for the past 13 years, has - at the very least - always remained in arm's reach! I'm not sure how I feel about being a 2-3 hour drive from my favourite city. The implications and my emotions surrounding it are, no exaggeration, bittersweet.

We're moving to a lovely part of the world called "Lincolnshire". It will be a significant change of lifestyle and will include the chance to develop hobbies, join clubs, exercise more.... All manner of things that the frantic pace of living "down south" doesn't seem to allow.

8. I love taking photographs. I have loved taking photos since I was a smaller child. We couldn't afford a decent camera so I spent my childhood working through a succession of cheap, crap cameras that used 110 film and did nothing to enhance my ability to take a photo. I even had a micro 110! How on earth one was supposed to get any kind of quality photos with one of those, I will never know!

In high school, I had wanted to take a photography class but it required having a 35mm camera with which to take the pictures. Again, the budget didn't allow this. I took it on the chin but was definitely envious of classmates who had access to a decent camera and felt an almost physical ache when I saw the photos they'd taken for the class.

When I was in my late 20s/early 30s, I was able to afford a decent and expensive (at the time) camera. I was super excited! Then, as life moved on, I never learned how to use it properly. It sat. I played with it a bit. I never really did anything with it other than use it in fully automatic mode, defeating the purpose of having that camera over a "point and shoot" version.

When we've moved, I plan on snapping more and joining a local camera club (there are at least three I can choose from!). I've recently bought some new lenses, some instruction books, and my desire to take good photographs is now even stronger than ever as I get one step closer and I'm super excited!

Random building in Southend-On-Sea. iPhone camera. Unedited. 19th August 2017

Potters, Hopton-On-Sea. iPhone camera. Unedited. August 2017

9. I love to sing! Like, seriously, love to sing. Thing 2, however, means that I am convinced I can't sing very well. People who are professional musicians/professors in music have told me that I can carry a tune and I still shy away from singing in front of anyone with whom I am not 100% comfortable around. I was in chorus all through grade school and junior high and a big part of me wishes I had carried on through high school... not because of who I could have been through singing; I have no aspirations... I just lament that I could have continued doing something I love instead of backing away because it wasn't cool.

When we move, however, there are three local choirs that I plan on investigating and, though it will be a genuine struggle to get the guts to do so, I plan on auditioning for at least one! I know! I'm just as surprised as you are, maybe even more so!

10. I am slowly writing a book about me. It will be a fictional adaptation based on my life leading up to age 40. Do you know enough about me to tell the difference between fact and fiction?

What are 10 things about you that I probably don't know?

I want...

Yesterday I paid for drugs.

Lots of drugs, actually, worth over £700.00 in total.

This fact leaves me feeling all sorts of emotions at the same time. So many that I am not sure I can articulate them coherently, but I feel I should try.

In 14 days our home will, once again, be filled with needles and alcohol wipes and my abdomen will again become filled with tiny holes. Holes through which I will inject the necessary hormones for trying to conceive via IVF.

Spouse and I have travelled this road together before. After "forever" of trying naturally, we started in October 2016. By December we learned that we'd not been lucky.

Of the eleven eggs removed; four fertilised. Two perfect embryos were implanted - and two perished before they could be frozen. The two that were implanted didn't "stick" and so the seven pregnancy tests I took that fateful day all came back negative.

No one knows why our embryos didn't "stick". I wrote cryptically about my reaction here and, to this day, the box has not been opened.

But it's not such a large box that I am unwilling to perhaps create another.

I adore my daughter; she's one of the most amazing people I've ever met, hands down, but I want a baby. I want a child with Spouse. I want to see his little face on a tiny human that he and I made together. I want to help raise amazing people who will change the world. I want to once again see my heart outside my body. I want...

I want.

The decision was fundamentally down to two things: me and finances. Spouse has been amazing throughout all of this. He cannot bear to do the injections or even watch me do them myself (I have no problem with them, thankfully), but whatever I have said, done, wanted or needed, he has been there, done that - no questions (other than the occasional checking in to make sure I'm not holding something back - I do have a tendency to do that).

As an aside, when this works and our child/ren ask where babies come from, we're going to tell them: When two people love each other very much.... Mummy becomes a pin cushion!

Or maybe not. But the chance to have to make that decision is a chance I cannot pass up.

So, I will be drugged and we will hope for "sticky" babies this time and I will be grateful that this option is available to us for we have tried and I am ageing and I want...

I want.

I now have another box.

Traditionally, I am ever the optimist. I am easily led from sadness or melancholy and straight back into, if not happiness, then comfort, certainly.

I have finally built a life around me that means I can be this way. I can be happy. I am happy.

I have found a system that works for me when it comes to Bad Things in my life. When they arise, as they always will; it's Life, after all - I simply deal with the emotions and thoughts straight away then move on. I do not have enough time on this earth to be dealing with negative thoughts or emotions any longer than absolutely necessary. I have too much good I want to do. There is too much fun to be had.

But, as with everyone, there are things in my past, things in my history which are not happy. Memories, thoughts, feelings, events, circumstances that I cannot move past.

I put these things into Boxes. Boxes in my mind that store the things with which I don't want to deal, the things with which I am, to varying degrees, frightened would break me.

Some of the boxes are doodle-covered cardboard, covered in dust, simply taped shut. Eventually, I think, I might open them and see what comes out. Thankfully, I don't have many of these boxes.

Some of the boxes are solid metal chests with locks of the kind Houdini couldn't even open. I have two of these boxes and I hope I've lost the keys.

Sadly, a new box was installed yesterday.

I don't yet know what it looks like as I keep wilfully ignoring its presence, hoping it will go away.

I know what the box contains, I can hear it whisper to me in the quiet moments, taunting me - the Thing inside still so new that it hasn't yet learned its place, its fate inside that box.

But I don't want to know. Not now. I might not ever.

There's a Thing inside a new Box and it's calling to me and I refuse to look for the key.

It's OK.

I have needed to write this for myself for some time now.

I hereby give myself permission not to write.

Yes. I am allowed to not write.

How scary is that?!

Since this time last year, I have taken an unintentional hiatus from my writing - and felt wretchedly guilty about it the entire time.

I stopped taking a specific medicine I was on for reasons in October of 2015 and have struggled since then to get my head back into the process of writing. It's like that part of my brain has been temporarily suspended. (I say "temporarily" because I do plan on resuming the medication in the medium-distant future.)

I am tired of feeling guilty for not putting words down, creating those magical sentences that seem to come from thin air... I'm tired of wondering if I'm good enough, if I'm actually a writer if I'm not actually writing. Well, I am and I'm not. I am a writer. I am a writer who is currently not writing.

And I am OK with that.

Or, I am trying to be OK with that.

Because it's a choice. I have chosen to take this particular path at this particular time in my life and, if a temporary side effect is that I don't write for a relatively short while in the grand scheme of things while I take this journey, then that's OK. It will be worth it. Hopefully.

But most importantly, in the mean time, I won't feel guilty about not writing. It's OK that I am not currently writing. I am doing something else. Something important. And the writing will be there when I am ready and able to get back to it.

Good enough...

Feeling "good enough" is something with which I have struggled my entire life.

I wasn't good enough for my parents to treat me well.

I wasn't good enough for the boys I liked to like me back.

I wasn't good enough to be "rescued" from various difficult stages in my life.

Several years ago, I even went through some CBT in relation to my self-worth issues. I "graduated".

So, I wonder... how is it that a chance encounter with a complete stranger can send me instantly down that spiral of self-loathing and create within me a feeling I have fought so long and hard to be rid of...

"I'm not good enough."

According to Random Stranger, I wasn't thin enough. They called me an elephant and said that I bumped into their cohort simply because I was so fat that I required the entire pavement to myself. I should have been smaller. I should lose weight. I should know my place, take up less space and not be so damned self-righteous in my assertion that I am a deserving human.

According to my lame-ass retorts, I wasn't clever enough to throw anything more back at them than trying to yell my excuse that it was *they* who bumped into *me*. I should have called Random Stranger a "clever little boy" and asked him, if it took me X amount of time to lose weight, how long would it take him to not be such an utter prig.

According to my rampant self-loathing immediately following the exchange, I wasn't feminist enough. I didn't stick up for myself against this person of the opposite gender who decided to be offended and rude on the behalf of the person with whom he walked. A woman. I should have asked *her* if she was offended or hurt. I should have ignored the man completely and, instead, asked the woman with whom he had been walking if *she* realised that *she* had walked into *me* - Or, better still, asked her if it was a requirement that he fight all of her battles for her, if he ever let her stand up for herself.

According to how this is still affecting me, more than 24 hours later, I wasn't strong enough to let this go. I haven't allowed it to wash over me. I am still damaged, hurt, seething, embarrassed. I could have realised that there is nothing wrong with my size. Yes, I am large, but I am not "obese" and, even if I were, I have nothing to prove to Random Stranger. I could insist that the problem is with him. The problem was with him presuming that he and his friend may walk two-wide down the pavement and spare no thought for anyone who might be passing in the opposite direction; They Will Wait. We Are More Important.

But I didn't do any of those things.

Because I'm not good enough.

And so here I am. Feeling like I'm back to Square One.

I will pull back up out of this. I always do. And I have been trough far worse.

My personal theme song isn't ACDC's Back in Black for nothing.

I do still wonder, though, if I have been through all that I have and come out on the other side cheery, smiling, bright-eyed and full of promise - why has this affected me so deeply?