Friday, June 16, 2017
There are plenty of reasons for me not to write; I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old... okay, if that alone doesn't make you gasp you are not paying attention: I deliberately had my children close together so that for half the year I could get awed sympathy at my ridiculously difficult situation. I also work part-time, am lazy, unfit and a problem drinker.
But more often than not the real problem is not that I don't have time to write, or even that I am lacking the energy to write, and certainly not that I don't have anything to write... it is that... I am NOT FUCKING WRITING THAT.
A few years ago I declared that I wanted no further therapy, no more tinkering-with-my-psyche; my neuroses were nicely balanced and they could stay as they were. Since then I have had children, and they have of course played havoc with that precarious balance. Second child, had soon-after-first,
- with all the subsequent hormonal upset and bodily trauma, plus first-child's jealousy and an ill-timed rash of other bad-luck - brought with her dear self a not-dear bout of Post Natal Depression. So that's all been hard work, to say the least.
But what I am occasionally aware of, quite unbidden, is the knowledge that there is more. That there lurk within me older, darker hurts. Being aware of my luck, my privilege in life - not only as a middle-class white person, but specifically as someone who did not suffer childhood abuse (knowing too many people who did) - I don't like to count myself as someone who has suffered trauma. But quite frankly, dear reader, I have.
Sometimes I think we all have. Sometimes I think it is the fate of womankind. And oftentimes I believe that I am just over-thinking things and feeling sorry for myself, like the rest of my self-obsessed generation. But my reality is there are things done to me, against me, that have scarred me... and I just don't want to go there. It's not only that I don't want to share these hurts publicly, it's that I don't want to feel them. I can't afford to: I am trying to enjoy, love, and be there for my children.
I know I can't love them 100% while these hurts are there, but I am also sure that I don't have time to deal with them now. There is just too much. I must bury them and be a half-way decent mother and enjoy their so precious, so fleeting, and so important early years while they briefly exist... and maybe fix these things later. I did try to fix myself before I had children, I really did. I just didn't know all these hurts were there.
For now I am attempting to perform a psychological triage: work out what I can fix now to be a better parent; what can wait; and what can be buried forever. After-all, how far can a person really delve? I could get so lost in the abyss that I could spend my life improving myself, and never really get the chance to live.
Friday, May 19, 2017
As in Seasonal Affective Disorder - I'm actually quite happy, because the weather is beautiful at the moment. In fact, I can't even claim to suffer from SAD the disorder; if I have a disorder, it would be better labelled HAD - Hemispheral Affective Disorder. I am on the wrong side of the planet. Or at least in the wrong climate zone.
I used to be a total sun-child, even here in scorching Perth. A major psychological issue for me was desperately wanting to be in Europe, and yet being quite addicted to our hot-as-hot, sunny-as-sunny and never-cold-for-months-on-end summer. When I lived in London in my early twenties, I struggled to "appreciate" the rare sunny days, as English folk do, because I was used to sunshine being the norm.
But slowly, something changed. The brightness of our sun, so shocking to me on my return, came to feel oppressive rather than joyful. I had children and I switched completely to HATING Perth summers, once it became impossible to let my very active babes run free in our skin-burning, heat-stroking summer days. And on a solo return to London-town a few years back, in a surprisingly sunny summer, I understood fully another issue: while our summer sun shines on dead lawns and wilting gardens, the English sun shines on soft, lush, unbearably-pretty GREEN. My Uncle noted at my observation, that you can have either quality or quantity of sunshine.
And what I've come to feel, is that the seasons here just work wrong.
It's not just that our cultural heritage is English, that one of the many hangovers from Empire is a lingering expectation of Northern-European nature in a clearly very different land - our Christmas celebrations held mid-summer and only partly re-jigged to fit the new time of year; Easter with its pagan messages of new-life (ie. spring) held when the leaves (of the few deciduous trees) begin to fall; and a list of four seasons that simply don't hold true here.
It's also that the progression of the seasons makes sense - emotionally, poetically - in northern Europe. Winter falls and folk move into hibernation mode; the days are short, we trudge to and from work in the dark, and live indoors, eating heartily and making use of the cosy pubs that have evolved with the history of the land. Spring comes with all the glory of the poetry written about it, the earth thaws, the flowers bloom, hope rises with the heat. Summer (when it arrives, I'll concede it doesn't always, at least in England) is more like a Perth spring, the dimmer-switch on the sun in England just doesn't turn up quite as bright as ours. But that makes it usable heat - both the weather and the mood for walks and picnics, playing in the park, pottering about on bodies of water, even optimistic backyard barbecues. And then at last we drift into the most beautiful season of all, the one we almost completely miss in Perth - autumn. A chill joins the air, and the colours come with a delicious melancholy, wistful after the joyous sunshine seasons, preparing for another winter.
Here it is backwards. The world greens as the days grow shorter; by the time the grass has restored, it is largely too chilly or wet to play on it. Autumn is not a note of darkness to come, it is a relief from the excessive heat of summer; our fall-season not only lacks the colour that makes the season aesthetically beautiful in colder climes, it lacks the emotional beauty too. Winter is just annoyingly cold in our suddenly under-heated homes, and when it rains it pours. Spring, my least favourite season, means still-not-hot-enough-for-the-beach, and miniature native blooms hiding in the scrub.
I know I am biased by my desire to leave this town, and you may say I am simply seeing the grass as greener... (although in this case it is literally greener grass). My point is not really to say which is better, but which suits me. And as an intellectual-ish type, a writer of sorts, I have come to need the poetry of a cool climate, over the activity of a hot one.
We had a plan at one point to move to Lisbon. It was our then desire to keep Perth summers, whilst living in Europe. But now I crave only Northern Europe. Four seasons, in order. And red-flecked, chilly, nostalgia-inducing AUTUMN, every year.
Monday, April 24, 2017
I know I have two small children, and only one day a fortnight "to myself", but still I feel that this little time has been a worthy test of my fortitude and actual commitment. And I have to admit - to both myself and my small, but very supportive, readership here at the Pickled Pear - that I am most likely not going to be a professional writer.
Please, PLEASE do not spare a moment's pity for my making this declaration. For it is I who must apologise. Several of you have made a point of openly complimenting me on my writing, and encouraging me to make a living from my talent. Which has possibly gone to my head a little more than you imagined. I am afterall, in real life, a reasonably shy and awkward character; you would be forgiven for believing me at least a little lacking in self-esteem and therefore worthy, if not actually in need, of overt praise. And while a bit of praise has been a welcome antidote to the bullies of the schoolyard and the critical-mother of the home-life of childhood, you should probably now cut it out. I actually think I'm pretty fantastic.
I think this so much, that it is not to my 30-odd fans to whom I feel an apology is owed, but to the world. I actually believe in myself so very much, that I think it is a shame for HUMANITY, that I will be squandering my incredible talent as a writer.
And there is one simple reason that I will be denying the world my brilliance: abject laziness. It is the reason that both my house and my children are cleaned with far less regularity than is generally suggested; it is a major reason that I am currently so fat that people just assume that I am pregnant again; and it is THE reason that I doubt I will write for a living.
I tend to think of laziness as inate, perhaps even genetic. Some people are natural-born go-getters, and some of us would really just rather have been born rich enough to live on the sofa. Forever. With wine and cheese brought to us on a regular basis. I have always, against my politcal ethics, quite fancied the idea of a sedan chair, with a group of burley males to carry me about the place. (I am sure that if I DID have a sedan chair, I would be even fatter than I am today, so it is probably just as well I am not insanely wealthy.)
Anywho, as far as I can tell, the key to success in anything worth doing, is a combination of: innate-talent, a fair dose of luck, and a good dose of GRIND. And while I have no troubles with the first two, the major ingredient is lacking. I love to blame my star-sign (yes, yes, an atheist shouldn't even entertain the notion of star-signs... whatever!) My favourite book on the subject by Mystic Medusa, the Surreal Field Guide to Astrology (now sadly out of print... and no, you can't borrow the THIRD copy of it husband has acquired for me) states that "duty does not call to these people, duty carps at them in a low and grating monotone." Sigh... so true. Star-signs being accountable or not, I totally feel that way. Fuck duty; bring on hedonism!
So while I may have decided that the most enjoyable thing to do with a slightly tipsy evening with family early-to-bed is to write this post, it's not something I'm ever likely to do with any stamina. Yes, I will keep writing this thing (with exciting upgrades and expansion of audience planned for the future!) And yes, I even have a wee book on the go (it may well take YEARS). But I once read a poignant suggestion that if you don't do it ("it" being WRITING) while you're busy with work and life and what-not, you won't actually do "it" anymore by having loads of time. You either write, or you don't. I am 36 and haven't done it. I am 36 and have an entire day off a fortnight and am not doing it. I would rather spend occasional days pottering, daydreaming, and occasionally getting high... and pay for it with an easy, uncreative, salaried day-job.
Which, dear reader, is what I (currently) intend to do.