Feeling: A RAFT OF EMOTIONS
Initially I was going to write this the afternoon of the day it all happened (Turbulent Thursday) but for once in my life rationality spoke up; “Hey now Pop, sleep on it, consider it, maybe just hold off for a tad.” Miracle more, I listened to myself.
So Thursday AM. I’m not going to get too into all the dets as work-life is one of the very few domains I leave out of this increasingly public arena, but a succinct snapshot shall suffice.
So since being back I have been nannying some of the most gorgeous kids in the world. You’d be hard pressed to find more polite, engaging, joy-bringing or downright fantastic kiddos. Any who, short of the long of it, on reading my blog and my recent yarnings of a fair bit of distress, the decision was made that perhaps this role wasn’t the best for right now for all involved.
So obviously a bit of hurt there. Some shame. Eons of embarrassment. Tides of tears, with the consequent snotty nose wiped on my sleeve.
I guess all my opening up over the course of the past three months along with a self imposed sightless eye to who is reading it has me rather open also. It had me on the cusp of deleting the whole website. One cursory click of the mouse (well keypad; my Mac does not require external animal-termed additions to function) and popyarns could be gone for good (well, it’d still have a penetratable imprint in cyberspace, but go with it).
“Honesty is the best policy”; drilled in to every youngster as the moralistic way. As you get older you begin to understand that a white lie here and there to save face or cushion someone’s feelings is sometimes for the betterment, but the general “good” way of being is honest.
Thursday had me feeling I’d been far too honest. Sometimes I get away on myself (No! Really?! I hear you say, you smart alek) and absolutely word vomit and data dump down on my drafts, uploading with no more than a swift search for any obvious errors. I haven’t re read any posts from the go of “UltraPop” and now I’m frankly too embarrassed to. Ignorance isn’t quite bliss as such, but it keeps the bashfulness a bit more at bay.
I think realsing Ed was affecting yet another area of my life was the moment I hit rock bottom.
Sounds silly, but I’ve never really been knocked back before. I’m incredibly fortunate in being one of those peps who always seems to land on their feet with things aligning to work out. In my mind, I’d failed, a pretty much complete new concept to myself.
I wanted to get the fuck out of Cambridge. A login to BNZ showed the funds would nowhere near stretch to get me to Bali for a breakway (current savings account wouldn’t even cover the commute to the airport) so I was stuck. I felt disappointed, angry, quite heartbroken, and above all, as if I’d failed. Fail, failed, failure. FAILURE.
Kids needs stability. The opposite of stability is “unstable”. I’m not unstable! Maybe on the inside I wrestle with waves of woe, but I compartmentalise and it doesn’t flow on to other posits of Pop.
But then I thought about it. I actually understood. I do have more than just an inkling of instability. And without a psychologist-esque understanding that this doesn’t necessarily mean it consumes every aspect of your being, it’s a bloody concerning thought.
At first I was flogging myself. If I hadn’t out it all out there like a washing line in Eden Park, no one would’ve known. I could’ve continued witht inner state only known to me, masks galore to front the less favoursome feelings.
But I’m sick of pretending. I’m tired of lying. I’ve had it up to here (visualise very highly placed hand) with avoiding situations for fear of others guessing or figuring it out.
And guess what? Although I took a bit of a brutal topple (my pride more than anything), I’ve trumped back up on my toes.
My role has just changed to be something actually far more fitting with my goals/aims/dreams. The faith and funds have been put in me to actually write a book (A BOOK!) to tell of my turmoiled tales with Ed and account the coming road (I feel beaten up track through a gnarly forest of granite rock is more an accurate description of the next six months) to – fingers crossed, palms in prayer, bountiful begging – recovery.
I’m scared. Scratch that; I’m fucking terrified.
But nothing has ever, ever, ever felt so exciting, challenging doable and downright right.
I can write. I have the inherent ability, and going against all Tall Poppy don’t-admit-that-outlouds in my mind, I have come to realise I’m actually quite good at it.
So Bali you can sit right for a mo. Its time for Pop to use her talent and start typing.
I feel like a tube of Berroccas submerged in H20. Cos I’m fucking fizzing.