Easy, get down off the boat’s slippery gangplank, only have to raise my right foot a bit higher and be careful in the rain. There we are, now, ready to start the climb up the stone steps to the island. Done this sort of thing a million times before, but usually alone, so that I can get the angle right, the exact tip needed. If I don’t quite make it first time with the foot-lift, I can have another go, while others behind me surge amicably past making friendly, reassuring noises.
Not this time. Thinking to be polite, and needing a bit of help with balance, I solicit the help of the friendly bloke clad in the regulation fluorescent jacket, on hand to offer assistance. Believing it needful, he pulls me forward, as if I am like a child and he can hoist me up. Except that, at this new angle, lifting right foot high enough to reach the step becomes impossible. I fall before I get started, and am heaved upright by two or three very willing persons. For me, an ageing, gentrified lady of fifty, the whole experience is exasperatingly familiar.
I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell? Thank you, I am fine, and don’t feel in the least put out that I was effectively pulled off my feet and then raised up like a heavy lump. Being a heavy lump is scarcely a consolation, and if I let it, it could become the latest abject humiliation. Instead, I let the whole thing slide off me and disappear. Result! I have another blog post in the bag.
Except, – Oh God!- there are no handrails on either of the stairways up to the old and dignified room that remains intact amidst the general, geriatric ruination of this castle. So I stumble up and around the spiral staircase doing the landlubbers equivalent of the doggy paddle. Then all of a sudden, as if he knew exactly what I would like the most, a lovely young man appears at my side and offers, “Here, you can lean on me” and we proceed together, happily upright, me moved more than I care to admit. In the general mishmash of emotions bubbling away, it would take only a little something to start me crying. Oh, God, that is lovely music, where is my hankie? There are times when I just want someone to lean on.
Going down is the familiar story in reverse and even less dignified, filled with eddies of fear and uncertainty, while I work out what to do with my elbow crutch – it is dangerous, inflexible and in the way, so eventually I throw it down the stairs ahead of me, just to be rid of it – and then the rest is easier.
Is this yours? asks another helpful lady.
Yes, it is mine. Would you like it?
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August 13, 2014
What I learned about abject humiliation
Fran Macilvey acceptance, allowing, choices, emotions, honesty, hope, life, love, understanding Fran Macilvey, Fran's School of Hard Knocks 6 Comments
What I learned about abject humiliation.
Sunday was a wash-out, and Monday was little better. Few sunny rays pieced the grey clouds, and I was resigned to feeling low and thinking that I had best learn to grow old gracefully, as Autumn was clearly on the way, and there was nothing much I could do about it. Hoh hum! I felt about as grey and depressed as the dark clouds on a cold, gloomy afternoon.
Then two things happened in quick succession. First, it occurred to me that most of the feelings of humiliation with which I was beating myself up, most of the embarrassment I was experiencing about clambering up dirty stairs and asking for help to get down again, about collapsing on the pavement in the rain, falling in puddles and achingly finding a way to clamber upright….most of the embarrassment I felt about that was invented.
Of course, I get sore and bruised, and my trousers get torn and dirtied and I have to go home and change because the mud is just too heavy and wet to carry around. Of course, other people don’t have this constant, grating uncertainty, nor the obsession with staying upright and tidy, nor the worry of falling and not being able to get up again. My left hip has no power in it.
But – but – but – but – BUT STOP. None of what I believe or think they think is real. None of the feelings I have needs to be excused or explained, and, most importantly, no-one is judging me harshly, criticising me, or expressing an unhealthy interest. No-one has negative opinions about me. No-one is critical. As I said in a comment to a comment
I realise that a great many of my unhappy feelings are the result of seeing judgements – and prejudicial judgements, at that, how prejudiced of me! – which are simply not there.
I am glad that I still have feelings, and that I am not ashamed to cry, and that I leap in the air when I am happy. For saying things like, “Now, that’s enough, dear….” I scolded my husband. If I want to feel overwhelming joy, I shall feel it. If I need to feel genuine, heart wrenching sorrow, I shall do so. And no fears of what another thinks or says will stop me. Thank God I got that sorted.
Later that evening, I found this post on my WordPress feed, which turned out to be the second thing. If anyone would like to find a great video to watch, here is one with Louise Hay and many of my other heroes, which got me back on track. Thank you, Ivy Mosquito, for finding this, and posting it when you did.
https://ivymosquito.wordpress.com/2014/08/11/this-is-my-answer/
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