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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December 8, 2014
Domestic desperation
Fran Macilvey acceptance, allowing, change, choices, communication, family, honesty, hope, love Flash Fiction & Short Stories 3 Comments
A piece of flash fiction, for a change……
Domestic desperation
I recall a time when women wore dresses, plus floral aprons, if they knew what was good for them. Frilly, prettily tied at the waist. Not the practical, full-size kitchen chef ones, with depth for drying hands and wide pockets collecting scum. My workaday wrap probably makes me unfanciable. My hands are older than the ideal, too: liver spotted and scarred with livid lines from the metal grilles and shelves of our oven.
In the blinding summer light of June, I am flamed. While my daughter prepares raspberries and cherries and doles them out carefully into three separate bowls, the sun beats through the wide kitchen window, and I desire coolness. I love heat which warms my bones, but this inferno, during which I must work and move and calculate, is ungovernable.
“Had a good day, darling?” I ask, absently, as my husband’s keys turn in the lock and he approaches cautiously, twisting off his tie. I am not really listening, as I must take the flapjack out of the low oven, turn down the heat under the soup – I thought it would be cooling, I was wrong, okay?- and blitz it, while stirring custard to go with the flapjack and raspberries. I thought custard would be comforting, I was wrong, okay? Over half-way finished, there is no point remembering I have ice-cream in the freezer.
I make wrong decisions when I am alone. My daughter comforts me when I weep with frustration and longing. For a bit of a change, for a new place to rest, where the cushions are comfortable and someone else has just done the cleaning. Just for a change, while I get my breath back.
Hubby hovers, unsure whether to stay in the volcanically hot kitchen, and risk getting in the way to plant a warm, affectionate kiss on the face of his favourite woman – our daughter is a girl – or whether to tactfully retreat so that I can get on with finishing cooking, free of distraction.
Either way, when he leaves, I feel lost. I am alone, I am too hot, my husband is not helping me, and all our longings lie quietly where they have been birthed and left to finger their way upwards, wordless.
At last, my daughter sidles through, arriving in answer to my repeated callings that supper is ready. She is a little hang-back, perhaps frightened how I might be at this tipping point in the day, but she has the courage – such courage! – to wrap her arms around my waist. I cannot pull her off, because my yearnings mirror hers. I desire to be cool and fragrant, wrapped in a dainty apron that reeks femininity and layered, scented secrets. I desire to smile widely and hold. So I set down the pan, step sideways so I can lean on against the kitchen cupboards, and hug tightly. In her warmth, her red cheeks on mine and her thick, fair hair shadowing us both, I recall my coolness.
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