painful

I remember rejection. We all do. Could have been, and most likely was, in the teens. Teens, such a bright, light, upbeat word, which has flip all to do with the horrors it brings. I remember it before hormones and bodily changes assaulted my questionable equilibrium, however. When I allow my thinks to think me, I remember rejections most painful at primary school, when the ones I so wanted to accept me, sniggered and turned away along with all their sycophants, not that I knew that word back then, aged 11 and a bit tubby and a lot lost. I was imaginative, a newbie storyteller, a believer in fairies, in the otherness, in any and every possibility in other worlds, and bright. Re-read that as deluded, mental (…..) distracted, easily lead (what the hell does that mean?) unfocussed. Result…..needs more discipline.

Nice.

Thankfully, or so I am told, school teachers have more emotional intelligence nowadays. They, so I hear, are taught that 25 children in desks going way to the back of the room, are not numbers, not a collection, not lab rats. They are people, the future for all of us, the deciders within a complex world, one in more disarray than I ever was, even in my best moments. And yet, and yet, it seems the old ways still climb, still clime, to the top of the tree, where he or she wants to be along with the most number of cohorts or sycophants in order to gain medals . How completely off-pissing is that, and how desperately lonely it is to be down there on the ground as they all elevate! Later, much later in life, as the learning seeps into my skin, I recognise the pain in those heretofore beacons of light. I know, now, they needed to be reflected, wanted mirrors, adoration, because at home, they didn’t have that. Which is super sad. Sad more that it played out in venom and exclusion. Played out? There’s no ‘play’ in there.

When I meet, and I do, teens who don’t want to go shopping, sneak shots, wobble on ridonculous heels, talk boys or girls, play football, wear the latest fashion, compare biceps or snigger at old folks, (anyone over 30). I celebrate. They are those who are different. These teens might want to build online cities; they might want to climb Monroes; they may foster a talent and a longing to be a dancer, an hot air balloon pilot, a horse whisperer. They are moving out and beyond, they are questing, curious, keen to connect with the world right now, in the state she is, and, giving creedence to that interest and curiosity and the ken for learning, tells me our world has a lot of hope for their future and then. some. And yet, they face bullying by their peers because they don’t want to fit in. It is as it always was, I know that. Still bugs the hell out of me.

Thankfully, their parents (oh lucky them) are right there beside them, and, thankfully, again, with the inclusion of all sorts and every type of sexuality, colour, shape, size, and more, we may be coming into a new age of thinking, if and if again, the powers that be get with the way the world is blowing, going, showing. That may be a big ask. When something doesn’t have to go to committee#control, I reckon we might be free to be wholly human. Just saying.

Meanwhile, our teens are living in their world of judgement and, yes, committees And it means everything. The derision has taken lives. There is no changing this, for it is ancient as ancient. However, we can, all of us, be aware, be kind, be a listener, ask ourselves in, give support, be there. Where they were Cut

We can Glue and Paste.

Thinking about this today, as I did, and not just today, I have realised that as time goes by, minute by minute, step by painful step, across days, weeks, months and years, the hurting softens. It’s like a blob of washing soap that melts into a bowl for washing dishes. I blob in, fire up the hot water and watch the blob loosen. As the bowl fills, the water and the soap conjoin, presenting me with a dilute. They are both still there, but somehow they have created a new environment. After all, I don’t wash dishes with just the soap, nor just the water, but together they create me a new environment, one that allows a transcendence. From dirty dishes to clean ones. It is just like this for hurts and time. Together, they make a solution.

Although I (and everyone else it seems) thought that now that a year is over, a year during which I live on and my husband of almost 50 years does not, I find myself confounded by upstarts of anger. He did this, yes he did. He put me down, yes he did. He controlled, yes he did. They flare like sudden flames and stop me in my tracks because what I was actually thinking of was more about whether I would iron my frocks or clean my fridge. These confounds trouble my feet, so I might even stumble as I flit through a doorway. They smack at my heart. I invite them not but they come anyway. Half way down the stairs once they hit me and I could barely breathe. Thank goodness for the geriatric banister thingy. My water slopped over the glass and I shook my head to realign my eyeballs.

I don’t want this, I said, out loud to no-one there. I want all the good memories to come back. My mind nodded. my body stayed quiet. Ah, I said, I get it. Mind has memory but so does body. I am tempted to write “and ne’er the twain shall meet’ but I won’t. Nonetheless it is true. Body does have memory and hurts lodge in muscles, in veins, in arteries, in bones. I know this, have always known this, and there is no hiding. We can control our minds, sure, with endless daily and exhaustive self-control, but the body is a wayward and a truthful thing. It will remember like an elephant. By the way, I am now, me and my thinks, almost at the bottom step. And I realise another something. I must listen to my body memories, even if they are painful, even if they tip me off my path. They are not complacent milestones, sunk into the ground of the now. They are djinns that leap out at me begging for recognition and release. We all have them but only the brave (that’s me) stop and turn to say Hallo, tell me your story.

In a world that, apparently, controls us, nobody wants to, nor acknowledges, body memories. If someone is showing signs of distress in a situation that appears like nothing much to others, that person obviously needs medication. Oh flipping dear. I am thankful for all the organisations out there now who stand firm against such illiteracy. I am hoping with all my heart that anyone who feels marginalised because of hurts will find the courage to contact those who really care and who can actively help.

I reach the ground floor. I look back up. I hear you, I say, over my shoulder. But I am down here now and moving on. I thank you for keeping me safe but now I am a different woman. You will always have a place inside me because you are the truth. I look at my bare feet, my toes. Well done you, I say, as, together, we swing through the door into the kitchen and flip on the kettle for strong coffee.