Over the years my ED lay dormant, a salient spore. I knew stress triggered me and I coped by setting unrelenting standards for myself. Enter the perfectionist. But which perfectionist? Was there more than one?
I employed three:
- The punitive critic
- The demanding critic
- The guilt inducing critic
Slippery and deceptive, I have just begun to honestly face them.
Are you a firecracker or a pickle jar? Life is a continuum and you may lie somewhere in between. Firecrackers explode. It can be an unregulated emotional experience. Pickle jars bottle things up, quietly contorting their inner space; wondering if the lid will still fit on.
This morning I sat down with one of those bitty lists, the kind that grow out of being away. I arrived back home, here down south to Narnia yesterday afternoon. It was cold.
I’d left my warm second home, my daughter, her partner and my grand-pup. The dog knew something was going on when I lugged the case onto the bed and unpacked to repack it. His big brown eyes nearly made me cry. Pets can really give you a guilt trip.
Familiar? Should be writing …
Staring at the screen,
looking for distractions,
I’m getting them, too.That’s what happens when you text friends. Sometimes they just want to chat. My fingers are drunk, they are typing words that don’t exist: not in any language.
My inner critic says, not today. I ignore her.
The decision loomed, change and move forward or … Books in cupboards = books not in the hands of readers. Inspired by a new idea, I had dropped copies of Schicksal within regional Victoria. A trip up the Newell Highway to Brisbane, my place of birth, gave me further scope to share my book.
The journey took me down memory lane to a time when my parents had made the same journey visiting me in Melbourne. Synchronous moments began commanding my attention. I tried to ignore them, immersing myself in the beauty of the Australian landscape.
the school reunion
out of the blue
into the inbox, a message
1976 high school reunion
did I want to go back there?
The weekend propelled me forward whist clothing me again in my discarded mantle. The same experience: push, pull. PD requirements for my registration, reminded me of the miracles possible with correctly prescribed exercise and reinforced my choice to become a writer.
Growing up can be confusing. Our mothers the bulwarks of our beings guide and love us. Our fathers love us too but often the responsibility of work, family finances and survival of our family unit takes them away from the home.
Writing Schicksal, I found myself in a place of deep divide. From my mother I had only ever received one perspective of my maternal grandfather.
Unfortunately this perspective was harsh, fueled by the anger of desertion; a child hurt and trapped in a past where forgiveness eluded her.
“An idea of the closeness underground.”