Author: Rare Bit Blogging

I just re-read a couple of my old blog posts and thought, hang on, this feels familiar. I wonder what’s going on here. There’s a pattern for sure, just that now I don’t go to the pool, haven’t been since the start of the pandemic which is when my psoriasis started properly, and my playing is a rare bit rarer these days. It’s not all doom and gloom but I’m certain I need to have a chat with someone about SAD.

I like Mondays. I used to loathe them. I went through a phase of loathing most days, when I had no work and little to look forward to, not much to get excited about. I could barely haul my limp sorry soul out of bed to perform the simplest most basic function, like making a cup of tea. Bed was a far better and safer option. At the end of August I experimented by starting my week with the 9.45am Aquafit class. By now I get a bit upset if anything comes up to prevent me from plunging feet first into the bracing depths on Monday morning. This morning was no exception. I grinchingly grumped my way to the pool, having woken later than intended. Our tirelessly energetic instructor Anna proceeded to lift our spirits with gusto, reaching inside the unseen recesses of her equipment store for an inflatable Dalmatian to inspire us to improve our spotty dogs. It’s quite hard to stifle a belly laugh when you’re up to your chest in water. You should try it. It takes Anna to crack the gags though. The atmosphere following her class is electric. We all bounce out of the baths with flushed cheeks and broad smiles. My core and legs are getting stronger and I’m able to engage my abs to do those floating crunches without my legs sinking downwards. The next step is crunching without the support of the pink woggle.

Sunday was my day off and after the briefest of visits into town for gift shopping, the rest of the day was spent relaxing at home and getting back in touch with doing what I felt like doing. I hummed and haa-ed about putting up the Christmas decorations I’d been toying with since last weekend. It felt slightly ridiculous and indulgent to put them up just for me. I’m glad I did and loved the time I spent musing on where to put the small black baby Jesus on my South African tree amongst other sentimental favourite decorations gathered from my travels. I spend a lot of time in my kitchen so my fridge got a seasonal decking too.

My parents really went to town with decorations and I loved this time of year, seeing our house all blinged up with fabulous fancy fairy lights and glitzy tinsel. To keep us from a surfeit of mischief, we were set to task licking the sticky ends of paper strips to make decorative chains. They dulled in comparison to the shop bought garish metallic technicolour frilly foil. Everything felt safe, cosy and warm as the four of us bronzed ourselves in front of the gas fire boosted up to its maximum four bar capacity, reserved for special occasions and spells of extreme cold. I can still smell the hot polyester. Chef Dad would occasionally get up to check on the turkey giblets that were stewing to make stock for his inimitable gravy.

We had transparent plastic Santa money boxes that were imaginatively filled with Smarties. I remember the mouth watering frustration I felt at being unable to dislodge that single solitary tantalising purple chocolate jewel from Father Christmas’s foot. It’s probably still there. Mum’s unwanted tights were hung up and packed with tangerines and a selection of nuts that went untouched well into the new year as we gorged ourselves on breakfast chocolate, sanctioned for one day only. Raw almonds remained tightly encased in their impenetrable spotted shells and eventually went in the bin.

Last week I went on my first Meetup in town. The first hour was fine with pleasant conversation and no tumbleweed moments. Then I got a bit tired and hungry and soon made my polite excuses. Seven of us had signed up for the evening, perhaps hoping to forge new and meaningful connections or at the very least offer ourselves an alternative to an evening whiled away at home. Two people turned up, both men, and they spent a significant amount of time glued to their mobiles for various reasons. Mobiles have killed the art of conversation and I really feel technology has made us more distant. They’re always there, lurking in our pockets or handbags, waiting for a swipe, some TLC and an emoji. Or at least five in my case. I abhor that panic I feel when I’ve misplaced my phone, especially if I’m driving. So no, I wouldn’t be without my mobile either. It’s on silent if I’m with other people and I don’t look at it unless I’m really bored.

This year I have a plan in place. I’m working until an early finish on Christmas Eve and on the 25th I’m going on a new walk. Although I’m sociable, I like quiet Christmases these days and this will be my first one spent sober. That’ll be interesting. There will be plenty of reading, snoozing and contemplation as well as looking ahead to the secret promises of 2019. I have a vision of my ideal Christmas – maybe next year? After my walk, I’m baking for next Christmas before having my dinner.

One Christmas I baked a cake with a lot of fresh orange in it, so much orange in fact that it rendered it unpalatable. Refusing to throw away the costly fruits of my lengthy labour, it sat in its tin awaiting its debatable fate. On a whim I offered a piece to a hungry visitor the following November who ended up in absolute raptures over it. I suspiciously cut myself a sliver, expecting a citric smack in the chops. Gone was that violent tang only to be replaced by the mellowest richest darkest fruitiest Christmas cake I’ve ever tasted. I had fed it well and it repaid me the favour.

I’ve been on the lookout for a new swimsuit for a while and saw one in town. I tried it on and it was a good fit, last season’s model but that really doesn’t bother me. It had a nice pattern and the requisite sporty back. I started to fixate on my thighs. I shouldn’t have looked. They were wobbly. There’s wobbly, and there’s wobbly, and my thighs were like blancmange. Worst of all, gravity seemed to have taken hold! My intention when I started my pool classes was to partake in some form of enjoyable cardio exercise, which I do alongside my weekly Pilates class, as well as some home sessions in between for extra flexibility. Gym bunny I am not and while I wouldn’t exactly call myself sedentary, I spend a lot of time seated out of necessity. I can’t play the harp or type standing up. After a lifetime with nothing but fitful exercise, building a realistic sustainable fitness routine was all about how I felt rather than how I looked. The urge to throw in the towel was immense when I saw the result of what felt like 8 months’ hard workout amount to jellylike flesh. That familiar sense of shame stung bitterly as I cast my memory back to the “I don’t give a shit” moments in summer when I’d dared to reveal what I now realised had been a celebration of rose pink orange peel.

I was quite a carefree little girl but I remember the moment vividly, aged 8, when I sat down and looked at my thighs which had never bothered me before. I felt a leaden inescapable sense of revulsion and disgust at my bodily imperfections. That sense of physical self loathing has never really left me. It can spread to all areas of my self with lightning speed and can drag me swiftly to the plummeting depths of depression. After a quick consultation with a close friend, I’ve committed to three daily sets of squats to target my problem area. I know it will take time and I’ll never have ballerina legs but I don’t want to be a dancer. I want legs that will carry me into my later years without needing the hip replacement Mum had a few years ago. Then there’s matter of the slight hunch in her back from Osteoporosis. Of course, it’d be a bonus to still cut it in a cossie at 47.

One thing’s for sure, this time of year can certainly exacerbate loneliness. Being single for the majority of my life often leaves me feeling like a spare part, especially around the silly season. Yes, I’m fussy about who I spend time with and there’s no lonelier place than at the heart of a crowd of people. I crave a sense of belonging, and I know fundamentally it’s a belonging within myself. It’s about the struggle to integrate all parts of my self. Am I worthy of love? Is there such a thing as unconditional love? Can I accept myself as I am and could An Other? What do I need to change and how can I start that change process? You could say these are headfuck questions but they are important to ponder.

I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I like my own company and that’s a mixed blessing. You can have too much of a good thing! I found out my personality type. I’m an INFP -T:

“Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine. Comprising just 4% of the population, the risk of feeling misunderstood is unfortunately high for the Mediator personality type – but when they find like-minded people to spend their time with, the harmony they feel will be a fountain of joy and inspiration.”

That explains a lot. If you’re curious about your personality type, here’s the link to the website where you can do the test: https://www.16personalities.com

I’m in the throes of a massive transitional phase in my life where values, ideals and goals I once held dear don’t fit anymore. In many ways I’ve never felt lonelier but I believe this work on oneself can only be truly realised alone. In proofreading this post, I know I need to get out more but I have little interest in superficial small talk. And that’s ok. I want to be with people who light up my inner flame and passion! We’re in the minority!

If you’re reading this you’ll probably know who Llwyd was, and if you don’t understand attachment to a pet, read no further! This is a rather indulgent and sentimental tribute to my loyal loving companion ❤️❤️❤️

Ten days ago I made the painful decision to have Llwyd euthanised.  She had just turned 17, the equivalent of about 86 human years.  She hadn’t really been herself for the past year since she became deaf and she definitely entered the end of life stage over the past 2 months.  Her coat dulled and she had matted patches of fur at the base of her spine where she couldn’t quite reach to groom herself. She went through phases of excellent health and vitality but a thyroid and kidney condition made her lethargic and prevented her from absorbing nutrients from her specialised food – unable to tell me she was feeling off colour, she deteriorated extremely rapidly, although she usually bounced back just as quickly. 

A couple of months ago I took her back to see the vet – we hadn’t been for about a year as her health was stable with only the occasional bout of sickness which passed quite quickly.  She loved Robert even though she hated visiting the surgery a mere 10 minute drive away which must have felt like a long rough ride on a rollercoaster to her.  I only took her if it was absolutely necessary as I didn’t want to cause her any additional stress.  He prescribed medicine to be administered orally once a day. Llwyd being Llwyd, treating her was an agonising ordeal, often resulting in a disgruntled cat and tears of frustration from me.  I tried several options including pinning her down between my legs and wrapping her in a blanket which stressed us both out!  Another tactic was to wait until she was in a deep sleep, then quickly open her mouth, shove the syringe in and thrust the plunger down, ejecting the foul tasting serum to the back of her throat.  Most of the time this worked but occasionally, it ended up on the sofa as she struggled to escape. She eventually wised up to my ploys and slept at angles that made it awkward to access her mouth.  This meant she wasn’t getting her medicine daily. She started to lose weight and drank copious quantities of water with an unquenchable thirst.

In her final months she became more and more attached to me and she was beside me within minutes of realising I wasn’t in the same room as her anymore. Velcro cat. I feel privileged that I’d earned her trust.

I’ve felt bereft, beside myself with sorrow and grief, inconsolably sad and lonely. I’ve sobbed heart wrenching tears from deep inside. There’s nobody to greet me when I come home or to say good morning to, or Bore Da in our case. Llwyd was 100% Welsh and never really got to grips with the English language. There is a huge void that can’t be filled yet. I know I projected much of my attachment and relationship stuff onto her and maybe that was OK? She didn’t seem to mind me venting my frustrations and innermost feelings out loud to her.

I’m absolutely certain I made the right choice though.

She died on the Sunday. On the Friday I went up to do the Yorkshire 3 Peaks challenge, an event for which I’d been training for months. She was waiting for me in the living room when I got back on Sunday afternoon and I knew straight away she wasn’t herself. She didn’t run towards me, she just stood staring. I greeted her with a loving caress but received no loud meowing or warm purring in return. Looking around, I saw that she’d been ill several times. She laid on her side looking exhausted. A while later she got up and started vomiting again. It was time for a trip to the emergency vet.

I stroked her head to calm her in the car. My excitement at completing the 3 Peaks disappeared.

After checking her over, Tom the empathic young vet discussed the options with me. They could keep her in for 2 days and treat her with lots of medication. A major operation was another choice. Or there was euthanasia. We both agreed the third option was the kindest choice. That’s what I would want for myself, I wouldn’t want to suffer and have a poor quality of life. Tom explained how things would go and I tried to listen while inside I was imploding, combusting, collapsing, melting, panicking about having to say goodbye to her. He took her away to give her the injection. When he brought her back in she laid on the floor, her eyes glazing over. She was going. I held her and spoke to her, trying to reassure her as well as myself that it wouldn’t hurt, how much she was loved and how she would be missed. I didn’t want to keep her in that transitional stage too long and I told Tom we were ready.

I collected her ashes 5 days later. That helped and that night I took the small cardboard tube decorated with a tranquil woodland scene with lush green grass and a carpet of bluebells to my bedroom, and she slept on the chest of drawers beside me. I felt a sense of peace at having her sleep at home for one last night. The following day I knew I had to scatter her ashes. Her remains didn’t belong in a cardboard tube, and now they’re dancing in the wind or swimming in stream water at various points on some of my favourite local walking routes.

I sometimes think I’m going mad. My rational brain knows she’s gone but I hear her. I hear the sound of the catflap door and part of me is momentarily excited, expectant, anticipating her calming reassuring presence. When I do my yoga practice, I feel her next to me showing me exactly how to do a cat stretch. I open a tin of mackerel and part of me expects her to patter towards me optimistically, hopeful for a flake of fishy flesh. And she doesn’t come! I see her through the kitchen window, returning home after checking her territory out. But it isn’t her. I feel her presence all the time. Our old routines will eventually start to take new shape and meaning.

Llwyd was feisty and characterful and not so long ago, she took on cats twice her size and had the upper hand. Paw! I loved watching her chase unwanted felines from her garden. I could hear her paws stomping the ground aggressively as she chased them off her land. On the other hand, she was super friendly with people and would seek out love and affection from complete strangers. A resourceful feline, when I was away for work, she got herself adopted for a couple of nights. She wasn’t interested in the food as much as love and affection. Cats and owners eh?

They say a house isn’t a home without a cat. Well I can vouch for that. Since she died, the house feels hollow, empty, lifeless, quiet, devoid of life and conversation. People have asked if I’ll get another cat. Are you kidding?!! The emotional investment is enormous, not to mention the financials and until I’m earning enough to sustain myself, I’m in no position to offer a safe and comfortable home to a pet.

I miss being woken in the early hours by her standing on my chest, poking my cheek with just the right amount of claw to rouse me from my slumber.

I miss her unconditional love. Her presence was a present.

It’s the end of an era. Llwyd’s soul is indelibly imprinted inside mine. I’m becoming adept at bereavement – death is an inevitable part of life. I feel a bit embarrassed rereading what I’ve written, especially during the pandemic with so much human loss and suffering, but I am a human suffering and a human learning. My grief for Llwyd is valid and is helping me resolve other losses. It’s tough though and her death has dredged up 17 years worth of memories, joys, sorrows and regrets.

I feel apathy towards life more often than I’d like. I know how ungrateful that sounds. I’m also menopausal and my hormones are all over the place. Making any major decisions now wouldn’t be a wise move but I can’t go on like this, feeling shit about my life. Don’t get me wrong, I feel intense gratitude and I truly can see and appreciate the positives, but some of the most important factors leading to a great quality of life are lacking.

So now what? The days get easier and time is healing me as I arrive nearer a sense of acceptance, although there are other darker days when my ego tells me it’s all doom and gloom and woe betide us and better to stay safely tucked up in bed. Helping others and keeping busy helps. Telling people helps too, although nobody welcomes sad news. Other days it feels right to stop, slow down and reflect.

Llwyd was a gift, a beautiful old soul

Overwhelmed, I delved into the realm of cows, sheep, lapwings and curlews. And peace descended upon me.

What a delight not to have to light the central heating for the first time in maybe 8 months. BST has delivered, albeit a couple of days late. Great!

The sky at the beach

Lockdown has been tough on us all and self medication is prevalent. It doesn’t solve any problems. In fact it probably amplifies them but when difficult emotions arise, it’s easy to reach for the bar/bottle/bag (delete as appropriate) in the search for healing, for oblivion.

There’s a saying that goes “You become your thoughts”. If this is true I’m about to turn into an Easter egg. I’m quite an obsessive person and I have an addictive streak to my personality. I used to be addictively obsessed with music. I still am to some extent but since I have very little musical work at the moment, I’m now addictively obsessed about food. It’s the next best thing! Food never used to fill my thoughts but now, if I’m not mind-full, I devour every single easter egg. In my mind, mind you. I’m sitting there with a big pile of them, all the packaging ripped off, the steely cool colourful foil peeled away from the beautiful big brown embossed milky sickly sweet chocolate ovals. It’s heavenly and I can’t stop and I don’t have to stop because I don’t feel sick. I can eat as many eggs as I want and I don’t gain weight. In fact, the chocolate HEALS me!!! Haha, if only! A vivid imagination is an asset and it’s a shame not to use it as often as possible.

I have a very healthy lifestyle and I exercise in some shape or form every day. 90% of my food is super healthy but food has become the easiest way I can self medicate because from Monday to Wednesday I’m surrounded by foods I would never usually entertain and I’m not allowed to eat them. I believe that’s the key right there. I don’t even like sweet chocolate but if I’m on one, I can guzzle ridiculous quantities, ideally until I feel sick. That takes rather a lot of chocolate and I’m more than capable!

Chatting with one of the regulars last night, whose medication of choice is gin, we came to the conclusion that we don’t hate ourselves but we’re not that enamoured with life right now.

There’s nothing here for me without playing work. In times of COVID with masks and other restrictions that prevent expression, this job sucks the breath of life out of me. I can’t seem to take a step in the right direction. I can do no right.

It’s Wednesday evening after 3 tough emotional shifts and I want to binge. I want as much food as I can stuff in my face and the consequences don’t bother me. I’ve just had an hour long conversation with myself debating why a binge isn’t the best way to express my feelings and that swallowing them won’t help, but it’s useless. I want to feel full and numb. I hate the fact I can’t stick up for myself at work, that I can’t find my words or that the words (and actions) I find would get me in the shit. I hate that I can’t share my frustration at the shambolic state my memory is in. I ask myself how the fuck I managed to memorise so much music not so long ago. I was capable of retaining reams of notes and volumes of information, yet now my short term memory is virtually non existent. I can’t tell you what the podcast I just listened to was about. I made a few errors of judgement at work today too and that worries me. Nothing too serious but worrying nonetheless. I don’t trust myself. I don’t recognise myself. I have no idea who I am!

Most of the time I’m pathetically apathetic. I think that’s more uncomfortable than being super emotional.

I’d like to approach this week with curiosity and a lightness of touch. Letting go helps.

From Monday evening, tinnitus sets in, a disconcerting clicking in my right ear. It’s so urgent that it feels muscular and makes me wonder if I’ve torn something in my shoulder. By Thursday morning it’s gone after a quiet day away from it all with only my online students and Llwyd to chew my ear.

She meows very loudly since she became deaf. My beautiful 17 year old cat has taken a turn for the worse this week. She woke me up in the early hours Thursday morning having a funny turn. She’s had them a couple of times in the past couple of months. She seems to fall off whichever chair she’s sleeping on and staggers about drunkenly for a few seconds until she comes round. It can be quite alarming and today’s episode was no exception. I was in the kitchen when I heard her fall off the armchair in the living room and I heard thumping noises. There she was, repeatedly rolling over, convulsively performing sideways somersaults. Her seizures subsided and she came to gradually, huffing and puffing, looking as surprised as me. I’ve booked an appointment for her to see the vet on Tuesday. I want to make sure she isn’t suffering or in pain. Let’s hope she’s on a roll in a good way.