Enough of this

Some Samhain thoughts I’ve been having. I am a moron for having been as competent and clever as I’ve been all my life. Why? Because when you then go through the devastating debacle that is menopause, you discover that there is such a thing as incompetence and stupidity and, all of a sudden, you’re the genius afflicted with it. I think this is true of many women.

That refrain “I no longer feel like myself” is there because if you are a sharp, smart, together kind of woman who finds that scene where Lorelai oversleeps and turns up to Rory’s first day at school in Daisy Dukes infuriating, suddenly that awful idiot is you. It’s not cute. It’s not endearing. Nothing about it makes me happy.

I’m the person who turns up 15 minutes early to every appointment so that I’m not left without a table or wasting someone’s time. I’m the one that if you ask me to do something and I agree to do it, you can bet your bottom dollar it will be done. And done well. But no more. I forget things all the time. Commitments made. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Work deadlines (you don’t need to worry about my boss finding that out as I have told them all, in triplicate, that I am no longer to be trusted and they now have to make reasonable adjustments for me being the sort of person I hate).

I realise I have used bad words that I rarely use out loud in this post – moron, stupidity, idiot, hate – this is because I am externalising what my internal berating has sounded like. When I am in a good mental health state such words are offensive to me, either in reference to myself or others, but when I am in a poor mental health state then this horrific unreconstructed monster is within me using such words, primarily to describe myself.

This morning I was in floods of tears (it is very rare for me to cry). Why? I always wake my husband up at 8.30am on a Friday so he can make his therapy appointment. Today was to be his last session for the year – and possibly forever, if he continues to feel this good – so it was with a shock that I realised at 10.20am that I had worked through the time to wake him up and he wouldn’t now make it to his appointment. He was very nice about it and called his therapist and they had a phone session instead, but he entirely missed the point about why I was crying. He thought I was crying because I had let him down. I was crying because I no longer recognise myself in this person I have become. You could set your watch by me. I keep my word.

However, in the last few weeks I have forgotten to do some important admin tasks, I didn’t make the cake I said I would for a family party, I didn’t send things when I said I would, I didn’t reply to letters and emails… so much that is typically me, I didn’t do. But now, with the gentle wisdom of the Goddess kicking my head in on Samhain, I have come to a conclusion. My entire personality isn’t my ability to do my to-do list. (NB: I feel like I read that somewhere in a self-help book or blog post but my memory is shot so do me a favour and email me if I have stolen your phrase.) I am not defined by what I do and don’t do. I am worthy of just being. Just existing. Without having to justify that existence by being productive or reliable or anything really. The guilt comes from what I see as me pulling the rug out from under people.

I pass over the fact that I worked extra hard to ensure the important admin was caught up and fixed, that I made another, less intensive, cake for that party and brought doughnuts too, that I didn’t need to send the things when I said I would and could send later, and that people are okay receiving answers when I’m ready to give them. The pressure I put upon myself is so intense.

Samhain is celebrated as a New Year festival for me personally. I always look to see what will manifest in the coming year, over the slowing down time of winter, the buds and hope of spring and then the next fecund summer and again back again to the reds and golds of autumn. However, it is also heavily connected with speaking to the ancestors and our glorious dead.

I have friends, lovers and family beyond the veil and, to a one, they all say to calm the hell down. The fundamental issue seems to be, as Sartre wrote, that hell is other people. Without needing to meet anyone’s expectations, we’d all be free. No more mental anguish, no more physical work, nada. But then we are hell, too, for others because we have expectations of them. At the very least that not every person you meet will punch you on the nose. Call it a social contract or something.

So what is the answer? Hermitesque escape? Tapping out of all commitments and responsibilities? Taking to one’s bed?

I think I have a better idea. I’m going to do what my friend advised today: ‘Be kind to yourself’. I intend to stop taking on extra responsibilities until I feel comfortable with my own. I will do a heck of a lot more yoga to get my nervous system under control and I’m going to try drugs again. Not the sort delivered by young men in puffa jackets; the sort the GP prescribes. I’ve had enough. I shall not go gentle into that good night. I shall rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.  (Cheers, Dylan.)