Today I had to flee
The torment of my journalling hand
As I tried to chronicle every pitfall, every worry of my mind
Learning to observe
Seems easy
Until everything swells up like a barrel wave and wants to quell you under
I was crouching over my paper, pen in hand, when suddenly all the words, all the watching, all of it got too much – like a chorus of clambering voices – each one a tier above the other, judging downwards to the tier below. Then another crowd, across the hall, saying things like ‘allow the judging’, ‘just observe’, ‘love yourself’ and so on. Trying so hard to be nice to myself but wanting to know myself to the fullest extent. It’s like climbing into a net, getting caught up and tangled, then the tangle getting tangled in itself until there is no path out again.
So I put down my pen and I rushed down the stairs and it was straight out to the rock pools. To the rock pools where I would calm down, I told myself. To the rock pool where I would reconnect to love.
Instead I found myself growling like a wolf. A deep, loathing growl; agro, ready to bite. For the first time in a long time I felt angry. Anger is not something I tend to feel. Usually I defer all ‘unpleasant’ emotions into wallowing sadness or detached despair. But I was angry.
It wasn’t clear who or what I was angry at. All I know is I wanted to be free. All I know is I have never felt comfortable. Never known what it’s like to not be self-conscious or unbound. Never felt free to move without the fear of being judged as fat or ugly or unpalatable in some way. Never was the kind of person whose smiles flowed out with the ease of waterfalls. Never could roll about on the floor or be a clown in front of others. And many more things.
Strained.
I am a strained individual.
I wanted to howl like a wolf to the moon, but all I could manage was a fierce-some little growl to the rocks. Even then I was wondering ‘Who is watching?’ ‘Who is judging?’ ‘How should I really be right now?’
And yet in some ways I am more free than most. I do what I like when I like. I make fires and I swim naked and I climb trees and I (try to) pay attention.
It’s just that, my mind makes me never-fully-free. I kept walking further along those rockpools, dodging perriwinkles and limpets and tiny blue muscle shells. I lay down on the rockslab as the tide came in to swallow me up. I cried frustrated childish sobs. They forced themselves out of me – a confused menagerie of anger and frustration and sadness and unnameable things – emotions that exist in the blend of others.
‘Why am I so self conscious?’
‘Why am I so self critical?’
‘It’s so hard to be a woman. Can you be free as a woman?’
‘Am I a fraud? Am I an actor? Are these emotions even real? Watching myself watching myself…’
I wanted to go to the middle of the ocean and scream, then nobody would hear me. Then annoyed that I can’t just scream now. Then converting my anger into more frustrated sadness.
I stood on a rock and a blessed answer came to me.
‘Hannah. You are not special.’
‘I’m not special’
‘You’re not special! You’re just a normal person. What a relief!’
There have been a few times in my life where people have made me out to be special. And now I am realising that is damaging. That is stifling. By teachers, by friends parents – I felt watched and I wanted to appear to fit their image. Then I held myself back.
Or is this just a story I’m telling myself?
Here is another story from my past that I’m attaching meaning to…
On my very first day of school I was ostracized. I was demarcated as weak and bottom-of-the-hierarchy material. In a playground of five year old girls, I tried to find friends, and I found a little group and asked to join. They said I could only join on account of being their slave. So for the first year of school I was a slave girl ! (Did you realise/remember how brutal 5 year olds could be?). Actually at some point I quit being a slave and I just played on my own. Picking rubbish out of the schoolyard bin and making ‘art’. Talking to the gutter-pipes and the walls (if there were trees present it might have been different!). Maybe it was because I had a strong imagination that I was spaced-out to begin with, hence the attribution of my slave status. Or maybe the imagination grew to cope with being cast out to play on my own. I don’t know for sure which came first but I know this period must have had a large effect on my life. Though I do not know how large.
The last two things I did were slide myself into a narrow ‘cave’ (more of a crevice. Then I found a mini cliff-side waterfall and put my head underneath. It tasted mildly of metal. Unpleasant.
‘I’m just a normal person. Everyone else is just as complex as me. Don’t let bullshit and baggage of the mind hold you back from socialising, you lone wolf.’ (though I do enjoy being a lone wolf, always will.)
During the rest of the day I went surfing with some people. Played guitar and listened to music with another.
For the previous months, I have been resistant to many things. Even if those things are activities I would theoretically love. Coming to this surf-town, I didn’t even know if I would be able to muster up the will to go out on the board. Well now I have done twice and it’s great craic. Though yesterday I was choosing confidence so much so that I put myself at risk (well according to a frantic lifeguard, I thought I was fine). Had to get a bit of a rescue job from another surfer… woops… still fun though. It was a challenge for my inner-stability and self-securedness too. I, especially recently, am quite triggered by figures of authority and feeling like I am being scolded. (Bringing past the scars of school days I guess). When the lifeguard was lecturing myself and two others, I had to really tell myself he is just doing this to keep us safe, or at least that is his intention.
Later, after playing guitar with a hostel buddy, we started playing sad songs from our phones, connected to their speaker. The sad music made me cry and I allowed the tears to flow, even though I was here with a person I don’t know super well, and heck maybe they get really uncomfortable by people crying. But I believe we shouldn’t make other people’s stories our stories. It’s up to another person to tell you how they feel. You don’t have to be constantly scanning people’s moods and reading between the lines. So I cried and it was nice and I got a nice hug out of it. Crying shouldn’t be such a big deal anyway. Free to express sadness.
I have a list of topics to journal about, but it’s not urgent.
What matters is who I choose to be going forth. We have so much choice over who we want to be. I choose to be free. I choose to be confident. I choose to be self-secure. I choose to be friendly (most of the time anyway). I choose to be at ease. I choose to be comfortable, always, being me.
Sin é
Hannah Fitzpatrick Creative 