the last burnt sienna crayon

Who am I?

You tell me, because I’m not sure anymore.

I’ve tried to collect together all of the things which I’ve known myself by over the years, but it just doesn’t seem to make a coherent whole. It doesn’t make any sense. And then I try to collect together all of the things that have influenced or even directly caused those things which I have known myself by and I realise that for a large percentage of my life, I have come up with some excuse or other for “not being myself today/this week/month/year/decade/etc”. And if percentage wise I’m spending more time making excuses than actually ‘being myself’, then how can I really claim that the me that I am less of the time is the ‘real’ me?

For a large percentage of the time, I have always felt that my life has taken ‘time outs’ and I, the ‘real me’, was just sitting in waiting for whatever influencing factor that was masking me to go away, or for me to finally achieve the back to the real me’ state.

But I must have been mistaken. Because the mask never comes off. It only seems to change. It changes from day to day and year by year. And saying that makes it sound like it really must just be that ‘changing thing’ that we’re all supposed to do as we go through life anyway, but for some reason it doesn’t quite feel like that. It doesn’t quite feel authentic. It doesn’t feel like a natural evolution.

My striving has always been to be my most authentic and honest self, like some mythical, unblemished, Platonic Form or something, to all and particularly to me. However, whereas I used to think I knew who or what that authentic Form was and what she liked and how she thought and how she acted, I’m just not so sure anymore. When do the blemishes become no longer something to sweep away and make excuse for, but become the thing itself? What if all my blemishes aren’t something added to cover up me, but are actually now me?

If you start with a table and break off one of it’s legs, you can probably fix it back on, with the right glue and nails. No harm done in the end, it’s still a table. But once you start to take a chisel to the table and gouge out some big gaping holes, it starts to become something a bit different. And you no longer wait for it to be fixed back to its ideal state, you have to accept that it is now either a sculpture or junk, and not useful as a table any longer.

And lately I’m starting to feel a bit like that chiseled table, starting to accept that there is no ideal Form for me to become anymore. And I’m wondering how much I get to control what the finished sculpture of me will look like. Or do I simply call it junk, throw it all out and start from scratch? But if that were the case, what do I do with all the stuff left over, from everything that has gone before, the thought patterns, the beliefs, the dis/likes, the behaviours?

I think in the end I just have to keep chiseling. But without my Platonic Form to model myself after, how do I know what my eventual goal is anymore?

Isn’t it always the way of things, that as soon as you fix the leaky roof, a pipe bursts?

Tonight I’m thinking about going back on my word. I thought about it last night, and for several nights before that. I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time now, and I hate that. I think about it, then can’t face it, then can’t face anything else, then can’t face it again. I’m thinking about breaking my word about going someplace I vowed never to go again. And how do I live with myself if I do? I’ve always seen myself as someone who keeps her word, who learns from her mistakes. How do I expect any of you to live with me if I sell out? How when I’ve learned that I will regret it, at least eventually, but what else can I do when I haven’t learned a better way to allow me to avoid it?

I guess if I do, then I won’t have to live with myself anymore. . . because I won’t quite be me anymore either. I’ll be something a bit different, perhaps a bit less human, something a bit flatter. But, as someone once told me, the last time I wrestled with this angel and/or demon, ‘Perhaps that’s just a sacrifice you’ll have to make.’ I guess it’s better than the alternative(s). (??)

I’m not very good at self sacrifice, especially when it involves compromising my principles. I know you wouldn’t see it that way if I was able to tell you more, dear reader, but it feels that way to me, right now. It probably won’t after I do it. If I do do it.

help.

So this morning I’m booked in for not just one flu jab, but two. The regular one plus the swine flu vaccination. And as of right now, I’m not sure I’m going to go through with the swine flu one today, as I’m on my own with the Flower Child all day today and tomorrow (husband is travelling with work), and from what I hear from all corners, my arm will be rendered pretty useless for awhile afterwords.

Three year olds and any immobility of the parent don’t go well together.

Oh yeah, plus my fear of injections doesn’t really help me make a dispassionate and practical decision.

I’ve been so eager to get vaccinated, particularly against swine flu, as everything I get knocks me for six, and could actually be a bit dangerous for me, with my ‘house of horrors immune system’ and all, and taking care of said three year old will be impossible if I get flu, which would immobilise me even more.

I’m very thankful really that I have the opportunity to get the vaccine, with my reaction to illness and all, but then there’s my reaction to drugs too. The question is weighing up do I risk delaying it (possibly a substantial time, knowing my surgery and their general approach to appointments) and therefore risking getting flu (there’s so much of it going round, as you may have heard) or going ahead and having it today, likely not just getting the sore unusable arm, but probably running my system down and being fatigued for the next three weeks until I can see my acupuncturist again? Remember, my body doesn’t like or react well to drugs, and I’ve been really run down lately anyway.

I’ll let you know what I do and what happens.

Attended a portfolio day to discuss my work with ‘a professional’ on Saturday. Why is it that I left disappointed that she only had good things to say about what I had produced? (I know I’m not ‘there‘ yet, so I guess I was hoping she could tell me all of those things I had left to do, enough critisism to give me something to work on.) Why were her suggestions to go ahead and do the future things that I really want to do and try for the thing I want to try for and that she thought that I was good enough to do them so disheartening? (I want what she suggested so badly, but know it’s not possible.) Why was it that when I used to be such a believer in grasping the impossible, that when I used to be so willing to try anything that I could imagine because what have I got to lose anyway, go anywhere, have faith that something will work out, never give up, why was it that when she only half jokingly suggested that I write to Annie Liebowitz and ask if I could go on several weeks work experience with her, just for the hell of it, that this once upon a time dreamer, crazy risk taker wanted to cough and say “Shyeah, RIGHT!” Are you mental?”

It has been a long 15 years. And I’ve gone a lot of places I didn’t want to go because of both circumstance and of cruel fate and sometimes because of the very risks that I took, and I never in all that time stopped trying.

But I’m tired.

When I was little, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that my parents misunderstood me a lot. When I would do something and get in trouble for it, I would often be bemused and perplexed. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do?

My daughter’s look of absolute shock and confusion when I told her off the other day for drawing on her wall, reminded me all too well that, like me, she was probably innocent of any willful wrongdoing, and I felt chastised in not understanding her.

When I was a teenager, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that everybody misunderstood me a lot. I was figuring out that I was this person with all these thoughts and opinions and hopes, feelings and aspirations. But I was often perplexed at the fact that other people, friends, family, teachers, audition panels, universities, employers, didn’t ‘get it’. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do with my life?

When I’d stay out all hours of the night, when I’d get into trouble with my father at three a.m. for being out with my friends, the accusation was that I must be doing something wrong. Taking drugs, drinking, being reckless. When really, all I ever did was talk, try to find a place for me. The accusations hurt. Didn’t they know that I wasn’t as bad as all that?

Now that I am older, I often worry, as I have no idea if you ever do, that I have been misunderstood, misinterpreted, mistaken. Things that to other people might be water off a duck’s back, to me plague and unsettle me, still believing people think wrongly of me. I remember how often I felt wrongly accused as a child and even more as a teenager and react in fear that it has happened once again, that once again, it has only been a ‘misunderstanding’. The fear of accusation sometimes withers me.

I have learned that I am ‘different’, and I do/think/behave/mean differently to the people/culture around me. Often being ‘different’ leads to my expectation that others will misinterpret me, and getting into trouble, when, at least I believe, that my intentions have only ever been the best.

The window envelope sat on the bed waiting for, daring me to, face it.

“To the parent(s)/guardian(s) of ______ ”

Of course it’s a standard, administrative way to address correspondence to the parent(s)/guardian(s) of a child, but after our/my struggle to become the parent(s) of _____, I’d really rather not be referred to as the guardian(s) of _____.

Call me picky, but. . . some things still just rub the wrong way. some things still hold the memory, and I’d rather not.

I knew what the contents of the letter would be, and I knew I would have to open it. I knew that if I opened it I would have to read it, and I really didn’t want to, but thought I may as well get it over with.

Yes, it retold all the gory details of that unpleasant meeting in May, where it was made perfectly clear that I am completely wrong, though he, our professional correspondant, was aware of how controversial the argument was, though he was aware of how passionately I felt about the issue at hand, and how he could understand how i felt and how stressful the whole thing was, but in the end. . . i was wrong. A room of two senior professionals (one, top in the country), one junior, and another adult all stood on one side of the line drawn in the sand, and I slid my chair back, quite literally, to the other, ganged up on, and standing out. Was I that strong to stand on my own there? Am I still? No, I don’t think I can be that certain. Passionate, convinced, but not certain. This nonconformist not only has a sensitivity to rejection, but a fear of standing alone, and of being wrong.

He didn’t use the word “wrong“, per se, because when it comes to philosophy and ethics, you can’t really, and you can’t prove anyone as being “wrong“, you only really have the majority and what they say to prove your case. But he and his collegues made themselves perfectly clear. No one in this country would support me in my opinion, and as I live in this country, that’s what any respectable and responsible parent/guardian would do. . . in their opinion. And as far as anyone is concerned, their opinion is what counts, as I am not a top professional of this kind in the country, only a parent, for what it’s worth.

I still don’t think he is “right” but he is not “unfair”. I am sure I must conceed. Everything tells me that his arguments are hypocritical. . . but I’m not interested in arguments anymore. I’m done arguing.

Who decides what “right” we have to anything?! He was as much making a decision for her as I was. When it comes down to it, no body has any “right” in this matter anyway, not me, not him, not even HER, as God has all the rights and has made all the decisions already. We simply don’t get a choice. Facts are facts. What right do we have to pretend they aren’t so. Don’t we do a child a disservice in teaching them denial, in teaching them that everything is ok, when it may not be. The line in that sand has a row of ostrich on one side, and me on the other.

But I must learn to quell my passion when it gets shaken up. It would seem that it, the things that it holds to, and I, are “wrong”. And I can’t in all honesty say, swear, that those on the other side of that line are not “right”.

So I went shopping and bought myself a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

in the field of medical ethics, can i really be in such a complete minority? and does that actually indicate that i’m as wrong as everyone else here seems to think i am? for, when everyone else is actually more qualified than me, do i have a right to differ so strongly in opinion, when it affects more people than just me? but if i do what everyone else is wanting me to do and i don’t feel that it is really the right thing to do, then am i wrong to do it because i’ve not followed my strong gut feelings, or am i right to do it because i’ve followed the opinion of the more qualified majority?

when in the end, it’s not really my decision anyway, i just have to come to a decision to put to the person making the decision which may or may not affect his decision.

i choose ice cream.

i’ve always been told about that time when your child begins to exhibit learning that you did not give them. Flower turned 2 last week, and sometimes talks a lot, and sometimes doesn’t. the times when she doesn’t tend to make you forget that even though she’s not letting you know what she’s learning, she’s still learning it.

one example this morning was as i was doing her hair, i put something in her hair that i have always called a ‘clip’. when i brushed back her fringe and clipped the clip she responded by happily naming ‘grip’. this was interesting to me, not so much that she couldn’t have learned the naming of things anywhere other than me, but more that the most likely place for her to have learned what to call the things in her hair was her carer for the first 18 months of her life before she came to us. the eye opening thing for me was that words she hasn’t encountered for about 6 or 7 months. are still in there someplace, and occasionally come out.

the other amusing comment from her this morning was as she was playing with her farm, she ran the tractor into the sheep and knocked it over. husband said ‘oh poor sheep. is sheep ok?’ Flower answers back very matter of factly ’s’died.’

now does she actually have a concept of death at 2? and where did she get it? she doesn’t interact much with other children yet (either at playgroup or at a friend’s house) and when she does, that play involves more play kitchens, leggo and play dough than imaginary scenarios of battles or death. i haven’t even really told her any fairy tales (her story preferences are usually with sam-i-am, clara cow, igglepiggle and postman pat. no death in any of those.)

in terms of tele, she only ever watches cbeebies (other than an occasional ready steady cook when i remember that my viewing preferences can occasionally, once in a blue moon count a wee little bit too) since she’s been with us. so again, is this a word she gained before becoming our daughter? there was an awful lot of grown up tele in her last household, so quite possibly. i can’t believe that at 2 she actually as a concept of death, so it must be that she saw someone get knocked over, fall down with someone else saying ‘he’s died’.

but it does all remind me that i can never be the ‘be-all-and-end-all’ for her, no matter how much i’d like to be.

so far i have seen:
3 GPs

spoken to:
1 specialist nurse, 1 consultant neurologist and 1 optician

have a referral made to the ENT department (heaven only knows how long i’ll wait for this one to actually come through with an appointment) for difficult to pronounce, long worded therapy to help a difficult to pronounce and long worded visual problem

spent £70 on 2 visits to acupuncturist

spent £60 on 2 visits to chinese herbalist

spent £40 on 1 visit to osteopath (after injuring my neck and shoulder cleaning the oven the other day)

spent £0 on prescriptions for ibuprofen and co-codimol.

most people will read this and think “oh how wonderful the nhs! look how much money she spent/wasted on private treatments, when the nhs gives you things for free.”

problem is, no one in the nhs that i have seen has helped me.

i had to nag and pester the specialist nurse to let me speak to the neurologist who i had to pester to speak to me and didn’t phone me back until i was 300 or so miles away from home and the hospital.

the GP i saw this morning sent me away with probable tonsillitis, telling me that “it will clear up eventually.” also a neck injury which means i can’t move my head to the left, a 2 year old who needs watching from every angle, and a prescription for some low level painkillers that i was taking already anyway. whereas, the osteopath i saw this afternoon actually moved my muscles around and showed me some exercises to do and now i’m gaining movement in my neck.

the nhs specialists i have spoken to about my weakness, fatigue and <a href=”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscillopsia”target=”_
blank”>oscillopsia have told me to “wait it out and see what happens”, which predictably was “nothing happened”. whereas my herbalist took my pulse, looked at my tongue and told me what problems i must be having before i even told her, said “yes, i’ve seen this in many people” when i elaborated, gave me some herbs and within a week my field of vision began to increase markedly.

it’s just a constant frustration to me that the nhs has the means to help me, but it just never seems to happen when i need it. perhaps a year or two after the fact, but never when i can’t see, or move my head, or have the strength to walk further than across the road whilst being solely responsible for my bouncing, frequently screaming/crying 2 year old!

oh, and when asking what help i could get in doing that job, i didn’t find the answer very surprising. . .

nothing. just “battle it out”.

sigh.