Re-inventing yourself

How often do we re-invent ourselves? On a daily basis perhaps.

If the re-invention process is successful I wonder what I should do with the old ‘self’, the old Marjorie. Then I realised that it’s not really possible – for me, at least – to separate myself into ‘old’ and ‘new’ versions of me. My life is a tad more complicated than that. I think that I manage multiple parts of my personality at the same time. Let me explain. With different relationships I have a different part of me to share with each person: that’s almost like wearing a different mask, or showing a different face. It’s all me, but different. Like the sun, it’s all sun but it looks different at different times of the day and from various locations of the earth.

I remember when a cousin first travelled to the UK from Jamaica, I saw him standing at the window on his first morning in the shires, he was just looking at the sky. Then he spoke, slowly, and a touch sadly, “The sun is a lie.” I was puzzled, but he continued, his head turned slightly to one side with the heavy disappointment of losing a familiar friend, “It looks like the sun, but it doesn’t feel like the sun.” His conclusion made sense. His relationship to the sun had altered with the miles of travel, but the sun was still the same, just showing a different side of itself in a different situation. Here it was necessarily lightly masked by clouds and driven by wind.

What works in one place doesn’t necessarily work in another. The same can be said for relationships and the parts of our personality that we share.

In a way we can be like the sun and become so good at masking the various parts of our character that we build up a hard exterior and hide under layers of self-deception.  The main concern that I have is that one day it may become too hard to take off any of the masks. The more I think about it, the chief problem that I see with having this interchangeable mask-like life is that one mask may be so effective that it becomes the only one we wear, and then we lose the other, valuable, parts of ourselves.

If we re-invent to prevent others from seeing us, then we have to tread cautiously in case – in the process – we change a single temporary mask into a permanent suit of full-body armour.

The last thing we should do is to be a lie.

I know it’s not comfortable to continue life as an invention, a fiction, a life behind a mask.

Home Bird

I am a home bird that loves to travel. An enigma? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been referred to in that way.

My home environment gives me peace and happiness, therefore I’m bound to enjoy it. I also love to travel – both locally within the country and globally. There are a few things that can get me to travel, well, the truth of it is there are a few people that can get me to travel to see them without a second thought. I love to spend time with them, where they are, or to have them with me.

I remember travelling thousands of miles on my own – without telling anyone else (apart from the person I was going to be with) until I boarded the plane - just because of love. It’s easy to do.

For years I have stayed close to home, making my nest. Then there was the fluttering of my heart followed by the fluttering of my wings and the inevitable flights away from the nest. It’s easy to do.

When you want something enough, you make a way. You figure it out. You have to.

We always move towards that which interests us. Our actions and hesitations are evidence of our desires.

“Movement illustrates the intentions and the interest of the person who is moving.”

Édouard Lock (Founder of La La La Human Steps – Canada)

Sewer life

This could be my weekly ‘How dare you?!!’ piece.

Things people don’t understand they either destroy or hide from their view. By labelling someone or something as different and less than desirable it seems to make for the sanitised view of the world that they seek.

All fears are labelled grotesque and monstrous and war is declared with them. This could be outright murder and genocide or more subtle means of annihilation. You see, there are other means of destroying people, ideas and places as well. The ruling powers can either hide them away (metaphorically in the closet) or flush them away in a sewage-like system.

This is the way life is for many visible minorities that the ruling homogeneous groups want to achieve. You may be a Muslim in a predominantly Christian world, you may be homosexual in a mainly heterosexual world, you may be African in a mostly European world, whatever the difference that is abhorred the result will be the same: a systematic rite of ‘cleansing’.

If you take time to look at the sewage systems of most developed countries you will discover that it is the home for unwanted items of the everyday so-called civilised society. It is where things are dumped and remain ‘out of sight and out of mind’. Sewage systems are usually designed to function below the surface of the ‘usual’ everyday behaviour.  

When people want to condemn you and your ordinary life to the sewers I believe you have a right to stand up and shout, “How dare you?!!”

Mean

Does being mean cause pain? I contest that it does. Some folk will respond with that age old rhyme of ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me,’ but they are wrong, names do hurt and sometimes they are the final straw that causes someone to tip over the edge.

Does that mean we can’t have fun? No, it doesn’t. But there is a big difference between having fun and being mean and I’m sure that we all know the difference ... especially when the meanness is directed at us.  

There was an episode on a TV show where a girl blogged about her classmate: it was quite simply a case of cyber-bullying. The classmate eventually committed suicide because of the social pressure and negative attention she was receiving from her fellow students as a result of the meanness started from the blogs. In this particular episode of Harry’s Law (s2, ep 4) it was argued that meanness is part of everyday life and that we can’t all be held responsible for the subsequent actions of people just because we have contributed some mean act to their life and day.

The lawyers argued that newspapers portray meanness on a daily basis, as do politicians and other public figures. This does not make it right although it has become an accepted, nay normal, part of everyday life.

I think that it’s better to be kind than mean. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I prefer to receive kindness than meanness. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Meanness causes pain, and often leads to death. That’s the truth. 

Creeping imagination

Have you ever had that feeling that something you dislike has touched you without you knowing? I mean, for example, a spider is crawling on your arm. Then you do those jerky movements that look like a parent’s bad dance at a wedding. You know those times, don’t you?

I just did.

The recent high winds and the neighbours cats have caused severe damage to one of the fence panels in my garden (well, this one more than the rest) and it looked like the Costa Concordia as it listed away from the other upright panels. Other neighbours, houses away from mine, have stopped me in the street and mentioned that they saw it falling over it, so I knew it was time to remove it.

Hatted and gloved against the weather I went forth into the garden.

The rotting wood fell easily away from the attached posts. I thought then this was going to be easier than I had imagined and wondered why I had delayed removing this eyesore for so long. As I leant forwards to lift some of the broken pieces of wood I felt something touch my back.

It was a light touch, and it instantly unnerved me because I was wearing several layers of clothing.

I dropped the broken panels to the ground and jumped backwards. That’s when the dancing started. My arms were making strange geometrical shapes with my body as I struggled to release the foreign object from near my skin. I could feel it moving down my back. It was all I could do not to scream out.

As I jerked frantically I felt something move lower down my back I flung off the gardening gloves and reached for it. With disgust I threw a small dark object to the ground. It was a spider! I knew it was, wasn’t it? I peered at the ground but the pebbles disguised it, but I was right, wasn’t I? I felt my skin crawl as I continued to fan my clothing away from my body to let any other creepy crawlies loose.

What I did next surprised me.

I shook my clothes one more time then retrieved the gloves and continued to clear the broken wood away from the edges of the garden. Once they were in a neat pile I walked swiftly to the kitchen door.

Then, it started again; that creepy feeling that something unbidden was touching me. This time I didn’t feel anything new I saw a spider (yes, a real one) on the doorstep. I flicked it off, back into the garden, and as I touched it it curled up into a ball. That was it! I was convinced that what had touched me earlier was really a spider. I lost all reserve and flew through the door.

I ascended the steps rather quickly and in moments I was in the bathroom and stripping off my clothes. As I did so I shook each item – away from me – to see what was in there. I checked my back in the mirror and, thankfully, nothing was there. As I turned my clothing back inside out something fell to the floor. I jumped back convinced it was a spider. It lay there in a dark ball, not moving.

I didn’t want to move first but I had to move before it did, so I backed up, all the time keeping my eyes on that spot, and reached for some toilet tissue. As I approached it again I tried to identify it. Was it really just a dried up berry or was it a disguised spider. With my exposed skin tightening in fear I enclosed the ball with the tissue. It did not move. I gingerly picked it up and found out that it was a berry.

Now, that should have calmed all my fears, yet it didn’t.

I was still using my hand to brush invisible spiders from my back. My imagination had created a colony of them crawling all over me and the evidence of the berry as it lay in the tissue did not convince me that there hadn’t already been at least one of them crawling on me.

You know those times, don’t you?

You don’t?

Oh, it’s just me then ...

In plain sight

I had to have blood taken today, but when the nurse called me I remained seated. Luckily she did not remember me, although I remembered her all too well from my Maroon Day last year when she was less than focused on the situation.

It is because of this that I specifically asked to see another nurse this morning.

I named the one I did not want to see, and the reasons why. The Dr laughed and said that he had to remain professional but he could see that there were possible reasons why many people didn’t want that particular nurse.

I was glad.

So when I turned up this morning I was pleased to book myself in with the correct nurse.

That’s when it all went wrong.

My nurse, a kindly and gentle woman, was being called on by this other nurse to help her with patients and then, for me, disaster struck. Nurse W (my selected practitioner) began to run late with her appointments. I was in the waiting room for nearly an hour before I first heard my name being called.

Instead of rising to my feet I looked downwards and ignored the call.

It’s a strange sensation hearing your name being called and totally ignoring it. I knew that it was me, and not some other Marjorie Morgan, that was being summoned, but it was Nurse X who was striding across the waiting room yelling out my name.

As I sat there, trying not to draw attention to myself, I noticed other patients looking around. I think I was more obvious than invisible because I realise now that I was the only one not looking around for this mysterious Marjorie Morgan: I knew where I was.

Nurse X went back to Nurse W and from down the corridor I could hear her saying, “The patient you asked me to see ... I’ve called her, but she’s not here. Have you already seen her? That’s strange. I’ll ask the other nurses.” From the one-sided conversation I knew they couldn’t understand where I was. Yet, I stayed still.

I hadn’t yet decided how I was going to announce my presence to the receptionist again, but I knew I was not going in to see Nurse X and so I sat and listened to the search for me.

“I’ll call her once more,” said Nurse X as she came back to the door of the waiting room.

“Marjorie Morgan!” she bellowed. Heads all seemed to turn towards me. No movement. I stared straight ahead. “Well,” Nurse X exclaimed, “that’s strange. I’ll just get the next patient. John Smith?”

As the door closed behind them both I got ready to get up and go to the desk. I knew the other patients would find this a strange situation but I didn’t care. However, I was saved from that move because at that moment Nurse W came to the door with the Dr laughing behind her, “Marjorie”, she said as she looked at me.

“Yes,” I replied as I walked towards her smiling face.

“The Dr just told me the story. Sorry for the wait. Could you just sit here while I finish with another patient?”

I sat outside her consulting room as she dealt with another of Nurse X’s patients and waited some more. I didn’t mind waiting. I just was determined not to see the giver of pain that day.

Nurse W said later that she would say I was in the toilet or something. I said I’d rather she didn’t lie for me, but I knew that it could be professionally sensitive for the other nurse (and the rest of the staff team) if she knew the real reason for my refusal to see her.

With numerous vials of blood drawn I walked back through the waiting room and met several glances of curiosity that were dying to know why I was in plain sight (and hearing) but refused to answer Nurse X’s call.

They may never know until they, like me and several other patients, experience the rough and unforgettable treatment at the hands of Nurse X.

I’ve never done that before. Been in plain sight and purposely hidden. It felt odd. But I was protecting myself, so that felt right.

Reluctant couch potato

I am not a gym bunny but throughout the years I have sashayed between fat and fit (it’s true .... look at my pictures) but this recent enforced down time is no fun at all. I don’t want to watch TV, I couldn’t read, and I ached incessantly (not from any pleasurable activity ... that’s another story all together). Therefore I’m complaining about this time I have to spend sitting and lying about.

I don’t want to run anywhere either, but I’d like to walk around again without feeling like I need a stick to hold my jelly-like legs up (despite my best efforts I have jelly thighs legs for two reasons: lack of focussed exercise and this stupid bug!)

Years ago, when trying on some clothes in the changing room, a niece turned to me and said, in all innocence, 

“Aunt, I don’t know why you don’t like swimming. You could use your legs as floats!” My other sister fell about laughing but even that wasn’t enough to get me doing the necessary leg lifts.

So, here I sit (or lie) with my jelly thighs wishing I could walk without the fever moving my head around like I’m in a snow globe, or the wobble that has inhabited my frame attempting to push my body in different directions to the ones my mind wants to go. I feel as if I’ve got sea-legs without the journey anywhere.

All I can realistically do is to follow the Doctor’s instruction and sit still for hours each day.

I wonder how couch potatoes manage it all the time?

Maybe I just can’t hack it anymore because I have a sofa and not a couch. Just wondering ...

See like doctors?

I think children and doctors are similar in their outlook: everyone is more or less the same.

I came to this conclusion while helping a child with their reading. We were going through a book called ‘How your body works’ and the concepts were clearly laid out in those small and colourful pages.

Everybody is a unique and special person and should be treated well.

We all look different on the outside.

We all have most of the same things inside of us that work the same way.

This made me think ...

What if doctors were to decide how to treat a patient having a heart attack or stroke depending on their hairstyle, their skin colour, their sexual orientation or their mobility? Would that be a good way to provide health care? The treatment needs to take in specific individual needs but generally, it’s the same approach and care process for all, isn’t it?

Sleep is a true love ...

I love to sleep. I don’t do it enough, but I plan to do more of it because it makes me feel ... happy.

When I am sad ... I like to sleep.

When I am mad ... I like to sleep.

When I cry and don’t always know why ... I like to sleep.

When I can’t think ... I need to sleep.

I curl up and wrap myself with the covers and my arms until sleep gently rocks me into bliss. I sometimes dream, but often I just float and release all the worries away from my peaceful slumber. Sleep is a medicine of unknown ingredients that always seem to work for all my ailments. It heals me, soothes me, wraps me in its arms and cradles me back to a place where I can feel again, and to that place where I know I can think, smile, dance, and love without borders.

I love sleep. Sleep loves me.

Sometimes I am a sheep ...

It’s getting cold and nobody likes to be standing outside longer than necessary, so I don’t quite understand how the following scenario happened – especially as I am a person who is none too fond of the cold.

I went to the cash point at the rear of the store, there were two machines but people were snaking behind just one of them. I joined them.

I stood there looking at ... nothing in particular while moving from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm - in the way that queue members do. The people at the head of the queue seemed to be taking an exceptionally long time at the machine. I looked over to the other one, there wasn’t a sign on it saying it wasn’t working, but I still stayed where I was.

Then we moved forwards. I was still cold and as I moved closed I peered even more at the other machine. I still couldn’t see any sign (as if I thought it would materialise as I got closer!).

Other people came and joined the queue.

The man who was behind me cleared his throat and spoke, I looked around at him. “Is the other machine not working?” he asked. The question in my mind was voiced.

I laughed as I said to him, “I don’t know. I’m just a sheep! I saw the queue and joined it.”

The woman in front of me also turned and started laughing. “Me too!” she smiled at us, “I’m not sure, I did the same.”

The man who spoke up repeated his question to the person leaving the head of the queue. “No,” the departing person confirmed, “it’s not working.” Someone then felt brave enough to approach the cashpoint and said, “No, the card reader is damaged.”

With a sigh of relief we all settled back down into our English reserve and resumed our quiet places in the queue feeling justified that we hadn’t broken queuing protocol.   

Sometimes I feel like a sheep but sometimes I just know I’m so English! We love our quiet queuing. 

Undercover sister

This is not about Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act, although it could be ... it’s about, well, you’ll find out if you read on.

(But just in case you want to know whether you have the time or not – this is about keeping secrets. There, the cat’s out of the bag.)

Right, where was I?

Ah yes, the undercover sister.

I guess many families have secrets. And we may never know about them because ... they’re secrets. I think that’s self explanatory really, however, I will plough on.

I have spoken to several gay people who, when they share the secret of their sexuality with people, are greeted with the words, “I knew you were gay ages ago ...”. Thus revealing that the secret was not such a secret after all. It was really a case of people actively avoiding the obvious to retain a facade for as long as possible. Somehow this facade helps to keep them safe ... from the truth.

Being undercover is about pretending to be someone else.

Being in a family is sometimes about pretending that everything is the way you want it to be. Holding up the curtain of social respectability so that internal and external relationships can continue in a seemingly smooth (and always false) manner. Each family has their own personal way of handling their specific secrets, be they alcoholism, child abuse, drug addiction, incest, sexuality, or ... anything.

At different times and in different places people who carry secrets have their own particular burden to hold. It is specific to that person in that family. No one else will know the weight of the shame or perceived loss of respectability that that secret carries with it. The only common factor is that everyone involved is an undercover agent and must retain their character at all times.

The initiation into secrecy often comes without formal training, just looks, sighs and head shaking. The importance of this secrecy is heightened by the fact that no one ever acknowledges it ... ever.

So, when this undercover sister broke ranks and spoke about the family secrets there was a change in the choreography, new secrets were made and the exclusion zones moved: I was now outside and removed from the bonds of the heavy family secrets. I was branded a traitor who could not be trusted anymore because I spoke openly about how my family worked and how they viewed me – as the enemy within, but I felt lighter and freer.

As I am now a free agent - no longer in deep (family) cover, I can present myself as I like, not as the family dictates: my life is not a secret.

Sadly, they’ve gone into deeper cover than ever now I’m out, they’ve taken the other secrets undercover with them.

“You have family secrets because you want to present your family as respectable.”

 Laurie Taylor, Thinking Allowed, BBC Radio 4, 26^th September 2011.

Destruction

Doing hurtful and negative things to others only hurts them. Right?

Wrong.

Willard White (in the Guardian 15/4/05) said something that rang true to me:

“We choose to do things that we think will make us feel good ... If the foundation of that choice is steeped in the poison of what we feel about ourselves, we can do really terrible things. Every human being wants happiness, and wants to be at peace. So why choose to do something destructive, which is actually an act against yourself?"

(Yes, this is Willard White Week!)

Destruction of others leads to self destruction.