Turbulence

There have been a lot of shiny objects, pressing deadlines, conflicting priorities and disruptive forces these past couple of weeks.

Life is bigger than it has been for years, so it all seems right on track as an external manifestation of the inevitable resistance.

Certainly enough to rattle me. Enough for me to foresee the overheating of the systems. But the plane isn’t going down.

Speciesism

When a horse is either excited or nervous, you can tell. They prance, each step springing upwards more than outwards, nostrils flared, neck arched, tail high, hind-quarters primed for action. The distinction between excitement and anxiety, like for us, is more about context than physiology, so you can’t necessarily tell the difference unless you have some insider knowledge, but either way, they look impressive. Like a tuned-in, turned-up vessel of Nature’s power. To see a horse keyed up like that is often to see it at its most beautiful, and enough to inspire at least some element of awe.

So, why is it then, when I’m excited and I prance down the street, I just look crazy? No-one’s looking at me thinking ‘my God, what a divine creature!’, they’re just giving me the side-eye.

Mitigation

I am attention grabbing by nature.

I’m tall and ‘attractive’, to kick things off. I like to wear bright colours, and items that would generally be considered statements. I have big eyes, and I use them extensively. My walk is more of a dance to the music, and I’m often grinning for no good reason. I might be singing. I’m very expressive, and I like to exhibit myself. I am inclined to obliviously defy hierarchy. I interrupt excitedly because I already know how the sentence ends and it’s given me an idea. I gesticulate profusely. Once I start talking, most people label me intelligent. My opinions are usually outlandish, complex and challenging.

Except, most of the time, if you actually see me, I’m not sure you’d notice me doing any of this stuff. Because, whilst I read that description and like this person already, I have invested a great deal into mitigating all of it in myself. Ashamedly shirking the attention my traits would have me grab. Mitigating my nature. Not because I don’t like me, and, looking back on it, not because other people don’t like me either. Just because I never knew how to handle the attention, or the effect I had on other people.

Quite a long time ago, I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped wearing colours. I stopped talking unless someone expressly asked me to. And, to this day, I’m almost constantly monitoring my own behaviour when out in public.

I’ve been working to undo a lot of my acts of self-diminishment, but they’re fucking engrained little fuckers. I’m not sure I’ll ever be complete.

I was walking to the shop earlier. I had my music loud and no-one was around. Life was good. And then, at some point, I spotted a guy headed my way. And I toned down my swagger, lest it be too noticeable to him. Lest it cause him to make comment. Lest I leave an impression.

Later, when I was walking down the high street, there were suddenly lots of people around, so I suppressed my joyful glee at being alive and moving, lest I cause someone to question it – be that outwardly or inwardly. Lest my defiant difference make somebody uncomfortable.

When I catch myself, I try to reverse it, because it’s stupid and unhelpful. But the effort is lacking. It’s like I’m faking the thing that I stifled that was so authentically me.

We must all do this; we must. It can’t just be me. But we mustn’t do this. We mustn’t. The world needs us to be more, not less.

Paid dues

I think I’ve made a decision.

It’s a decision I’ve made a bunch of times before, and then gone back on. But I think – finally – life has lovingly, firmly, backed me into a corner. There really is just no weaseling out of it now. If I don’t make this decision now, I’m categorically doing myself a disservice. Trapping myself in a life I don’t want. Denying myself a chance at what I do want.

And honestly, at this point, if I don’t make this decision, I don’t know what other decision I could possibly make in its place. So. Here we are.

The thing that has been holding me back most utterly is self-doubt. A lack of trust in my own ability to execute. A fear that all I’m good at these days is floating through the nebula. A fear that I’ve lost my agency. That my try is too atrophied to function. That, if someone won’t tell me what to do, I simply won’t do a thing.

Part of me is still succumbed to the track that broke me a few years ago, that I’ve been trying to undo the damage of ever since: That I’m doomed and defective. Doomed because of my defect. Undeserving of the life I desire but, what’s more, fundamentally incapable of it. It’s a track I had been playing in my head for all of my young life, until a personal cataclysm split the Universe in two and The Truth spilled out of the cavity. But before I could erase the last corrosive traces from my being, a man I loved and trusted whispered it back into me in my most vulnerable moments. My mistake to listen. My lesson to learn. I’ve been paying for it ever since.

How long will I keep paying for it?

When will I, instead, start paying myself?

Hospitable to gastropods

I’m pretty sure there is a slug living in my bedroom.

Slugs used to visit my bedroom through a crack in the skirting board. For a long time I didn’t realise because my dresser was there and hid their shiny trails, keeping their secret. But one day I rearranged my furniture, and their slimy nights of debauchery were exposed.

I plugged up the hole.

That was about a year ago. But sometimes I still find a trail that cannot be explained. At first I thought maybe I’m just disgusting enough to have not noticed and therefore not cleaned up the trail prior to the point of discovery. But that explanation became less and less likely as time wore on. I was suspicious, but I checked all the hiding places I could think of that a slug may be hunkered down in, and nothing. I also double checked my plugging handiwork, and searched for any similar points of entry. Nought to report. So I went about my life as usual.

But then, the other day, I put my glasses on, and my vision got blurrier. Because a fucking slug had smeared its mite-infested foot all over the fuckers.

The thing I most dislike about the recurring mystery trails is that they are localised around my bed. I’ve never found any trails on my bed, but they’re always near. And I never find them leading anywhere. So I’m sort of worried there is a slug living under my bed that, for whatever reason, keeps eluding me.

The thing I second most dislike about the recurring mystery trails is that they suggest a slug has been surviving in my bedroom for an extended period of time. Now there is an abundant supply of paper, but the lack of munch marks on the pile of books by my bed suggest the offender has an alternative source of food it finds more…palatable.

...’hospitable to gastropods’ is not the tagline I aspire to for my sleeping area.