Anxiety
sits in my shoulders
like a bird
without wings
watching
the approach of winter.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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The room is smaller than she had anticipated and more full up, the large machine in the centre purring like a cat, its cavernous belly open and looming, just the right size to swallow a person up. There are several trolleys to one side: cluttered, laden; sporting plastic tubing, oversized headphones, pale blue gowns and disposable shower caps. She has never seen so many strange things together in one place and wonders at their employment, knowing in only a short while she will find out.
She notices there are no blankets, and that the belly of the machine looks cold. She hopes she will not have to strip, removing layers that hide what she no longer likes. Age having denied her body of beauty, she finds shedding her clothes humiliating, everything spilling out. She wishes they provided different gowns for different things – some thicker, some thinner; some longer, some shorter – to bestow dignity and concealment where such generosity could be afforded. She wishes too that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, so that her stomach was flatter and her breasts less pronounced. She knows she is worrying about stupid things; focusing on the minutiae for fear of what the matter at hand entails, placing all of her anger and all of her fear onto what sits above in order to avoid what lies beneath: futile attempts at self-management, personal therapy gone array.
She spins the ring on her finger: a shining star she bought for luck; thumbs the bulb of carnelian balled in her fist, drawing upon its power to balance her energy and ground her feet. She imagines roots growing downwards into the earth, straightening her spine to better resemble a trunk. She tells herself she is strong, resilient, capable of weathering worse than this, drawing her attention back to why she is here, remembering how far she has come. She can do this; get through and rise above. Other people she knows have done so; some who are weaker. It is not a big deal, a complicated procedure. There is nothing to be scared of, nothing to fear. She is not going to die or disappear. Everything she is fighting is in her head: false, imagined, etc. It’s just anxiety and fear. It isn’t real. It cannot kill her. She fights it everyday, and everyday she survives.
“ARE YOU READY?”
The physicians voice breaks into her trance – lifting her out of her reverie, forcing her body to land. She shuffles her feet, moving a bit to steady herself.
“Yes,” she lies: false positive. “All set.”
She forces a smile, wishing she had the courage to tell the truth, to explain that she is terrified of tight spaces, hospitals, loud noises, machines, large metal objects and not being in complete control. But she doesn’t and she can’t because just behind her eyes there are tears: inopportune and inconvenient; her inner child clamouring to come out. As ever, her timing is perfect. She wonders why she doesn’t better-pick her moments: like when she is walking on the beach, swimming in the sea, listening to music, sitting and reading… Times when she is peaceful, centred, happy and resilient. She battles love and hate, fight and flight, strength and weakness: trapped between polarities, wondering what her therapist would say; failing to arrive at a conclusion. Each of her answers addressing different needs, reaching out to protect different parts: she is pulled – this way, that way; up, down… until she feels that she is broken, attached to a million separate pieces of the same single shell.
The adult who is old and wise puts her foot down. The mother who is emotionally unavailable tells her: “grow up!”. The child who is small and vulnerable retreats taking the tears and the pieces with her, pushing them back into the bag on her back already overflowing with things she has been advised to forget.
She stops herself, aware that she is being carried away by her inner world and that her projecture isn’t helping. She will be the mother: capable, distant, cold and strong; a woman who can survive anything. She doesn’t have emotions and fears, like everyone else. Frozen, a damsel in distress: she never woke up.
Feeling better, she addresses the physician with a smile – resolved and confident, ready to face whatever life throws up – and receives a gown and cap, along with directions to a screened-off space. Walking towards it, her body erect, she is acutely aware that the next thirty minutes could change her life and that with knowledge there is no turning back. For just as with actions: what’s done is done; with revelations: what’s revealed is forever more glaringly evident and impossible to push back. Pondering whether ignorance is better than truth, she ties the gown at the back, a final gesture to seal her fate.
Rebecca L. Atherton
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I continue to exist in a state of flux, a butterfly locked in the body of a caterpillar, desperate to get out, to travel, to experience, to see, to taste, to touch….. but unable, because I am weighed down by feet that are corrupt.
As I walk, I trip, slip and deviate. I am sure there is a path: a true one, a straight one, a clean one; but mine, as ever, meanders and is slow. Considering I was premature – born early and left to ripen in a casket – I’d have thought I would be more direct, more able to hurry along. But I’ve always resisted speed. My natural rhythm is gentle and slow and I get overwhelmed easily. Why? Why so eager at the beginning and now, part through, so shy?
Fear, that’s why. I’m terrified of age, disease, pain and death, illness, misfortune, loss and hardship, dying as an action in and of itself. Life seems to be all about letting go and losing, saying goodbye. It’s a lot for a body to carry.
Burying my head in meditation, my heart in prayer, I muddle along, grateful for the miracles and patient with the truths. For while there are things that might hurt and things that render me flat, there are also things that lift me up so high, at times I fear I might not ever come back.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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It’s so cold outside, I might actually catch hyperthermia. Walking, my whole body has gone into shock. Where is the beautiful sunshine of earlier, the brilliant blue sky overhead? I had such a lovely walk this morning, but, somehow, as the day darkened into evening and the light disappeared, the warmth evaporated too, and now it’s nothing short of unbearable. Even in multiple layers; coat, hat, scarf and gloves: I am shivering. And my shoulders have risen so high, they are competing with my neck.
Hiding out in a cafe, I am waiting for the feeling in my fingers to come back, drinking hot tea to fast-track the warming. I have had a good day though, a reward for persevering with a weekly group. There was a large table: full; new people and old, people I knew and people I did not. I talked a lot. I made a friend. I felt at home… It’s such a change to be able to find things to attend, compared to the isolation of Mallorca, and the novelty of that is still to wear off.
However, group aside, I am drifting: my ability to write comes and goes, and with it my sense of wellbeing. Why is my whole sense of self; my identity, my smile, so tightly wrapped around something I can never hold?
As I try to figure out how to get through each day, how to get the most out of everything – being here, the chances, the opportunities… my boat pitches and I feel sick.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Finding a quiet place to sit and work is a challenge. London is always full, especially in the center. Walking from cafe to cafe, I spend longer than I would like, waste hours I would rather not lose, attempting to repair what has come apart. And as each day unravels, giving and taking, making and breaking, I become increasingly aware that I am trapped.
Closing my eyes and rewinding; going backwards in order to stop and process before turning around and attempting to go forwards again: I sense I ought to be travelling; ingesting new sensations and experiences, growing the things that have shrunk.
But I don’t know how to get there or where it is I ought to want to go, and every time I experiment with a different route, pick a different path or take an alternate turning, I end up returning to the place where I began.
Attending meditation classes at a local centre; sitting and listening and attempting to do: something, anything, etc… I am learning. But is it enough?
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Time hangs immobile,
stubbornly static;
like stagnant air.
A dog at my feet,
a kettle on the hob:
worrying…
An accident with a knife;
a sudden slit:
and blood, everywhere.
Lemon juice smarts
and the day – already grey,
darkens.
With the hours stretching further
than my eyes can see,
and the space in-between longer
than my mind can imagine:
I am not only scared,
I am terrified.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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I think I have done all of my Christmas shopping, or at least all that I can do for now: there will be more later, when I have time; when the crowds have dwindled to the last few stragglers, or, perhaps, after… once the sales start. Now, though, I am free, and I feel lighter. Shopping daunts me: I worry too much. It’s not just what to get: it’s where to get it and how much to spend and whether the recipient (he, she, them…) will like it. No matter how hard I try, how much I think or how long I spend on the task: I always get it wrong; it’s the story of my life. I do it with haircuts, nail colour, food in restaurants and clothes. I do it with books and movies and magazines. I even do it with wool and beads. And when it comes to my art: invariably, I mess that up too – overworking or miss-selecting, using colours that clash, adding too much texture or weight. I did it last night on my autumn quilt and now my heart is sad. Poor rabbit… poor carrots… poor ladybird, leaf and branch…
The thorn in my side today, however, is more tangible and I am struggling to function as a result. Moving is painful; I feel broken; something isn’t right. But what do you do about the things you can’t see: can you fix a problem located beyond the reach of eyes? Massaging my side, swallowing painkillers, moving gently and slowly, trying not to touch it or anything else: I attempt to navigate through the waves of discomfort, crossing fingers that don’t believe over hands that are cynical.
The past few weeks have been tough. The past few months have been challenging. My body has suffered while my mind has endured. Standing in the middle of the road; watching cars and buses, bikes and taxis: I deliberate over how much more I can take. We are still living in limbo. We are still sleeping on the floor – if what we are doing can be described as that. I have a cold that won’t disappear and I am cold most of the time. I am also exhausted. I know this because I long to lie down for days, long to lie down and never wake, craving horizontal more than I desire any other position I could pick were any others on offer. I cannot speak. I cannot navigate. I confuse my left and right. Sticking to the tried and tested, clinging to familiar friends: I manage by keeping it simple and small.
But what will become of me next week? And how will I find the strength to pack and move on Tuesday when we are supposed to be leaving our home-sweet-hell in favour of a new apartment? And what will I do if tomorrow we find out we aren’t moving yet and have to stay where we are instead, abandoning all hopes of having a relaxed Christmas; accepting, instead, a poor substitute lacking furniture, belongings, decorations and love? There are too many things in the pot and I am no longer managing. Like a snail, I need my house. And I don’t care if it’s a temporary house or a borrowed house or a house that actually belongs to me: I just need a place to call home that I can return to and relax in when I need to stop. Take away all of my creature comforts, suspend me in between here and there; poke me, prod me, push me, punch me, and I unravel. As the tail of thread lengthens and the length knots and snags, I start to wonder if, when I finally come to catch it, it can be untangled and rewound .
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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What is it about life and it’s determination to upend me? Why is it impossible for me to have more than one good day in a row; for a day that has been good thus far, maintaining a steady flow of status and quo throughout, to be ruined upon reaching the ending? And why must my morning be a mess today, when today is a day upon which I need to be happy, vibrant and alive? I am not impressed and I am not smiling. Can you tell?
Sitting in Starbucks, and a grotty one at that; hiding on a table to the side and towards the back: I lick freshly inflicted wounds – wondering why, how, what just happened happened; trying to figure out what it was all about and who the main antagonist was. My head buzzes: overly full. My heart hurts, exposed and bleeding. There is the familiar pain of a hole and a slice, right at the centre, and the sense of a part that should be but isn’t. Where did it go: the thing, the part? And when, if it was there at all, did it disappear? I wonder if it always been like this, since the beginning. Or if it is more recent, something that has happened as a result of my journeying across the intervening years?
I wrap my hands around a hot mug, sip overly sweet tea, berate myself softly for the number of sweeteners I felt the need to add for comfort, wishing I were stronger, better, more in control, more like other people. Just like I do not need to click, click, click until everything tastes like it came from a sweet factory in order to placate my insides; I do not need to stubbornly plant my feet like a defiant dog refusing a walk in order to convey my point, especially when said planting and conveying results in my own person sabotage.
I blow my nose, emptying out the tears that I refuse to let flow; trying for just one day not to ruin my face – or at least not until after sundown, when the dark will hide the marks and the smear of mascara. That she hasn’t called, hasn’t even emailed to make sure I am alright, to ask where I am and what happened: only makes it, the incident, worse. Now I feel twice attacked: once by them, the angry receptionists; and once by her, the professional I stood up.
What happened? Was I wrong in my decision to act? Why did they take offence to what I intended to be a polite exchange, a look at the situation from the other side of the double-edged blade? I run the script through my mind, attempting to analyse and dissect exactly what happened, picking at words and sentences, paragraphs and phrases, until I am sure, or almost, that it wasn’t my fault.
I could have kept quiet and swallowed the humiliation… I could have pretended to be unscathed… I could have acted hard and cold and passed the buck back onto her… But I didn’t. Why the need to explain, the desire to placate, the attempt to enlighten and sway a disinterested other; the aim to aid future arrivees, discerning individuals, from a similar plight? And why leave prior to reaching a satisfactory conclusion to the heated debate, thereby denying myself the aid which had led me to the wretched organisation in the first place? Why indeed..?
As I sit here, I am an hour down and an ear short and the offloading that I had anticipated, that I had needed, that I still need, is far away. I now – thanks to my stubborn feet, my disobedient mouth, my wonky pride – have two weeks to endure before anyone, anything, attempts to step in. Not that any of the aid or the stepping has made much of a difference to date of late. The only dent in the armour has been self-made. I long for my ears of yesteryear. Patient and loving, gentle and kind: these are the people who have given and held; people who, for whose help, I am always and always will be eternally grateful.
As I slowly return to myself, I thank God for their presence in my life and the changes they helped me to achieve. I am who I am because they were there to guide me, gently encouraging and pushing like parent, friend and sibling; taking on roles that I was lacking elsewhere, and determine to care more and act with greater responsibly in the future. Just because money is short or because certain people are located elsewhere (like abroad), does not mean that I need to be restricted. The last two years have rewound me. I have been hurt; I have been broken; I have been held back and pressed down. I am clawing my way back – up and out, slowly. I need to take this time, treat this experience, as a chance to return. And if it means borrowing from the bank or going into debt, then so be it. I am worth it. It’s about time I understood that. Who, if not me, is going to treat me right, love me enough, respect and push me in the way and ways that I currently need?
Matter resolved, I dip my spoon into my cappuccino, scooping out milk flavoured with cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg. I have drunk my way through two teas already. I’ve been to the bathroom twice that many times. I’ve sent emails and checked Twitter and Facebook, visited Amazon and surfed online. It’s been a difficult morning but I am stronger now and a decision that ought to have been made at the beginning when the reason was obvious has been solidified. Feeling lighter, stronger, cleaner and more resolved, I slip on my coat; squashing my head into a hat that I knitted in another life, pushing hands into gloves that were born in comfort and in sunshine. It’s cold out. I don’t want to hurt things that are already damaged.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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It’s mild out and I’m sweating in my coat, softly cursing my heatgen underwear, wishing I had had the foresight to check the weather forecast before committing to clothes. I’m also wishing I had packed my umbrella, another reason for checking Thursday’s intentions in advance of entering into her orbit, but it’s too late now, so I unbutton my coat, shed my hat and gloves and thank God for his kindness. In December, 14 degrees is an unexpected gift: I’ll not be condemning the horse or speaking ill of the dead, even if it does mean juggling extra pieces. I wipe water from my nose with a tissue and close my handbag; it’s spitting slightly and threatening to rain and the sky looks positively angry. In truth, I’m slightly scared. Ominous and oppressive come to mind; vindictive, also. I walk fast, hoping to make it to the station unscathed.
I cross Leicester Square, dodging commuters and eager tourists. Continue on to Embankment, where I pull out my Oyster, tap the gate, scan the map, turn (as per instructed) and descend, stepping almost immediately onto a train. The doors close and for four stops I knit, the strip in my hands extending, bit by bit. Two weeks in, it has advanced from single brown square to autumn quilt, albeit a small one, housing a bunny rabbit, two carrots, a ladybird and a branch. Organic, in charge of me rather than me in charge of it, I have no idea what comes next: a flower, a moon, a person, a dog…? At the end, there will be a message; there always is. I am keen to read it. I used to check my horoscope and consult the cards, translating from a ‘how to’ book. I also analysed leaves, pulling shapes out of cups. But creativity is better: harder to decipher, perhaps, but more insightful and based in fact. My novels held messages about where I ought to go and where, as a result, I’ve travelled since. My poetry, too; warning and guiding, if only I had been open to seeing and obeying when it was relevant.
At Sloane Square, I finish my row and bag my needles. Then it’s up and off and through another barrier.
Outside it’s dry and quiet, a scattering of people queuing at a newsstand, several taxis speeding by, the odd bus… I take out my phone and check the time: if I’m quick, I can grab a coffee; I could use the pick-me-up as I’m feeling tired and the ‘no light’ does strange things to me. Fresh out of bed, I’m not yet sure what kind of a day today is, but if the last month and a half are anything to go by, it won’t be great; I don’t want to tempt fate by starting on a backfoot. It will also act as a shield against what’s to come if it turns into an ambush or becomes in any way uncomfortable: after Friday’s disaster, I’m on edge; I’m also nervous. In truth, I’d rather not be here but I made a commitment and a bad day or a bad day last week, isn’t enough of an excuse to deny myself a potential opportunity that, in the long run, I should appreciate. I’m dipping and dabbling, sampling and savouring, endeavouring to fix the broken and right the wrong. There will be mistakes. There will be disasters. There will be injuries and things that ache. But it is by being open and by doing, by absorbing and by experimenting, that we learn. Curl up small, attempt to shut it out, retreat and withdraw and reverse into relative silence: and it all stops: movement, action, improvement, progress, healing, happiness and health.
Coffee in hand slightly later than planned, I rush towards my destination; turning sharply onto a quiet street, slipping through a peeling gate, stumbling down mossy stairs. Nose running, coffee dripping from my coat, late: I’m flustered. Now I wish I’d carried on walking or bought camomile tea instead – it wouldn’t stain and there would be no frantic mopping up, later attempted washing, need to visit the dry cleaners… Cost aside: I’ve nothing else to wear in between. A dress and a cardigan; a skirt and a jumper, don’t quite suit. Even with gloves, a hat, a thick scarf, etc., I will be freezing.
But all of this is tissue paper and beside the point. What’s important is yesterday and how that made me feel and how I feel today, still, as a result: positive, alive, strong. Which, after everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve suffered and everything I’ve survived, is a miracle.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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We sit opposite one another, each wrapped up in our own silence – yours hot, mine cold – juggling problems that refuse to be solved without the aid of phone calls, lawyers and threats. You are angry and your breath is red.
I’m angry too, but the weather has twisted my emotions so that my words are like water, hard to understand. Inside, bad things grow: a tree without roots, a plant with black leaves, strange-shaped flowers.
I listen to my body and it tells me it hurts, but with everything that is happening, I haven’t the will to care or the energy to do anything about it if I did.
Time extends. Days repeat. Hours drag. Mornings are difficult.
I get up. I go out. I walk until my feet ache and my legs collapse. If I’m lucky, I find somewhere to stop, but the closer it gets to Christmas, the harder it gets.
I break and I mend, over and over; and somewhere in amongst it all, I grow strong. Not physically, like Helen of Troy or Boudicca, but mentally like Sylvia Path and Anne Frank. And as my body bends – accommodating each trial, each tribulation, each trauma; each difficulty, burden and disaster; misfortune, misery and curse: climbing mountain and crossing ocean, traversing path and scaling tree – my mind repairs, reinforcing my character.
With this newfound strength, I begin to explore – finding comfort in strange places; only it’s fragile and cannot be relied upon. Monday’s bolt-hole rejects me on Wednesday. Tuesday’s womb is Friday’s cell. There are people everywhere, always, in festive jumpers and hats. Men parade as reindeer, women as elves. I can’t move for Santa’s and snowmen. They eat and drink, talk and shout.
Meanwhile, in the background there is a list: a house that needs repairing, a mortgage that needs paying, tenants to be sought and secured. And that’s on top of a contract that needs reversing, money reimbursing and a new apartment found. Plus, the few items of furniture we bought last weekend – in excitement, in hope, in anticipation… need returning to whence they came, if indeed they can go back; and our suitcases – half-full, half-empty; half-broken (one) – need to be repacked. After that: clients, courses, workshops, groups, jobs, opportunities, friends, etc. It’s a lot, so I try not to think about it.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 