a creative mind

My first year of school consisted of daily sobbing episodes during maths, where my teacher would take me out to the toilets to calm me down. I seemed to live there with those toilet rolls and brick walls. Writing stories and imagining non-realities were the things that gave me joy. My astute parents asked me whether I’d rather take gymnastics classes or ballet lessons. Next thing I knew I was wearing little ballet slippers, a pink leotard, and learning to stand in first position with my tail tucked in. There commenced my passionate love affair with dancing. I didn’t just dance in the studio; I danced down the hall way, up the street, in front of my mirror, and all the way back to my next class.

At ballet, age 14

I was captivated by the magic of the stage, the expression, the poise, the other-worldliness of the art form. It made me feel ecstatic and free. The exquisite beauty of ballet minimised the pain – the grating of my raw toe on sandpaper Pointe shoe, the sting of mentholated spirits on a fresh wound and the exacting military regime of class. I felt alive when I was dreaming of being a ballerina, and working towards those fantasies.

I'm second from the left - a ballet concert

Contemporary

 And if I wasn’t commentating about my make-believe life at a full-time ballet school, I was spending time with my black horse. There aren’t photos of him because my parents couldn’t afford him, but he was beautiful. So were the fairies I cared for, I wish you could have known them.

My parents always said I lived from one excitement to another. It’s true. I was always looking forwards, hoping for something...I was never quite here in the mundane present. Practicalities bored me to tears. The sensible and functional were my ‘off switch’. But why is it important to peel potatoes faster? Why can’t I daydream? Why should I wear runners on this walk when they look so hideous? Aesthetics won every argument. I spiced up my real life with forays into different eras and lifestyles. I perpetually relived scenes of myself as a boarding school student in the early 1900s, or a princess, or an actress. I fantasised that a movie director would one day walk down the street and see in me the exact face he had pictured for his next film – and little me would launch my glamorous screen career, Audrey Hepburn the 2nd. Every book that I read, ballet that I watched, film that I saw was an invitation to venture into a new life or idea, and then imagine it while I played my flute or danced.

But I shouldn’t be writing in the past tense! I’m giving the illusion that I have grown out of these ‘childish’ dreams and moved onto maturity. The thing is, while Ben is away studying the physics of x-ray machines, I am at home hosting TV shows, coping with life as an Edwardian lady, and generally steering clear of concentrating on the dishes, or the vacuuming. Or else it’s writing a blog post in my head, planning my soap making or collage projects, wondering what it would be like to have a disabled child... Is it any wonder that I grate my knuckles, drop glasses, and spill nail polish, just as I did when I was young? “Concentrate on the task at hand,” was something my mum used to repeat to me day after day. If I concentrated really, really hard on the recipe I was making, it was sure to be a failure. And if I let myself day dream, it was sure to be a failure. So I decided it was best to go with the most enjoyable option, to pass the time and numb the boredom. I honestly thought I’d grow out of it because I hadn’t met an adult like me, but I become more doubtful by the day. I have these terrifying visions of my future daughter catching me in the kitchen saying,

“It was such a privilege to work with everyone on this film. Yes, it is hard juggling my acting career and family, but we make it work...blah, blah, blah.”

She might think I’m mad. Or maybe she’ll ask me what I’m imagining, and tell me that she is a poodle for the day?

My imagination was never looked down on at home, isn’t it considered healthy and essential for all children? Once when I was about 14 I told a young guy about some of the things that I think about. He was concerned, genuinely worried about my mental state. That day I learnt that it’s fine to make believe as a child, but do not admit to it when an adolescent (let alone an adult!) I should have reminded him that I was created by a creative and totally sane God. When does that beautiful and crucial part of a child become worryingly eccentric? I’ve never ever heard a ‘grown up’ friend talk about their creative thoughts. But I know, and am whole heartedly convinced that I am not the only one. If choreographer’s weren’t lost in the stories in their heads, they couldn’t write the ballets they do, nor could authors, or painters or musicians – they dream, they have to dream to create.

When I am inspired or passionate or fired up about something, it’s inextinguishable. It burns so intensely inside. I have to hop out of bed at midnight to write an idea down, I have to listen to a piece of music ten times over to relive the thrill of the emotion, I can’t help but jump up and down, and up and down with excitement. I don’t believe this is something to grow out of, to restrain and curb. I’m grateful that despite the strong pull of gravity and reality, so much stronger now that I have so little strength, I can still soar. And I’m grateful for all the writers, and ballerinas, and composers, and painters who’ve gone before, for their creativity and dreams. I hope the day comes where I can contribute to the arts in some small way, and keep the fire burning.

“Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will.” 

 

Bernard Shaw

professional people pleaser

My psych asked me this question:

What would say if young guy came up to you in the supermarket, said you were gorgeous, and asked you to expose yourself?

I replied: I’d say NO WAY!

I wouldn’t share that with anyone but my husband. That’s a pearl, that’s mine and I know it. So is the money in my wallet, the writings in my diary, my deepest thoughts...some things are too precious to give away lightly. I am not obliged to give away parts of me to people. I’m not obliged to say ‘yes’.

When people ask me, “What do you do?”, I feel yucky inside. That is the most basic of questions, the famous conversation starter, and the bread and butter of first meetings. It’s meant to be an impersonal kind of way to break the ice. And they’re looking for a simple answer: I work, I study, or I mum.

I don’t have a simple answer. In a world where life is measured by what we ‘do’, the fact that I neither study, nor work, nor have babies sounds like a cop out. So, I then feel I should explain about my illness – the journey of the last 3 years of pain and learning is so personal and deep that I can never do it justice in a short conversation, and I don’t want to share it with just anyone. For me, that question is personal, really personal. And the full answer is a pearl.

I figured out yesterday something I never knew:

I don’t have to give away intimate details of my life. There’s a space between me and other people: My thoughts are mine, theirs are theirs. They have no claim on mine, and I have no claim on theirs.

 I don’t have to share just because I’ve been asked ‘what I do’. I’m used to working my butt off in an assignment even if I am unwell, cleaning the house when I have a headache, catching up with friends for longer than I can cope with, and telling people the ‘pearls’ of my life when I don’t want to. I tend to cave in to pleasing people. I’m a coward as I let people drag information from me, and don’t tell people when I need them to leave. I will do more than I can handle to supposedly keep someone else happy or not offended. I hate to think they might think badly of me, that they will judge me or dislike me.

So in the process of ‘pleasing’ them, I run myself down, leaving little energy for other things. I spend energy where I shouldn’t and that’s not right, by me, or by others.  Never mind what people think –  I can leave them to their thoughts. I will act the best way I can, and manage my energy as wisely as I am able.

When strangers ask me what I do, I’ll say,

“That’s a very long story. How about you?”

“ I do the best I can in life. What about you?”

If you have an idea of what else I could say, please do comment.

And if I need to end a conversation or a catch up after half an hour– I will end it then, regardless of how awkward I might feel doing it at first, or how they may perceive it. I’m a terrible conversation-ender, so this is going to be a challenge.

I’ve been living to please others for too long. I thought I had to give if asked, and give till I drop. I’m learning about the space between me and other people. And that space is a healthy thing, it means that I can be me regardless of what they do or think.

I’ll do the best I can!

death by chocolate

It’s a few minutes until the clock chimes 1 O’clock am. I’m pleased to announce that I have already had an hour or two of sleep. I just thought I would pop out of bed for a quick swig of apple-cider-vinegar and boiling water. It’s one of the most shiveringly healing substances I’ve discovered.

I wouldn’t be awake right now if it hadn’t been for some ‘risk taking’ I fell into this afternoon. I say ‘fell’ because it would seem it was an accident, I got carried away as all self discipline and caution left my side.

I declared I would not eat chocolate this Easter.

No bunnies, no caramel eggs, no lindt, no cadbury. No, I would be a true dietary martyr and bask in the knowledge that my restraint had avoided me feeling unwell.

This afternoon, my husband and I headed down to Chapel Street for some deliciously satisfying opp shopping. I had a brief love affair with a fur hat, a pair of leather shoes a tad too big, a rabbit pom-pom beret, and a red woollen dress – the latter being the only beloved that I actually brought home. My husband poked around the pictures, the old rings, the books, and advised with all the honesty that only a man can, when things didn’t suit me. He kept spying sweet treats, and making deals that after one more shop we would sit down and eat something tasty.

We passed a place called Chocolateria San Churro’s , with the words ,’sweeten thy soul’ in calligraphy on the front window. That was enough for Ben, but I wasn’t convinced until I saw a couple outside eating what looked like a bite of paradise. We both half ran inside.

I still had some restraint while looking at the drinks menu. I would have a decaffeinated latte with soy milk. That’s right, no sugar, no dairy, no caffine... the trouble arose over by the counter when gazing into the cakes shelf.  My beady eyes instantly located the luxury I had seen being consumed outside, and my equally sweet-toothed husband saw it too. We did toy with the idea of some lemon meringue, or a brownie – but I feel for both of us this was just a brief pretence of reasonable decision making. We had both inwardly made our final choice.

“We’d like a piece of Death by Chocolate”, we declared to the waitress.

Waiting for its arrival at our table, Ben pointed out that for me, it really could be ‘death by chocolate’. At that moment it dawned on me that he was terribly and frighteningly correct. So I began justifications – it’s Easter, this is definitely worth the risk, tomorrow can be awful so long as we enjoy today...anyway, my psych thinks I should do more risk taking.

Death arrived. It was dark, as expected, and layered and there were more pure chocolate and cream sections than there were cake. We plunged our forks into the dairy laiden, sugar oozing delight and enjoyed the texture and happy feelings on our taste buds. We were going strong. It wasn’t long before Ben regretted ordering his hot chocolate – just far too much chocolate, he said. He wished he’d been as wise as me and bought a latte to wash it down. I was starting to feel a certain heaviness, as though the chocolate had reached the top of my throat. I lay my head on his shoulder.  This cake was hard work; we should have eaten it before we’d spent our strength on shopping. We weren’t half way through our shared monstrosity, and already we were playing with our forks content to just look at it. For two master sugar consumers, we had really been conquered.

Next, we began planning dinner. “I think we should just eat the rest of the roast chicken, and broccoli,” said Ben and I agreed with all my heart. Broccoli, what a refreshing vegetable. I longed for it just as I had longed for the cake half an hour before.

“And we should both take a vitamin C, and drink a mug of apple-cider-vinegar tea.” I suggested.  

We both hoped that these home remedies would be the antidote to death. I wished I’d brought a hip flask of potent cures, in the unlikely event of succumbing to serious temptation.

Eventually we felt well enough to leave the cafe, and asked to take home our cake in a carry bag. I’m not sure that it was a good idea. We mentioned dying again another day soon, perhaps Monday. I think I might just leave that to Ben.

You know you have chronic fatigue when...

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...you can’t remember the last time you went two days in a row without pain killers...

...your doctor orders blood test after blood test, but they never come back with a clearly detectable illness...

...you shed a tear (or many more) when you hear that your blood test results are good yet again...

...in your mind, you’ve divided your friends into two categories:

1.       Those who get it.

2.       Those who don’t...

...you find catching up for coffee with most people a draining experience, and rather stressful...

Talking is exhuasting.

 ...you desperately wish ‘they’ would hurry up and figure out what hell is wrong with your body...

...most people comment on how well you look despite your near death state...

...you could fill a tome with all your bizarre symptoms...

nausea, migraines, fainting, blocked ears, sore jaw, weakness...

...you grab onto hand rails, handles, and walls when shuffling around...

...a sore throat and swollen glands doesn’t mean the onset of a cold, it’s an everyday occurrence...

...you never promise to be anywhere, because you won’t know if you’re up to it until a few minutes beforehand...

...you often feel blah, or you’re on anti-depressants and love them dearly...

I love ciazil, I really do.

...you possess a pensioner concession card despite being in your 20’s...

...you’re sometimes too tired to walk to the kitchen and get food, so you lie on the couch, hungry, until someone can help...

Oh for a wheelchair...

...you’re such a perfectionist that you always get distinction, to the detriment of your health...

...you find that when you tell someone you’re having a good patch, your health suddenly turns bad again –jinxed!...

(and wonder if it works in reverse...)

...your brain wants to do everything it ever did, but your body refuses...

...your partner does more cooking and cleaning than you...

...you either long for or own a little companion dog who is your faithful friend in sick times...

Bichon Frise - my dream puppy

...you’re dying to hop into bed at night, but when you get there, you can’t sleep...

...you’ve revised your life goals from ‘get a degree, have a career, and have 4 kids’ to ‘feel reasonably well, and try to have a baby (one day)’...

...you wear makeup when you go out because you don’t like the bags under your eyes or the ‘gray look’...

...you get up in the morning, but the energy required to do so sends you back to bed...

...so called ‘relaxation’, such as watching a movie or reading a book, is now in the ‘tiring activity’ basket...

...you say words back to front and make up brand new ones because your brain forgets the correct ones...

Me, tired:

So, will the campsite have a dronglop? How do I tell if the cooken’s chicked?

Me, very tired:

I’ve never shit before....oops! I meant sworn!

Me, extremely tired:

Dad calls my phone. I pick up and say to him, “Hi Dee, it’s Dad.”

...reading this post has amplified your persistent headache, so you’re off to lie down...

farewell to the system

Once upon a time, there existed a simpler way of life. 

If a little boy wanted to become a musician, his parents would seek out the very best musician they could find, and he would study his instrument under that tutor’s guidance and wisdom, until he himself was a master. There weren’t exams, there weren’t bachelors and diplomas, but there was a thirst to learn and grow and master. Knowledge and arts weren’t passed down en masse in lecture theaters, but in the intimate setting of one musician sharing his findings with a younger, aspiring musician.

The Music Lesson - by Gustav Wentzel

And was this antiquated technique successful? I think of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven...I’d say it certainly was.

 

Back to the 21^st century...When I first became ill as an 18 year old, I was firmly grounded in today’s mindset. I had achieved decent grades in school, and the next logical step was to embark on my Bachelor of Music. There were two main reasons: I wanted to continue studying the flute – as lessons cost around $100 per hour, I really couldn’t afford to learn unless I was at university where this fee is included in the degree. The second reason was that while I dreamt of performing, the reality of needing to pay for food and clothes meant that I’d probably have to teach the flute. And to teach, one needs to have a qualification.

blah. blah. blah. You know the next bit. My body wasn’t impressed by the long hours at university...the early mornings, late nights, stressful exams and performances. It got progressively more fed up with me, so I took a year off to let it settle down.

2012. I felt ready to experiment with a return. I was delighted to be studying the flute with an older lady who is a wonderfully experienced flautist, and whose spirit of music is so huge that it fills up the whole room. She is so very animated and rich in musicality; I feel I’ll explode with excitement over what she is passing down to me. I wouldn’t be bored if my lessons lasted for 12 hours at a time. 

As my doctor aptly put it, “You probably did a little too much, too soon. But at least you tried and found out where you’re up to.” 

The experiment was positive: I got a result. The result was that I’m still not well enough for the pressures of university. But there was one problem: I needed to withdraw from university because I was so ill, but I was having a love affair with the flute, and I couldn’t bear the thought of stopping lessons. How could we afford for me to continue? We looked at our budget...and squished... and squeezed... and maneuvered ...and decided that we could make it work. We would find a way.

Here’s a fascinating piece of information: I haven’t shed a tear over withdrawing from university. Three years ago I probably would have sobbed into my pillow for a month straight at the thought of ‘giving up my dream’. It's a big change of mindset yes, but I am excited: I get to focus on exercise and rest, which is what my illness requires of me. I get to be a wife and look after my favourite man, I get to invest in people...and I get to study the flute with a master, just like musicians did in an age gone by – passing down knowledge and skills from one to another. My education continues, without that hoop and hurdle jumping so crucial to 'the system'.

To quote my teacher:

"But I must say, I think that a Uni course of any sort can actually be an obstacle to true progress. The reason? Your life is mapped out for you, and you are not necessarily following the most constructive path. It's the difference between a river flowing freely and naturally, and a man-made canal."

There are so many things I’d like to do! I might join an orchestra, or a choir. I’ve done my AmusA diploma; I might do my LmusA too. I might teach the flute. I might try and work a few hours a week in an organic shop which I love. I might learn to cook...or sew. 

I'm striving to learn and grow and love to the best of my ability.

Relapse?

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When should I let go of something I’d set my heart on? When is it too costly to be worth the sacrifice? What will I do with my talents with so little energy? What does tomorrow look like?

My husband is in his final year of his degree. We often talk about next year when he will be an intern in a hospital, and the following year when he will be a fully qualified Radiographer. I get clucky  thinking about his graduation and how proud I will be of him in his black gown....we marvel at how it will feel to have an income at last...how we’ll save for a car, and a home loan, and a holiday...

 We have plans and dreams in the bucket loads. Mainly because we assume that he will be alive and capable of all those things. We used to have the same kinds of plans for my life...I was going to finish my Bachelor of Music, do my Honours, possibly go overseas and then work for several years before trying to have a baby or two.

But when we make plans, we really don’t know for sure if they will come to be. The future is so unknown, so utterly out of our hands.

I honestly don’t know what I will be doing in 6 months time. In the past few months, I made huge progress with my health and it looked right for me to go back to university and re-sit my 1^st Year flute recital. I was keen to get out of the house after a year of being homebound, keen to have flute lessons and square away the first year of my degree. Infact, I am keen! My whole heart yearns to do this but I don’t know if my body is feeling the same. I wish it could talk to me.

*Croaky voice, “ Deee-ee, I’m not ready. It’s too much...”

 I’m only two weeks into this experiment, but so far I’m rather befuddled. I hope my next post will be announcing that I am feeling great and loving being back, because right now I feel that my body has regressed – maybe I’m having a relapse?

Since returning, I have been feeling really unwell. I’ve had migraines every evening, afternoon sleeps, insomnia, nausea, weakness...a whole list of yuckies. To be perfectly honest, I’m ok with feeling like that – if I can stay home on the couch with a blankie and a cup of tea. It’s hard, but it’s tolerable. What I don’t like is lying in bed knowing that ideally I would be at class, or practicing. That’s stressful.

It could be the antidepressants I recently went on, but now it feels like POTS/CFS. And it could be that my recent virus has given my body a bit of a shake. But I don’t know, and only time will tell me. If it turns out that going back to uni has retriggered my illness, maybe I won’t try to finish the remaining two years of my degree. I never thought I’d write that. I thought I would just get better, 100% better, and carry on where I left off, with a few lessons in patience and hardship under my belt. But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe this journey will be longer, with more peaks and troughs than I expected.

It’s a quality of life issue. I could potentially limp through my degree at a painstakingly slow pace, and hobble up to claim my certificate five years later....before crawling back into bed for the next few. But I don’t think I want that. I think I’d rather go, “Alright, things haven’t panned out according to my dreams and plans. I can accept that, and I’m going to pursue a life I can cope with.”

And then I wonder, what could I do with my limited energy? Could I make cards and sell them at markets? Could I write? Could I invest at home more? Could I still have flute lessons and practice?

Could I learn contentment?

"It is a big mistake to boast about what you will do tomorrow because there is really no way of knowing for sure what will happen."

Proverbs 27 : 1