Down the Rabbit Hole
But definitely not about Easter
I have always had an excellent memory. Not for useful things like directions, but rather, the succulent fish dish we ate whilst on holiday, or how I felt on a certain day during a certain configuration of the weather, the way that the clouds were stacked. (This could explain why I so admire and understand the way those Brontë girls saw the world ). I can still see a seventeen year old boyfriend’s glance (possibly well practiced) his chin tipped slightly downwards and his eyes, thickly lashed and flecked with green like a pear, slowly sliding upwards to look upwards into my own. I also remember the ice-pick twisting anguish of making a fool of myself over him, not once but a few times.
I’m not about to provide a handy list of everything that I remember. But the genuine downside of this kind of memory is that I also tend to recall every hurtful comment, every unkind, off-the-cuff remark people have made to me and it’s a very tricky business to make sure that I don’t lean into my mental Rolodex (yes, I know that’s a dated reference but it works here) and pluck out a card to reinforce the core belief that I am definitely ‘hard-to-look-at,’ unloveable, an embarrassing poseur and generally, someone who is merely taking up space. Also more specifically, unlike other more talented, erudite writers I’ve been treating Substack like a series of pathetic diary entries.
This is honestly not a descent into self-pity or doing a quick hat-round for compliments - it is an ongoing struggle between my rational self and my (usually kept in check) terrible self esteem. I haven’t spent hours in any Woody Allen kind of therapy about all this. It’s just something that I know and recognize about myself. And sometimes out of the blue the whole thing gets re-ignited as it did last week.
There were a few small things leading up to my feeling so down. For example, as well as the ongoing faulty cerebral playlist I’ve just mentioned (perhaps entitled, You’re So Plain), there’s the whole business of aging, now thrown into the mix. I am finding it difficult to avoid other people dragging me into a new and previously uncharted territory, providing an umbrella term I despise: Senior Citizen. It’s everywhere, even amongst some of my peers although some of them are ten years older than myself and seem to be embracing it. They’re obsessed with the weather, complain constantly about nothing and worst of all, intone darkly that all of this is soon coming for me. The weight gain, the aches and pains, (the kvetching, I presume too, since cheerfulness seems to be considered a form of naïveté) and most upsetting, the inevitable health issues. I met someone lately who I hadn’t seen for a while and after a few pleasantries she leaned in and said “How is your own health right now?’ I was a bit startled and replied I felt really good and she nodded with all the conviction of a fairground psychic: “Well, that can change overnight you know …” and launched into a long rattling tale of her own upsetting health crises as well as those of mutual friends. I am already acutely aware of the fragility of life (especially having lost both parents at a young age) so this was neither new or useful information. Did she mean well? No, I don’t think she did. I feel confident that neither of us felt better after extensively reviewing what we already know: life is unpredictable, random and often cruel.
“Have a good day - we should have lunch!”
Later on in the week my doctor called at home to let me know that some routine bloodwork had shown “severely high” levels of cholesterol and that he would like me to start on statins as soon as possible. I have always been a mindful, enthusiastic eater - and I happen to enjoy foods that are good for me anyway - so this was shocking. My doctor said that it’s very common and my particular problem is almost certainly genetic so I need the little boost provided by a bit of medication. But my pride was wounded and then, I was frightened. I have never had to take anything, I hate taking anything and when I heard this news, I immediately imagined the (laughing) spectre of my acquaintance from the other day (think: Elvira Gulch, but slightly less green) :
“I told you! It’s your turn now!”
I’ve been called an analytical thinker, a very rational (even intelligent) person and also told that I think too much. This last one is especially true. Sometimes when I am feeling this way I wake up in the early hours consumed with dread. I don’t mean anxiety - although I know that feeling intimately - but the kind of icy cold realization that everyone I love is going to die and I have no control over it. I re-experience a feeling I know only too well of feeling completely alone in the world. Thoughts come quickly after that. Horrifying scenes from world news, putting myself in the place of others overseas, trying to even comprehend their agonies and losses. What am I doing squandering my days watching bad TV at night and wandering about aimlessly, stirring tea and determining what needs doing in the house to avoid expensive repairs in the future. But nothing has changed, I’ve been cognizant of these things all my life. It’s just that now I am a certain age, the whole business is more on display, more in sharp focus and, there is even more time available to examine it. And apparently, there are legions of jolly people always ready to step up and help you feel like rubbish about yourself.
Eleanor Roosevelt said “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness” and I am one hundred percent with Eleanor on this. Like the internet, it’s easy if your guard is down to be lured into caring too much about what others say. I’m ashamed to admit that I actually clicked on a few things in my vulnerable state last week that I would never usually be drawn to. “The One Make-up Trick Every Older Woman Should Avoid” (Spoiler Alert: it’s eyeliner which I will not be giving up) and I also idly watched a bunch of sculpted older women in bright colours leaping about with kettle bells, shouting En-er-gee and Woooo-hooo …
My distaste for this made me feel like Maggie Smith’s character in Downton Abbey.
But in a good way.
Then there are the celebrities who have ALL had some kind of cosmetic procedure done but are earnestly advising viewers with a straight face (or maybe it’s just frozen that way) that all they do is drink a litre of spring water upon rising. I always feel slightly nauseous after spending too much time online anyway and yet the irony of writing about this - online - is not lost on me.
Anyway, today I have rallied. I am okay with taking the statins. Yesterday I found a low cholesterol blogger in the UK and made her recipe for virtuous oatcakes. They were tasty enough (would be MUCH improved with butter) but they do have the unfortunate craggy appearance of something you would produce from a coat pocket to offer a pony.
But I remain grateful that - for now - it’s just the statins. I have sought the counsel of a few good friends (no one laughed, mocked me or didn’t understand) and felt immediately buoyed up after feeling so sad. According to the evidence (my rational side is back) many people do seem to love me and do not consider me too Frankensteinian to have coffee with. My handsome partner, who has the bouncy, go-to personality of a Tigger and is therefore the perfect foil to my dark side has also been extremely understanding.
I have since drastically cut down on dairy to the point that as of today, I am seven days Cheese Sober. I do not enjoy this part, at all, but once levels have suitably dropped, I will be having a succulent ripe pear with a wodge of triple cream Brie and a glass of wine which I will enjoy slowly while sitting on the steps in the sunshine …
I've been accused of ruminating, not being able to let go of hurtful words, thoughtless comments directed not just to me but also to others. I am told that this can be evidence of being an empath. In my 44 years of practice in Physical Therapy, why do I still remember , with shame, the 2 mothers who didn't want me as their child's therapist when hundreds of others requested me specifically. Why can't I focus on the burn patient who wept because I was the only one who would touch him? Or the small child who wished I was her mommy.
And yes, at 71, it is hard to realize that I am a senior citizen, one who now loves a quick nap and an earlier bedtime. One, who sees 2 hours in the pool as the one outing I can manage in a day. I ,too, have had to embrace the addition of Statins and some other medications to keep other, life-changing conditions at bay.
In my heart, I am still the young woman struggling with not being "enough". I am still the sleep deprived mother and frustrated step mother of teenagers. I am the single mom. I am the woman juggling family and career, sacrificing my marriage and my health. And now, I am retired, trying to remove some of the many hats I have worn.
Now, I seek, and often find the everyday sacred even as I ache with concern for my loved ones, for my community, for our country.
As always, your work is evocative! Thank you
Dark nights of the soul ....I find it's the kindest caring sensitive person who is plagued by them its the burden of being a truly caring person. And damn it cheese is the nectar of the gods