I’m incredibly touched by all the lovely notes and thoughts and messages you’ve sent following my inadvertent gymnastic incident…what a response, honestly! I can’t remember the last time I felt so cared about. I mean my boy looks after me in his man-child way of course, which has even involved doing extra chores uninvited over the last couple of days whilst I’ve been hobbling around feeling sorry for myself. The pills and potions are definitely helping, and I feel very wrapped up in this wonderful cradle of support.
It was a similar thing the other day, when I talked about my obsession with Moussaka, despite it being really high in terms of my food budget. The ink was barely dry on the page before you started sending me low-point adaptations of moussaka recipes, which was awesome, and it sort of got me thinking about stuff. You know me by now, and the way in which my head tends to wander off at a tangent when something strikes a chord. I woke up this morning feeling remarkably clear on things which I’d only half acknowledged before. I love it when that happens, you know?
This blog, and the way I set out from day one to be really honest with firstly myself, and then when I picked up a bit of company with you guys too, is probably the first time I’ve ever presented anything other than a bright and breezy hard shell to the outside world. I’ve never been particularly good at vulnerability, you know? Chinks in my armour..? No, that would never do. Help..? No, not me I’m good thanks, I’ll manage. Sympathy..? Fuck you, I don’t need your sympathy, I’m doing fine. I still shudder at the thought of sympathy, if I’m honest.
It’s always been about putting my game face on and just cracking on with stuff, and never showing if something hurt, or even that I might be struggling. Why? It’s complicated. Some of you are familiar with my dad’s story (which you can see HERE if you’ve not seen my fundraising page) – I had to grow up real quick and be strong as a little girl, and I guess it just stuck. Strong with a hard shell is all I’ve ever known how to be, and yet on the inside I’ve never been like that at all. Fake it ’till you make it, right? If that’s what you choose to show, that’s what people will see.
On here, it felt different. It helped, because I kind of did it in stages. At first my words only had one reader, and that was me. Then I invited a handful of close and trusted friends to peep inside the shell, and I got comfortable with that too. Nobody judged me. Then my friends shared it a bit more widely and that felt okay too, because it was with strangers, you know? I didn’t need to look them in the eye and I could carry on being honest.
In between the jokes and horsing around I peeled away the layers and laid stuff bare. Painful stuff. Certainly stuff I’ve never shared with anyone before. And the most unexpected thing happened…talking about stuff in what feels like a really safe environment, and realising that nobody keeled over in horror meant I gradually got more comfortable with sharing what I thought of as the dysfunctional bits of me. And I’ll tell you what, that feels truly liberating.
I am not the only one who has an asshole voice on speed-dial, nor is the concept of a self-destruct button unique to me. Turns out I’m not that different after all. Turns out that dysfunctional is actually quite normal. Who knew that? I didn’t. I have no need to hide. And I don’t need to be perfect for people to love me.
And you know what else..? It’s okay to let people help. Being vulnerable doesn’t result in me being marched out of town. If anything, people have embraced me because of my vulnerabilities, and not in spite of them and that’s been the biggest revelation of all. That’s acceptance, you know? I love the fact that I can tell you that I don’t have all the answers, and you all pitch in with stuff to help.
Honestly, it feels pretty good. The medication I got yesterday is helping settle my black and blue arse down, but you lot are doing a far better job than the anti-inflammatories in helping me heal…you should come on prescription 🙂
