'Good? Bad? None of my business...' -Julia Cameron's _The Artist's Way_ and my old friend Melancholia

Dateline Sunday 6 Feb

Slow train to London

This pillar was in my line of vision for 47 minutes Saturday morning, whilst I posed for an art class.  I saw so much in the colours and the textures of the dirt, the plaster, the intentionally scored and unintentional scarring of the concrete surface.  I felt a bit bereft when things ended, pulling myself of my reverie to pull my clothes on to my body, listening to the swish, the mumur of fabric, the clink of buttons against one another.  I left feeling more in my body, more connected to the world around me, to the other entities seen and unseen. I feel lighter, luminous and rooted. I skip up the street. 

I have not skipped in months. I haven't climbed a tree since September.  I haven't been recognizable as myself to myself.

Today is Sunday.  I drove out to Mersea Island, stood by the water for a few moments befor I turned my attention to the art class for whom I would modelling. 

I studied an intersect of plaster and ceiling for two hours - with small breaks to stretch and reposition. There is nuance in the way the plaster has cracked, in the water damage, in the whispered changes to what appears to be magnolia paint. I wanted to touch the cracked surface, examine it more closely. I only did this in my mind.  

I left the island, the wind so intent that a crow had to detour, landing with an irritated caw. The seagull whipped backwards. The light poured through heavy clouds and the rain came down at a cutting angle.

 The tide was coming in, cars ahead of me pulling off, hesitating. I made it to the other side not realising I was holding my breath.  

Bonoto

That feeling of being passively suicidal, so agitated and overwhelmed I can have to sit on my hands, is one I don't wish on anyone. It tears at me but without motivation. 

(Make no mistake - push ever came to shove, I have options and know how. But ultimately, I have an amazing life and enjoy it too much to want to miss it, even when Melancholia is being EXTRA. But for me, being passively suicidal is worse, because I PUT myself in Mayhem's way. Mayhem has diverted around me, obviously, because I am still here. And gets annoyed enough at my whiny extra-ness to occasionally shake sense into me self-indulgent malarkey).

But it served a purpose, this recent bout because FOR ONCE, I could separate out the outside influences, the chemical issues, and the syptomatic self-medicating habits that were exacerbatig the latter and making the former even more challenging.  It kickes me into gear but not in my all of usual ways.  

*I was honest and asked for help, especially from my immediate support system. This may not sound like a lot, but believe me, I don't ask for help easily or well. I am really having to work at this one. So much. And to be clear about needing it sustainable. 

*I've taken time out and off from the mult-layered toxic environments.

*I am resting when my body needs to rest (mostly; I mean, I have two tall short-stacks...)

*I've adjusted my medication with the help of my GP and therapist.

*I've begun EDMR sessions to work through that trauma flashbacks that were being specifically kicked up by being investigated. 

*I'm ordering in when I can't figure out how ingredients work or how to make a sandwich

*I'm running the dishwasher an extra time

Then there is Melancholia, who lives in the well.  I've taken a different approach this time.  Rather than try to outrun this bout of...what shall we call it? Melancholia? Sure, why not....well, I'm not scampering up the well, trying to outrun whatever it is she is telling me. .  Instead, I've decided to sit with her for awhile,  do a little interior design. Some lighting, a rug, a lovely little chaise. Tisanes and tissues for everyone.  She has something to tell me, after all. If only I would stop and listen. Not rush her, not rush myself. Why am I always in such a rush? 

It comes at a time when I am re-evaluating a lot of the masks I wear, the masks that make up this spatial plane's construct of who I am: daughter, mama, sister, friend, archivist, writer, tree-climber, lover, confidante, reader, hoarder, mediator, fighter, creator...what will stay, stand the test of a time?