3 days into Lent, so many aims and ambitions (most being dietary/health related), but I’m taking it it slowly and starting with the main ones (giving up sugar and alcohol) and aiming to add extras as I progress, in order that I can get a life or something.
I’ve also being tasked with writing a positive message to myself every day (a schema therapy activity) and putting it in a pretty box. To date most haven’t been too inspiring or ambitious (‘Managed not to shriek at benefits people this afternoon – yay me!‘), but today I was proudly able to scrawl ‘I have been to yoga for the first time in 2015′ onto my little pink post-it and pop it into my receptacle.
I didn’t like it very much, the yoga class.
It ached, my balance is all fucked up, and even my hands hurt. And when I went into shoulder stand, all the lard I have cultivated on my belly squidged unattractively into pale sausagey wedges, and I felt a surge of hate and disgust infuse my entire being.
How revolting it is. And the more I look at it the more anti veggie/vegan I feel, as let’s face it, at least if someone dines on big slabs of flesh, it’s useful, as unless you really look after your body you end up looking and feeling like a factory farmed heifer. I was watching some footage from the Meatopia fair this afternoon and I thought ‘Yes, that’s it Sista! Donate your piggy body to the next festival! There’s plenty on there for everyone and crackling too!’
My body, for it’s part, is sulking, hence it’s protesting twinges, total inflexibility and generous cultivation of blub. My fault for not coming out of hibernation, gorging on comfort food, indulging my addiction to expensive hot chocolate and watching back to back DVD boxed sets, not to mention gross neglect on all levels.
That’s what I’ve been doing all this time y’know. Watching TV. I can’t really afford to do anything else (yes I know that’s no excuse), and let’s face it, the people who populate HBO TV series have so much more interesting lives than mine.
My current passion is ‘Deadwood’ and I am besotted with the two male leads, anti hero Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock, the latter for rocking a moustache like no other, and very nearly bringing my libido out of it’s coma like state.
Much good that will do me right now, as I wouldn’t wish this blubbery carcass on my worst enemy.
The former however, fascinates me like no other. His anger, toughness and sharp tongue resonates heavily with me and whilst I don’t go around spitting profanity at all and sundry, I sure as hell used to, and then some.
I’ve just finished Season One, and in the first few episodes, I hated him, but having watched the last episode last night, I saw a different side to the homicidal whore house owner, and it had such an impact on me, I watched it twice and replayed the heartbreaking scene between Al and Reverend Green again and again.
These characters seemed in that uniquely intimate moment, when Al did God’s job for him, the two sides of the same coin; One world weary and filled with spleen and hate, the other devoted to his Lord and oh so desperate to believe that he was still in his light and his appalling suffering was not in vain.
And when Swearengen tenderly muttered to the dying priest ‘You can go now, brother’, as my throat closed up, I felt a pang like no other. Whether it was sadness, relief or just sheer envy I know not.
To be sheer conscious and nothing else. To shed this bag of blood, flesh and bones. How freeing that must be!
But that scene touched me and stays with me 24 hours later, as did crippled Jewel dancing in her leg brace with Doc Cochran.
And whilst I am in my own gutter, muddled with medications, looking to movie stars and fictional characters for meaning and inspiration, I know that I at least, unlike poor Reverend Green and Jewel, I can get up out of the puddles, stagger to my feet and move on.
It’s a question of wanting to, really. Maybe I have it too easy. Maybe you have to be physically fucked up or super angry to give a shit about this world. But I’m not allowed my anger anymore, as unlike Al, it did not and does not help me succeed in this world.
But I’m still trying to get to my feet and ease on down the road. In my own feeble, reluctant way.
My home is now on the market, I’m going to try and get back into favour with my body and brain, and hope there is a life worth living ahead of me.
Once upon a time, my philosophy was not that dissimilar to Al’s, and my anger did push me forward in the world, but in the act of trying to manage that part of my nature via therapy makes me more passive, and drumming up passion and the will to live is now ironically harder than ever.
But the notes box is both beautiful and roomy and I’ve still got lots of paper, and I’m at least inching forward towards my destiny.
Ready once again, to face up to the black hats of the world, and take my pain like a man. But also to hope, like the Rev.
Namaste Cocksuckers, namaste x