My word for 2018 was ‘authentic’ and fuck me has it been a ride. More like a cliff edge between living and nonexistence and I’ve had to dig deep to err on the side of living.
Did I live authentically? As best as I could with the tools that I had. I knew it was never going to be easy. I knew I had a lot of learning to do, a lot of getting down and dirty with the shit my brain was going to sling at me. I wrote that “This adoption of authenticity will challenge my practices, my ego, my relationships, my narrative but, to be authentic is to be free.” Was I free? In some ways, yes — more free than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. Going so far as signing myself up for a TV game show that could paint me however it wished (it didn’t, I was an extra and needn’t have fallen into an anxiety-ridden ego stupor). But, the point is, I allowed myself to step into a group of people, in a land I didn’t know, and be me….
“I laughed.
I danced (poorly).
I sang (badly).
I swore (‘go fuck yourself’ & ‘suck a dick’ becoming terms of endearment)”
I was under no illusion that all my broken parts were now glued back together, but I had achieved something, I was aware of it, and I acknowledged it. However, I didn’t realise just how low I would sink into the mud at the start of the summer. I can describe the scene so very well, when the first ‘low thought’ crept in “It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t exist” and that sentence would be my constant battle that even as I write, still creeps in during my low moments.
Funny thing is, when you want to live authentically but have lived a certain way for a very long time, you find that your answers in moving forward to a better life punch the throat out of that way of living, and you end up with a slog-fest on your hands. How did I get through it? I shut myself away, I read books, I reached out to people, I pushed people away, I talked about how I was really feeling, I had pity parties, I told myself ‘everyone could go fuck themselves’, I ate entire pizzas alone, I missed deadlines, and I took up Shamanic Journeying. Everyone was a fucking teacher, I was a teacher, my behaviour, my past, everything got dumped in the mud for me to wrestle with. What did I find?
Connection.
Connection was my answer, and I fucking hated it. It IS my answer and just because I put a label on it doesn’t mean the work is done, our current status is — we’re friends who bitch behind each other’s backs.
I’ve already written about connection which I will post alongside this because maybe someone will pick up the books I’ve read and find something within the pages that will kickstart some healing or changing for them, even the fiction books did their bit in teaching. Side note — my positive Relationships week-long classes were triggering as fuck and I walked straight into them with my head down looking at my phone…arsehole.
The dick thing about life though, is that it’s not systematic and just because you found some of your answers doesn’t mean you’re sailing to the next issue. 2018 has been swinging a baseball bat around, and it doesn’t give a fuck about who takes the hits. Many of my closest friends have taken nasty blows, and it’s heart-wrenching because it’s the gift that keeps on giving. And Christmas Eve, it was mine and my family’s turn.
My Grandad began to decline in September at a faster rate than we were all prepared for. In and out of delusions, weight loss, infections, just skin and bone. I read to him from my book, held his hand, looked on in selfish helplessness as he pointed and murmured. The nurses came and gave drugs to settle his mind a little, a few days more they said. I pushed my mum to go run errands, we were fine, I wouldn’t leave his side. Now the scene won’t leave my head.
Shortly after that, his face began to pale, he coughed, and his breathing stopped. I could still feel his heartbeat, I could see it, this wasn’t the end! But it was.
I’m struggling.
He died holding my hand when he was supposed to have a few more days. I told him to let go, and then when he stopped breathing, I asked him for one more breath.
He was my connection to a father figure during my childhood. The only parent that would play football with me. The only parent that had stood in the rain to watch me play. These actions told me I mattered. My nan and grandad, furiously filling the hole where my father should have been. The reason my sister chose him to walk her down the aisle because he had been there. Through all his faults, he had been there.
What does all this shit mean for 2019 though?
I’ve got to dig even deeper. Dig deeper into me. Dig fucking deep and find resources within myself that will fight the mornings that want me to stay in bed. That fight the words “It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t exist”. Fight the hurt that will inevitably come from this connection slog-fest. Fight not asking for help.
Ultimately, fight for the connections I already have.
For those that check in on me when they know, I’m in a black hole.
For those that bring me pure joy in laughter through being stupid as fuck.
For those that want to teach the world a better way through it.
For those that are fighting their own battles.
2019
Dig deep • Get dirty • Fight to be you
