Day 8: Varying Degrees of Panache

This is salsa?

I'm watching this and trying to persuade myself not to go dancing tonight. It's not the dancing itself - I'm sure I can listen to my body and be gentle with it - it's the hour-long drive either side that compresses the bit that hurts.

If salsa class was like that video, I'd be IN! I love the mirror bit at the start.

Today, I was in receipt of brilliance, kindness and sanity at the hands of Jo, an NHS physiotherapist at Frome Community Hospital. I was booked for a different issue, but given that i couldn't walk properly (and that the two issues are almost certainly related) she agreed to look at my back. 

This is not NHS Jo

After lots of calm questions, she announced that there was nothing she could do and that there was, in fact, nothing that needed to be done. The pain fits with the fact I have little or no disc in L4 and L5. It will heal itself as long as I believe it will, and keep it moving gently. She explained that we get all careful with ourselves because we think that 'it hurting' is the same as 'it doing damage', but it's not. Relax, take anti-inflammatories, get on with things. Perfect.


She said something like 'self-efficacy'. I can't quite remember. I do remember feeling quite delighted as I left. Waddling out to the car, getting caught by twinges and making little grunts, I got the giggles. It all seemed quite laughable, and so I did laugh. The woe of 'I can't do anything' was totally transformed by the physio-alchemist Jo. Nothing to worry about. Carry on!

Welcome to The River House

Frome has done Halloween with varying levels of panache. 

The River House, who are quite generous with their cool, did this! Waiting staff, kitchen staff, everyone was getting the treatment. I found the whole thing so pleasing, I had a second coffee (the first one was pretend). 


They had hand-shaped bloodstains on the door too... like Titanic, but in gore. Despite everything I said on Day 5, it was a nice touch. I mean, they didn't stage a slaughter... they'd just had a laugh murdering up the cafe. 

Very pleasing indeed. Top Hat Man is half cooked.
He was having his make-up done between lattes.

That's what pleased me so much. The Day of the Dead faces are properly pleasing in themselves, but it was the joy seeping through what they'd done. It made my day. I've been enjoying it since this morning! Thanks, River House.

Ellenbray, on the other hand... I think 'Could try harder' fits here. I mean, they did something, which is good, but I can feel this 'oh, shit, we forgot... we'll just... why don't we just cover the massive Lego police bloke in bog roll and... well, that'll do, won't it?" I mean, is he a mummy or a ghost? He's not very threatening, is he? It could just as well be a student prank. A lame one. Having said that, I got almost as much delight from this, just in a different way.

3/10, could try harder

So happy Halloween, all. Nobody's rung my bell (I think my house looks a bit scary anyway) and the dogs are calm, though Baba has just knawed her way through a dried salmon dog chew and the kitchen smells of old fish and dog-breath. Nasty. I mean, I gave it to her, obviously. She didn't go out and get it herself with her pocket money. Or steal it. Or order it off the internet or something with her dextrous claws and my debit card. So I take responsibility for the ming. I just thought I'd share it. Dead fish smell for Halloween.

PS - I didn't go dancing. I've saved my sore arse for tomorrow. I'm off for a little wiggle upstairs now though, while my co-dancers pound the hall floor, sweat with abandon and (with any luck) have a bit of a shout. I might just wrap a bit of bog roll round my face as I move, call it a costume. Trick or treat myself. Sorted. 

Day 7: Ego Menagerie

There are no good 'Narcissist' images, so here are some
animals looking a bit machinatory. Or not. They do that!

I'm very aware of my own need for this post to be 'good', so I'm outing myself. 

Some lovely people have been reading and saying flattering things and OHHHHH, doesn't my ego love that! And that's okay. There's no harm in enjoying people enjoying the blog. The only harm is in then deciding to write the blog for that purpose and engineering it to harvest the praise. 

That's tits in a bag. It's the opposite of the point. I shan't. Or if I shall in any way, I'll make sure I can't pretend to myself or anyone else that it's not the case. 


I am a born pleaser. Or a made one. Which reminds me: I was watching videos about narcissists, sociopaths and psychopaths the other day. The difference, apparently, between a sociopath and a psychopath is that a sociopath is the product of nurture: abusive upbringing, neglect and early betrayal are among the things that can rob a human of its natural empathy and hard-wiring for connection and create a sociopath. 

Is this piglet about to fuck you over?

Psychopaths, on the other hand, are born that way. They don't have the receptors to register other people's pain and their ethical compass exists only as a reproach thrown at them by others. They're not entirely sure what it means. They can pretend, if it serves them, but they don't have that organ. 

And narcissists, oh, you tortured torturers! Narcissists are driven by a need to serve the self even at the cost of others. They're master manipulators, practised revenge artists and charming as fuck when they want to be, BUT they suffer, at least a little bit, when they do harm.

Narcissism was described as an inner emptiness that needs to be filled with external fuel, be that a trophy job/partner/child/lifestyle, money or other people's energy. They're great at galvanising others into action. They're successful people, often, clever, charismatic and driven ones, but not happy ones, in the main.

What about this charming guinea pig/hamster thing?
Is she gathering information on you so she can shaft you?

Because as Queen of Wise, Anne Lamott says about focusing on the reward of being published instead of the act of writing, 'there's not enough out there - there's not enough love in the world', you won't sell enough copies' (etc)... It has to come from within, and if that's not possible, it's an exhausting addiction to keep trying to fill it with another lover, another public success, another act of making yourself bigger by making another smaller. Like bailing out a sinking ship, only... backwards. 

This need isn't reserved only for narcissists, but it's a quality they have more than there outer casings would suggest.

I've had a number of significant narcissists in my life - lovers, family members, friends, and many of them in a teacher/leader role, often with a spiritual bent. 

That's common because spiritual leaders are very compelling and the role attracts a steady stream of fodder in the shape of students and seekers, all willing to cough up their deepest fears in their quest for enlightenment, only for that to be processed into manipulation leverage. 

Many people seeking spiritual development (and narcissists, in fact) have had trauma, neglect or exposure to narcissists in a significant role in their early development*, which makes them even more likely to be drawn to authority figures who have those familiar traits. 

* Healing Developmental Trauma, by Heller & Lapierre, is a fascinating book, though the audiobook version is read with such jolly woodenness that the Amazon reviews are (very pleasingly) full of discussion about whether the relief or early trauma patterns the book affords is worth the re-traumatisation the narrator causes. 

Cute but deadly, apparently.  Classic narcissist. Do not approach.

Narcissists are also great at surrounding themselves with buffer people who clean up the carnage they wreak. I saw this in full flow in a course I recently left. I spoke to people in that role who were very aware of they dynamic but unable, for the moment at least, to break away. Or they just didn't want to, but there was definitely a familiar internal conflict in most of them. 

And it's really bloody hard. They often have something good to offer, something people really want, but at a cost** that I'm not willing to pay. I'm thankful to have moved away from that particular situation, and I'm calling in earlier and earlier radar warnings should I find myself compelled again. 

** An energetic cost as well as a financial one, this time. I couldn't recoup the latter, but I've got my energy back tenfold since leaving. A satisfying sign. 

Dapper As Fuck. Watch out. He'll eat your soul.
You may enjoy it. (Artist Yago Partal)

This one was particularly useful. It had to become intensely painful before I broke away, but after the months of back-and-forthing and an arduous decision-making process, it's felt fabulous to have done that.  Here's too that lesson logged, and gratitude - for the experience and the choice I made, and in advance to my future self for choosing a different path much earlier any time it becomes necessary.

And who knows... 20 posts down the line, I may have discovered my own narcissism (there are lots of types... it's kind of fascinating). I don't think so, but perhaps I'm blinkered to my own pathology. 

Ah well. If I'm not, what a relief, and if I am, just think how good that post will be: poignant, searingly honest, moving and humbling. It'll be a like magnet, and my fuel cup, for that moment at least, will overflow. 

So, you know... Every cloud.

Day 6: Humility Duck Walk

God, I have some wise and generous friends! 

I spent the morning saying how lonely I get and the afternoon being proved wrong. The universe saying 'We heard you, now stop with that shit, drop the story... we're going to make it really difficult for you to hold on!'

For a really stunning sunset, you need clouds

Thank you Rina for your clarity and kindness and attentiveness, Kath for your open heart, generosity of spirit and gorgeous practical gesture that made me do a cry, (newly met) Jamie for your help, Tiu for your spot-on 'strict instruction and for taking the time to send it (oh, and for recommending Jamie), Kate for your humour and your magic physio fingers, Dan for your openness.

I'm walking like a toddler nursing a nappy turd, or a 90-year-old (possibly same). Or a duck. I'm deciding something that's bringing up a lot of emotion and trying to stay clear on what I feel about it.

I have this and some other big decisions coming up. Back pain isn't the right platform to make them from. And whatever I decide, for whatever reasons, thank you for the reminder that none of this is personal. It just is. 

So get on your knees and worship it, Claybourne. What else is there to do?

Day 5: Time to Stop The Killing

About 20 years ago, I was addicted to Heat Magazine. I read that and another whose name I don't remember. I do remember that it was less slick than Heat and more openly vicious, so I liked it less. 

I bought into Heat Magazine's friendly voice - its message of 'we're all in this together, having a weird push-pull, co-dependent relationship with celebrity. Let's interview them like friends and slate them before the breath we say goodbye on has left our lungs'. 

Its a narcissistic* kind of friendship: Let's find out what makes them tick and uncover how they're 'just like us', and then use it to flay the skin from their bones, if only in our minds. 

At some point, I suddenly became aware of what was obvious. This is NOT helping me. Every time I read about a celebrity break-up or that this one's got fatter and that one's 'dangerously thin', it's the equivalent of punching myself in the face, or surrounding myself with all my childhood bullies (mostly friends) for a field day of 'let's belittle Jude'. This bile is coming from my own liver and coming back to poison it again. 

Enough is enough, I thought. It's time to stop. It probably took me a year of knowing this to make the commitment. That was the last gossip magazine I ever buy. We're done. It was hard. It was a big change of tack. But it was SO worthwhile. I can't look at one now without feeling like I'm hurting someone. Everyone. Like I'm feeding some monster that just cannot warrant feeding right now. I'm grateful for leaving them behind. 

Over the past year, I've become more an more aware of my new destructive addition - well, one of them, at least: crime drama. I say new. It's not new, it's been going on a while. My favourite shows for years have been The Killing (yes, all three) and better still, The Bridge. I've swung from one crimey, slaughterous thriller to another. 

OK, so both those shows have strong (and autistic/ish) female leads, but there's no denying that most of these shows involve elaborate killings, torture, sick minds, more sexual violence than you can shake a stick at, endless betrayal and the clear message that you can't trust anyone. 

And it's not news to say that the other women in these shows often don't come out of things too well, especially the young and pretty ones (see above).

As my wise friend Rina Golan points out, the subconscious mind doesn't differentiate between what's real and what's experienced. It takes what you give it. If I continue to give it torture porn, I'll continue to lash it into fear and my energetic resonance can't lift.

I tried to watch Spiral - which started off with one of these women naked and dead in a skip (but she was laid out artistically, so it's 'ok', or at least she was going to make it into the PLOT later, bonus!) 
I couldn't carry on. I'd bought that fucker - three series' worth - and I deleted them from my computer.

I planned to stop after the fourth series of The Bridge, but that came and went and my poor subconscious drank in more and more evidence that it's a vicious world out there. 

The last thing I watched (and rewatched) was Killing Eve. Beautifully written (go, Phoebe Waller-Bridge), funny, stylish and played to perfection. Lots of brilliant women. Lots of complexity, even in its stylised form, AND... lots of people getting nastily killed. Very nastily killed. For fun. In a way, it's better than the others, because it's lighter, but seriously - people murdered for sport and we still love her for being cool? It's great, and I've had enough. 


So it's time now, sweetheart. It's time to stop treating the ugly things that happen in the world as entertainment. Yes, it's important to tell real and powerful stories, but not to use murder and rape as titillation, however cool the characters. 


I'm not advocating 'love and light'**, but a little bit of gentleness and wisdom for myself. 
For this, in advance (it's not done until I stop), I am grateful. 

Thing is, though, there are roses out there, and people, and things to care about. It's time to feed myself something a little more nourishing. 

* More to come on narcissism. ** And on 'love and light'... the self-deluded tit-wank that is. 

Day 4: Back

Often, my body whispers warnings to me and often, I fail to heed them. For the last few weeks, my back has been terribly stiff, but did I go and swim 40 lengths, do a deep yoga class (I did one, but it wasn't deep) or get a treatment? No. I thought about it all, and didn't do it. 

Seriously, ALL of it

I felt it extra twingey while working on Thursday, but still I didn't act. The last two days, I haven't been able to stand fully straight. It's locked and horribly painful. I meant to spend the day in bed and yet I didn't. 

In honour of worshipping what is, I accept that tomorrow, I really can't move like I planned (in my mind, I still haven't quite let go of going for a run at 3pm, but I can't actually stand up straight, for god's sake, what am I thinking? And I promise to listen and to do something nourishing for my back and tight muscles. 

Maybe I will finally swim. Maybe I'll do some yoga. Maybe I'll spend most of the day in bed (still have to walk the dogs). Whatever I do, I make an official apology to my body. If I listen to you when you whisper, you won't need to shout. I'm sorry. 

Day 3: Story Time

On Tuesday night, while I was trying to go to sleep, I got a fully formed, fat story in my head, suddenly and almost all at once. It has meat on its hips, that story, and a proper gait of its own. 

Cats of any kind are a serving suggestion only

I have no idea how to write it, so I'm going to have to ask for help. I'm going to have to do it badly. As Ann Lamott, my new favourite wise woman says, you have to be willing to write shitty first drafts. 

In 'Word by Word', the audiobook of one of her talks, she elaborates. You don't start learning a musical instrument with the plan of murdering 'The Farmer in the Dell', but you will have to do that if you're ever going to play that Bach Suite you're so fond of. I'm paraphrasing, but I'm sure she'd give me her blessing. Buy her books ('Bird by Bird' is fantastic and I'm excited about her new one, called 'Almost Everything: Notes on Hope').

May I make this woman proud with my shitty first drafts,
and my hope

Wish me luck making a mockery of the English language, fucking up story structure, writing dialogue that would make you think 'Has this woman every heard people speak? Or has she walked through the world with her fists jammed down her ear canals?' 


Wish me luck sewing together the dismembered hunks of story that may come, and the shreddy rags of meaning that come on the drier days. Let's see what this wants to become, and I promise to offer as much love to the bits I think are shit as to the bits I think I've nailed, in the knowledge that time will probably flip that on its head. 

Here's to writing the story that wants to be told instead of creating a 'trophy tale'... check ME out and my Writing Prowess (etc). And to messing that up too. 

Time for a story before bed. 
Goodnight. 

Day 2: Repeat, Only Different

There was never such a flowing, juicy and rich time in my life but the 100 days (more like 200, in fact. I couldn't stop!) that I did a gratitude practice every day by writing a blog post. It was this blog in its previous incarnation - Reasons to be Grateful - and I was religious about posting it. 

Since then, I've meant to start again and haven't. Now's the time. Now is always the time. 

Since that time, my life has changed in all kinds of magical ways. I've moved God knows how many times, fallen in love once or twice, been disappointed and temporarily elated. I've adopted two little dogs. 

I've yearned and waited and missed the chance to do a number of things I really thought I wanted. Some of them, I can still do and others not. I feel acceptance and frustration about many of them. They sit next to each other in silence like old acquaintances. 

I feel like I'm finally starting to settle into my bones, into the flesh I landed into, into the skin that holds it. 

My God looks nothing like this (and also exactly like this
because Everything).

And (and this is a big one - strap in) I have 'found God'. That word, especially spoken publicly, still first conjures a sense of terror in my belly - a learned fear of being though stupid or weak or rabidly misguided, and definitely a sense of shame. 

But then I think about what it means to me, and I start to see words like 'salvation' with different eyes. That word starts to mean connection, returning and coming home. And from that solid base of home, everything is possible out in the world. 

When I was younger - in my teens and twenties - I was afraid to go into churches in case I was infected with religion. I had learnt that the need for religion, church or God, whatever that meant, was contemptible. Family Rules included mocking anyone who believed in pretty much anything (except, of course, Science, and whatever 'WE' believed). 

Thing is, I could feel it. What the it I felt was, I'm not entirely sure, but it was there, tangible, a cross between warmth and something else. Spirals. A presence. Spirit. I sense this same feeling anywhere people pray or meditate or do yoga (not Bikram). So I'm not saying God was standing behind me like a creepy stalker, but that I sensed something that I couldn't explain and it scared me.

Also looks like this

Now, nearly 30 years later, there's a sense of something greater that I just can't deny. And I can call it God without feeling stupid. I can call it all kinds of other things too, but most importantly, I can interact with it, and with the part of me that is already it, and it feels like home. 

I'm grateful for this and I'm hungry for the connection and change that gratitude brings.

So I'm repeating my 100 days of worshipping what is, whatever it may be. It may be standing behind me, laughing. I like to think so. 

Day 1: Glorious Hypocrisy

Fantastic little creatures

I'm sitting here shovelling peas-and-pasta leftovers into my face, stopping a dog chewing a wound, glancing at the clock every four and a half seconds so that I'll notice when I'm finally, definitely going to make myself late and screaming through lists of things to do in my head as this day gathers momentum... all the while taking notes on cortisol, testosterone, oxytocin and stress reduction techniques, thinking 'Fuck, will I get these done before I need to leave...?'

I am delighting in my own delight about this, rather than facing down my imposter or fighting off shame. You're all welcome, but ridicule and affection jumped the queue. 

And anyway, I love peas.