I hear a lot of people telling their tiny humans to “say thank you to the bus driver!” and they normally do. Whether it’s a quick thanks, a shy thanks or a bold, almost shouting thanks I always appreciate it.
We could all say thank you more.
Here are my current thank yous:
Thank you to everyone who has stood by me recently. Notable thanks to close friends (that drunkenly ring me to tell me they love me), my mum, a couple of colleagues and my therapist.
Thank you to every single person who works in any emergency service. Paramedics. PCSOs. Fire fighters. Coast guards. Mountain rescuers. Police officers. Don’t listen to what “The Sun” says. Have your cup of coffee in a public place; you deserve it. Every single day you leave your house not knowing what the day will bring or whether you’ll even return home.
Thank you to doctors and nurses and physiotherapists and porters and cleaners and receptionists in hospitals all over the world. The world simply would not exist without you.
Thank you to my goddaughter who reminds me that happiness can be found at the top deck of a bus or at the bottom of a tub of poster paint.
Thank you to the musicians who have managed to say all the things I can’t say and better.
Thank you to my favourite poet who has changed my life beyond comprehension.
In it, I confronted one of my biggest fears about one of my favourite people.
It was a mixture of painful truth and awful potential.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I think dreams are our way of safely exploring things that we cannot process while we are awake. And my theory has never been more prevalent than now.
I don’t struggle with difficult conversations but I struggle to figure out the emotion surrounding them. I can get how I feel out there but then I can’t handle what happens next.
My therapist has told me that sometimes when the fantasy becomes a reality a terrible realisation sets in. All of a sudden, you have what you want and, even if it’s exactly how you had imagined it would be, it’s a shock.
I am in shock and last night I dealt with that in dream form and today I’m dealing with the idea that I might finally have the opportunity to be happy.
I want to take away that fear that I hear in your voice. I want to stomp back in time like Godzilla and right the fucking awful wrongdoings in your life.
I want to hit her so fucking hard that her teeth fall out. I want her to feel the fear and pain and shame that you’ve felt most of your life.
I want to make you smile. That water spilling out of the corner of your mouth kinda smile. I want to take a picture of it and frame it and look at it every time I doubt myself.
I want to be the person you message at 5:18am bleary-eyed. I want to be the person you message at 11:32pm drunk. I want to be the person you message when you’re happy and when you’re sad and when you’re inbetween.
I want to be the one who changes your mind and softens you. Don’t put up such a wall. I don’t want you to be Trump, I want you to be anything but.
I want to be the person you’re proud of. I will find ways to make you proud.
I want you to want to hold me. To love me. That’s the thing.
This week I’ve felt that sting a lot. (Not that water infection kinda sting, thank goodness!) I’ve felt that sting of hurt when someone has said something that I find offensive.
A colleague told me that the only way I could have kids would be adoption (not true) and a friend undermined a situation which, for me, was very real and very serious but for her was little more than a passing phase.
And so I feel stung.
How does one deal with feeling stung?
A year ago I would have been bitter and angry but, as anger is a secondary emotion, I want to allow myself to feel hurt.
And boy do I hurt.
I’m not very good at being hurt. I hate being vulnerable and I associated being hurt with being vulnerable. I struggle to, rationally, admit that something has upset me.
Right now, I’d take a wasp sting over this emotional sting that is happening inside me.