Labels & Lent

Flight or fight.  Decisions.

Her eyes widened a fraction of a millimetre, the tiny jaw muscles tight as she calculated the distance to the door combined with her age versus  my own, her adrenaline extrapolated exponentially to my lack of anticipation, and predicted the likelihood of her escape. She thought she could make it.

You expect more than that from your GP.  Or I do.  Still.  After all these years.  Fat, dumb, happy, that’s me.  But the thing is, the Butler’s taking me to Paris for my birthday and feck me if I’m not having a good time.  And in order to do that, I need to be heavily medicated.  Which is a whole other story, but this GP looked more likely to hospitalise me than give me drugs.

So I say, ‘I used to work with children and some of them in the Asperger’s spectrum had this same inability to habituate certain sounds and vibrations.’ 

Ah, a manageable label delivered with big words.  I most likely wouldn't throttle her with the blood pressure cuff.  She gave me some beta blockers and now the world is safe again.  Everybody breathe deeply.

I don’t know if I’m on the spectrum, although if it’s a spectrum, I guess we’re all on it, but I proposed (tongue in cheek) to the Butler that people should be nicer since I have a label.  This wise ass remark made me decide that for Lent, I would be nicer to me.  No self doubt.  Just for Lent.

18 Things Creative People Do. Photo Andy Ryan

Don’t get me wrong.  Self assessment is a powerful tool.  Without it, you’re a narcissist.  Being disappointed in oneself leads to improvement.  Writers do this full time, I suspect.  It’s as I read recently, creative people ‘fail upward’.  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/04/creativity-habits_n_4859769.html

But self doubt can become a constant negative voice inside our heads that we accept as reality. 

Too blue.

F’rinstance, I’m knitting two cardigans for Paris.  A normal person would buy something there or if pressed, knit one.  Me, I knit two.  And during the whole operation, I critique my work.  Too bland.  Too blue.  Buttonholes not where they should be.  Meanwhile, the Butler reacts to my knitting as if I’m spinning gold from straw.  To him, it’s miraculous that I can twist a couple of sticks and out comes a cardigan.  Who cares what colour it is?

Oh.  Yeah.  Right.

A friend of mine is doing 100 Happy Days – the challenge to post a photo of a reason to be happy each day for 100 days.  That’s the ticket with this Lenten vow for me, to look at myself and what I’m doing through happy eyes, so to speak.  Not – well what can you expect from someone with a label – but, it’s good that I exist.  I, who sing badly and often dance as I’m getting out of bed, who reacts to the Butler bringing me a fox skull with a rib breaking hug.  It’s not just alright, but good that I can’t remember to dye my hair and don’t cook and periodically dig up parts of the lawn for pumpkin patches and other inexplicable endeavours.

Too bland.

Sometimes it’s difficult, not sliding into Bad Lora mode.  Sometimes I have to say, ‘It’s just for Lent.  You can rag your ass after it’s over,’ to prevent myself from jumping on some inadequacy. 

The effort is worth it, because as I search for a belief in the beauty of my lesser components, I find more reasons to be happy.  To feel lucky with the life I lead.  And I actually think I’m a nicer, better person for being treated kindly by my inner critic.  Even if it’s only for Lent.