Escape

Every now and then, when I find myself in a physical environment where something really unpleasant or offensive is happening, and there’s nothing I can do to remove myself from the place, I escape into my mind.  I go to a happy place, either a memory from my past, or a dream of a future situation – either way, I flood my head with as close as I can get to euphoria. I do this as a coping mechanism. Others might light up a cigarette or plug in earphones. 

Wherever I can, I walk away, removing myself from the chaos, as I try to adopt the nonchalance of “not my circus, not my monkeys”. But, since that’s not always possible, the only place I can escape to is the safe wonderworld of my mind, where I have the power to think anything I want to, the power  to stop any unwanted thoughts, the power to insert any thoughts I choose, and the power to create a preferred reality. I can’t tell you how amazing this is.

I’ve learnt, over the years, that one of the ways in which we discover who we are, is through interaction with other people. Their behavior – or, more specifically, our response to it – gives us a lot of insight into ourselves. Through other people, we learn what it is about ourselves we like and don’t like. It feels like the older I get, and the more comfortable I am with myself, the stronger my reactions to other people’s behavior are. I’m at that strange age where, even though I’m cognisant of the many shades of grey that exist, I’ve also become increasingly clear about what I can and can’t tolerate. Sometimes I don’t even realise the intensity of my  feelings about certain behavior, until I’m confronted with it directly.

But my recourse is to lose myself in my thoughts - in MY mind, where I make the rules, where nothing is out of control, and where everything I know is possible, is possible.

Of course, I would never sit passively while anyone was being abused, but let’s face it, there are so many forms of abuse, some of them so subtle, so insidious, that we can even pretend they’re not abuse. It just depends on how you label it. Or where on the continuum you sit.

Tonight, I wish I could forget some of the vulgarity I’m exposed to, some of the underbelly-of-the-world-wrapped-up-in-finery I have to endure. I wish I could rewind a certain period of time – purge - start again, without having encountered some of the things I have.  But I know that that’s not how life goes. In a strange way, I am as strong and resilient as I am because of the ugliness and adversity I’ve been exposed to.

Recently, when I couldn’t bear the horrible energy in a certain situation, I thought back to the time when I worked as the Centre Director of someone’s language school and then the 8-month period in which I owned my own one. Besides the financial difficulties (which eventually resulted in the closure of the school), I experienced some of my highest highs in that time. What I loved most of all was the freedom, the space, the wonderful opportunity to implement all those things I knew was possible. It was fantastic. I’m so glad I have those memories. They remind me that what others think is impossible, I’ve already done. 

Those memories feed my soul when I need it most.

Of course, there’s always that other thought: if I could do it once, I could do it again. 

I wonder

Can I type and post a whole blog article in half an hour, without tweaking and editing the thing to death? I wonder. Will I ever have a day where what I want to do and what I have to do happen at times that suit me? Like right now, for example: I want to type a blog post, but I’m supposed to be doing a household chore that will take me about two hours. When I’m feeling sorry for myself, it seems like most of my life is like that – a conflict between what I spontaneously and organically feel like doing, and what my various roles in society dictate I do. The sun shines, and I want to put up my feet and read, listening to the birds chirping outside, but no – the sun’s shining, so I have to do the laundry. The moon’s resplendent in a magical night sky, and I want to play my guitar outside, but no – I have to make supper, wash up, or get my things ready for the next day.

I know I sound like I’m whining, and I probably am, but something that a character in the movie, "Boyhood", said made me think about life and about ageing, and made me wonder how many people in my circle of friends could actually say, in their 50s, that life had lived up to their expectations. Did we all think there’d be more to it than what there is? Did we all expect more wows? Did we think we’d feel childlike anticipation and excitement all our lives, and did we think that life would continue to surprise us? When last were you surprised? How much of this is up to us? How much of a choice do we actually have?

One day I’ll write a cynical, disappointed-in-life song, because that’s how I feel, some of the time. I’m just such a bloody optimist, that when things don’t go well, I accept the bad time as a temporary glitch, sit it out patiently, all the time believing, with all my might, that brighter days are just around the corner. Maybe if we were more open about the fact that we felt really bad some of the time, we’d all end up feeling a little less weird for having these feelings. Because we’d know that many/most of our friends felt the same way too, some of the time, and that it was perfectly okay to feel that way.  

I’ve been asked this question by two life coaches: “If money weren’t a factor, and failure not a possibility, what would you be doing with your life?”  My answer was unequivocal: “Music”. But if I were to divide my activities up into percentages – an exercise I plan to put myself through, just to see – music would probably take up less than 5% of my daily/weekly/monthly activities. Now that’s what I call ridiculous. It makes no sense to me. Sometimes I’m surprised that I still gig, and that when I do, people enjoy it so much. I probably spend 50% of my time doubting myself, wondering why I still bother. But of course I know the answer. I’d be a very miserable person if the option of making music to an audience were to be removed from me. Plan B would be to play in solitude, but every performer knows the huge difference between the one and the other.

So, just about 30 minutes since I started blogging – because the mood took me there – I now have to go and do that housework. Housework is one of my least favourite things to do, and yet it takes up so much of my time. When will I get it right to tip the balance in my favour? I wonder. 

Maybe what distinguishes us as mature people is that we know we can't be doing what we want to all of the time. Maybe rich people, who can pay others to do the schlep work, don't have this problem. 

I wonder.