What is it I’m looking for?… What am I missing?… What did I take for granted that I’ve lost somewhere along the way?
That unbridled passion for a thing, event, person or activity. That feeling you get when you’re with friends discussing an upcoming holiday, gig or party. When you can’t wait to share your ideas or thoughts on either your own or a friends new venture, relationship or travels. I miss looking forward to planning the party and the party itself and not even considering the aftermath, to visiting the off-license without that sinking feeling of apprehension for the morning after, and just hopping in the car and heading off on an adventure unconcerned about the tyre-pressures, fuel prices and traffic reports.
Not being able to sleep a wink because the following day is just going to be the best ever!!!… Butterflies in your stomach that are just that, butterflies, not chronic anxiety or indigestion. I remember not being able to keep still because I was so fired up, I would tap, jiggle and hop on the spot to find an outlet for the pent up energy, giggle and laugh for no other reason apart from pure unadulterated excitement. I yearn for the days when a party was the highlight of my week and not something that at best, I hope to see the people I love and get mildly smashed so I can forget some of life’s shit bits, and at worst, try my very best to avoid attending altogether so I can stay home and watch the Special Victims Unit triple bill in bed.
Mmmmmmm…. to be carefree again, to do that ever more elusive “living in the moment” thing. To jump in the car at midnight and head to a field in Hampshire somewhere because a friend of a friend reckons there’s a party going on. Not to feel the need to carry plasters, headache pills and a miniature sewing kit, among other stuff, around in a giant back-breaking handbag that Mary Poppins would be proud of, in case of a nuclear attack or a broken zip. If only I could really let loose and enjoy the picnic knowing I’d forgotten the hummus dip for the carrots, or relax whilst boarding a plane without concerning myself with medication supplies and compression sleeves to control potential flare ups of lymphedema (a complication of cancer treatment)… If only the smuggling of duty-free boxes of wine on board for secret under the seat mid-flight drinkies was my single source of unease.
Get up, get dressed and go out…..
Get up, get paid, go shopping and go out….
Get up, go out, get drunk and eat a kebab…
Run out of money, borrow a £10 off Dad and go out…
The days when the biggest worry was your parents finding out you smoke, that you came in 3hrs past curfew or that you’d neglected to mention that Sophie, Steve and Jim were staying over and would be smoking weed in your bedroom until 4am. Mortgages were for other people, bank loans and credit cards were for worrying about another day, caring for the dog, cats or kids was not even a part of the equation, booking a 2 week holiday and staying on another week because it’s fun, packing your job in because its shit and the manager’s a wanker… and not getting constant reminders to attend the local GP’s surgery for smear tests, mammograms or a 40+ health check.
Can I get it all back or has that ship sailed?… What can I replace these feelings with?… How do I get my kicks as a grown up?
To be grateful nearly every day just for waking up, for still having my eyesight, my body in fairly decent working order, bar a few battle scars, aches and pains… to have the man I love alongside me and supporting me everyday, to own my beautiful home, well, for the mortgage company to allow me to live in my beautiful home whilst slowly paying off the interest … to have the best friends a girl could ask for and a family, both new, adopted and the originals in my corner whatever I seem to get up to.
The comfort taken in knowing that the people in my life are there because they care about me, and not what I can do for them… that they accept the occasionally neurotic behavior, the fact that my phone is constantly at the bottom of my giant handbag on silent, and my apparently legendary stubbornness. The home that wraps me up in a warm hug each time I walk in through the front door, a bolt-hole without which I have no idea how I’d have coped over the last few years… the place I’ve been through some of the best and worst moments of my life so far, the place that my animals are waiting to greet me whatever my mood. The Husband that puts up with a menopausal, infertile 40 something woman with a newly acquired stone or two and who’s idea of a good day out is a trip to Ikea to purchase soft furnishings we don’t need, and a good night out would usually involve ice-cream and the promise that we don’t have to stay too long.
Not giving a flying fuck what the general public think about the fact that I have gone out in jogging bottoms, socks and sandals, what colour/style my hair is or that I was singing at the top of my voice in the car with the window open… that I talk to my animals, listen to chat radio and Joni Mitchell. I’m not saying that I don’t have the odd melt-down when getting ready to go out, on the rare occasion that I do, normally relating to weight gain and ill-fitting clothes, but most are short lived due to the refreshing realization that nobody gives a shit, and that after the first glass of wine neither will I. No longer feeling that I need to justify myself or my actions to anyone, I am what I am, cock-ups and triumphs alike.
From the pills that have helped to take the edge off the anxiety and aid a good nights sleep, to the ones that are hopefully helping to keep me alive… love it or loath it, and believe me I do both, credit where credits due, at times it’s been a life-saver 😉
I’m confused, how about you?