This last year has been a struggle. I’ve felt stagnant, paralysis, inertia, lost. Though interestingly nothing that would keep me awake at night. In fact sleep was a relief, a welcome break from myself. Only it wasn’t. I’d wake up in the morning and feel I had completed the most gruelling mental workout. A virtual marathon. I had bizarre dreams that I could recall in vivid details but only for a couple of minutes. Then dissipation and utter exhaustion. Of course I should have kept a sleep journal. DH was a bystander. He could feel my pain but do nothing about it. His acknowledgement was appreciated though. More than once he’s said “I’m so glad I don’t live in your head”.
To my credit, I’d always dress for the day. When I worked part-time, I’d watch some daytime TV. Not so now.
Though these last few weeks I’ve been tested – I tripped upon the housewives of New York when babysitting my god-daughter and we were both hooked. A year old, she has time on her side. I have not so try hard not to switch on the telly.
I had thought that ‘it’ would come to me – my purpose, the path, my next steps. I networked. It involved plenty of chats over cakes and coffees. I got around. I met some new people, reconnected with others. I was candid about my situation – redundant and trying to figure out what’s next. Open to offers and suggestions. I could feel myself bristle when well-intentioned ex-colleagues told me about vacancies for posts like the one I had just left. On occasion I sent in an application – completed half-heartily. Of course it came to nothing.
A friend recommended a consultation with a holistic therapist. She felt an energy healing session might unblock me. I blogged about it here. I didn’t mention that Colette, the healer with clairvoyant tendencies, was constantly being interrupted by the spirit world shouting out a message for me – simply the word ‘Words’. Did this mean anything to me? Not so much then.
I went down the volunteer route. I thought it might make me work-ready as opposed to work-shy which I worried I might be becoming.
All the time, in the dark. I was still at the bottom of that well/the rut.
Then I started to feel movement. Cracks. Chinks. And things started to line up, patterns appeared. Life, my life started to make sense. My choices or lack of started to make sense. In about a week, things happened that trumped decades. If there was a moment, it might have been receiving the letter from my sister. A simple cover note paper-clipped to a photocopy of an article from the British Journal of General Practitioners on Therapeutic writing. ” You’d be good at this”. I think I’ve found my purpose. It seems so obvious now.