Author: Ellen Bell

I’m stuck. I’m stuck and my body is stuck. Stuck in a fug of fear. And it makes me, as he told me this morning, “bad company.” I know this, only too well. I suggest he goes away for a bit, visit his brother. He says he doesn’t want to. If I could, if it wouldn’t unsettle my work regime, I’d go. I want to take this cross little body of mine away. I want to nurse it, tend it, and refind my courage. Would escaping help? Probably not. I fantasise about going with a bag of books and reading alone, the day stretching ahead with noone to do for but myself. A fantasy, I know. Live here, now, in the fug and find your way out.

How do we dwell in this world where starving people are shot at as they queue for food? How do we dwell in this world in which children are abused and hurt? How do we dwell among those who are cruel, mean and callous? How do we dwell here, on this earth, with all that we are? I just don’t know.

I long to go. Go anywhere but here, that is, here in my head with all this fear. But I can’t. And if I did it would only make the fear worse. I need to sit it out until it passes. Do the work, face it and be brave. Find my courage and trust that all will be well. He believes it and so should I. Let it be, Ellen. Let it be.

As I walked I thought about what failure might feel and look like. Would it be so bad? Can I, could I live with it? He says I can’t fail. That they wouldn’t let me. Is this really the case? Am I held more than I believe? Can I rest in that, let my back and my colon relax? Can I?

They’ve told me I must stop, stop what I’ve been doing. Stop and behave differently. Stop. Stop what I have become and become something else. It is timely. My back tells me. But oh, it is so so difficult.

I’m not. I’m not managing this very well at all. I thought I’d be more stoic, be able to exercise more self-control but it’s gone on too long. I am undone by it.

I used to anticipate journeys with pleasure. Now, though I like to get away from the structure of my life that holds me in place, they tire me. There’s a tawdriness to them, I feel awry, dirtied, adrift. And then coming home, there’s all that adjusting to do. Yet, they must be made and wisdom is found in their discomfott.

I’ve given it a name. I talk to it, to her first thing in the morning when she is at her height. I want to manage it. To live with it, even welcome it. Good morning, heartache, sang Billie Holiday. Good morning, pain. Let it be. Not surrender to self-pity but accept what it and the wisdom therein.

The world it seems is full of it, and it has probably been so always. As indeed is my wee body. It makes me cross and spiky. And I am sorry for it. I want to be a saint, an angel. I am not. Just a scratchy, self-pitying lesser mortal. Let today bring some healing. For all of us. Please.

I cricked it in the bath again. The warmth belies my back’s still fragility. I must bear it, try to relax it, exercise it, tend and massage it till it returns to its usual supple normality. It is nothing in comparison to R.’s trails. He had ten injections in his back yesterday. Poor poor love.