Author: Ellen Bell

My tongue is rigid, even in sleep. What is it that I am trying not to say?

I’ve thought about the people of LA who have lost their homes and possessions much over these last few days. It is hard to comprehend how they must be feeling. Our homes are containers, not only of us, keeping us safe, warm, dry and nurtured, but also of all those things that describe, hold and reflect who we are to ourselves and others. Poor loves. My heart is heavy for them.

I don’t have them that often. I never really did as a child either. It felt unsafe, and still does, to a certain extent. I feel out of control, even though, I know I am not. I see myself having them, indulging in them, allowing them air. Fanning them. It was over nothing, as they usually are, a mere symptom of a deep self-pity about not having things my way. And, being or feeling out of control of my life and of what needs to be done. Housework. I want it done but don’t want it take up my precious time. Let it be. Accept it. You have a home, unlike all those people in LA who have lost everything. Bless them. Let it all be. Resistance and non-acceptance uses up energy. Let it be. All of it.

I try to detach myself from it, concentrating on the getting myself and my body through each moment. I try to notice the particulars rather than seeing the bigger, more frightening picture. I can take this step, do this thing, I can allow the routine of this life to carry me through. And mostly it does, but the lowness I feel is a drag on my resources. I cannot see joy, feel or taste it. And this shames me. I have so much and others so little. I want oblivion, that empty nothingess, and know that for the moment it isn’t for me. I have a life to live. And I am sorry that I cannot live it with more lightness. I am, sorry.

I don’t well in it. Does anybody? Some do, apparently. I remember the man who used to work in the Health Food shop saying he loved it. A Yorkshireman, he’d wear shorts all year long. I think he died recently, but I could be mistaken. My body ceases up. My bones go rigid and my skin resistant. I need warmth and this flat doesn’t or won’t provide it. There are no snug corners, just a wide open openness, which is pleasant in the summer but not now. And then I think of all those people in LA watching their homes being razed by the wildfires. I have nothing to complain of, nothing.

I know that I am guilty of it. He bears it, sometimes acquiescing, other times kicking out at it. I want control. Control over myself and him. I need things to be in order, to be what I want them to be. It is appalling really. I hear my voice, and feel the tightening of my chest. I want to control something, somebody that isn’t me and that I have no right to dominate. I know this and am ashamed by it. And yet, I persist. Bless him for what he has to manage. And make me softer, more yielding. Please.

Have I always been fearful? I think so. A worrier, certainly. I welcome challenges but they frighten me too. As do deadlines. Though I have always met them. Yesterday was a struggle. I couldn’t get to the nub of what I was trying to say. Have I made it clearer yet? Is what I’ve been working out in my head going to work on ‘paper’. I shall have to see. Soon.

They’ve come down. All that sparkly stuff has gone. The house is bare. And I like it being so. Christmas is over, and that attempt at brightness is no longer appropriate now that it is January. I must face her, in all her bleak, cold starkness.

The body is a demanding vessel. It is hard to step out it. To deny its needs and desires. I walk in the cold, my fingers stinging in it. I find myself thinking of little else but making them warm. They call up all of my attention. I want to stop, remove my gloves and draw. I try it, but not for long. It is too much. My hands refuse to work, to submit. My body has taken over. I am lost in its forces.

Holidays in her home, as in the wider world, means that the usual happenings are put off, dispensed with, until everything is back to normal. People living in institutions and reliant on others for the fulfilment of their routine are, understandably, unsettled by the uncustomary lack. She wasn’t in her room when he called her. He tried several times. She called him back in the end. She had texted him, saying that she’d be away. One of the carers had offered to wash her hair. It needed it, she said. This carer is a kindly one. She often brings her fruit, bought with her own money. A hair wash. A simple thing and yet a big thing. A small act of kindness writ large.