Today I met with my wonderful OT Sam and they asked how I was. How’s things. What’s the haps. I described school holiday chaos, managing to step outside my comfort zone and go on an interstate work trip, and getting up at 4:30 this morning to launch a poetry collection in the UK online.
Then a simple, kind question completely undid me. “What sort of pacing do you allow yourself for your nervous system to decompress after a big trip?”
Cue me crying my face off.
I don’t think I’m taking very good care of myself. I’m not acknowledging the fallout on my nervous system when I do something very challenging. I’m referring to the transportation part of the trip, not the work itself, which was cup filling and nourishing.
Layer upon layer of living intentionally keeps coming back to turning to face the thing I’m avoiding. Because I’m afraid of what I’ll see, and how to reckon with it. How will it fit? How will I fit? It’s looming over me anyway, I may as well know what I’m working with.
This morning brought reports of how the State Library of Victoria had scoured the social media history of the presenters of a writing boot camp for teens prior to terminating their contract. They were anti-genocide and pro-Palestine. In egocentric process, I wondered how many of my employers in my piecemeal arts life will dislike what they see and decide not to fund my work activities. Then I felt that hollow, cold feeling in my gut that happens when things are very, very wrong and it chills me to the bone.
Last week there were reports of library staff not being permitted to show solidarity with political movements, such as Palestinian liberation, First Nations land back rights and rainbows for the queer community.
We have learned in recent years that Margaret Atwood is problematic but back in the day I was an avid consumer of the televised version of The Handmaid’s Tale. Even though we had young children and many scenes threatened the bile to rise beyond my throat. It was frightening because it was so close to reality, and I knew that were Gilead to be happening in the here and now I would be one of the first to hang from the wall. Good, I thought. I should stand for something - we all should.
My nerves are a clanging bell that says GO TO BED and ZONE OUT. This is how I refuel myself and come back to my version of normal. I need to care for my mental illness parts and my chronically pained parts, my fatigued parts and my heartwork parts.
[processing]
A self portrait of JP wearing bright red and pink, with pink hair, looking into space, processing ideas.
When I was on the first flight between Wurundjeri Land and Gadigal Land, the flight attendant said to me “you seem very capable, you won’t need a wheelchair to get from the flight to baggage will you?”
Those two sentences don’t go together, and don’t get me started on how many times I was referred as a lady, a ma’am, a miss, she, her, papercut after papercut on top of being on high alert and holding back a panic attack by a bee’s dick.
I am dreadfully tired. And now because of who I am as a person I add to my to do list to send a thoughtfully and firmly worded piece of feedback to Qantas about ableism, dynamic disability, updated terms and training for staff around both disability and gender. I would love to not give a shit, to be teflon, to leave well enough alone.
Not on your Nelly, bro. I have never fit in any system that I’ve been placed in, and it hurts like hell every time. It does damage, and to the next person it might be the final straw. So I need to do something about it.
My back feels pretty loaded up right now. Not sure how many more straws I can take, but having something for lunch and then laying in a dark room should even the scales a bit.
All my love, JP.