I'm out of routine...
When all that's expected of you feels too much...
It begins with making the bed. I then go, room by room, lighting candles, fluffing pillows and hoovering up the debris: crisps encrusted into carpet, cat hair, flakes of ash. I’ve got myself all out of whack – I didn’t eat for 24 hours, my body became hollow. So I’m trying to get myself back, which is hard, as when you feel out of routine, unwell, like your being is simply a thing to be abused, it’s easy to spiral into that feeling, particularly in January when we’re supposed to be feeling…
WELL! REFRESHED! RECHARGED! RENEWED!
I’ve been beating myself up for not feeling any of those things, particularly at the end of the month, when we’re supposed to be feeling embedded into our new diets/routines/habits and waxing lyrical about them, to anyone who will listen (“I really do feel the benefits” and “I wake up each morning afresh”) Of course, no one I actually know is saying any of that, that’s all from TikTok, a place where I have spent the last few days – pulled into the tornado-of-scrolling that’s sometimes fun, but mostly just… distracting.
Anyway, this is all to say I’m not feeling very new year, new me (despite earlier in the month proclamations!) I’m mostly feeling guilty. Guilty for not writing in this Substack for a fortnight, and guilty that this – after the wait – is the piece of writing you’re getting. My tummy is also sore, again. But I’m also contemplating how much routine, in the world of newsletters, really matters? Or is it something we are told matters, by the start-up tech people who want us on their app as much as possible? I’d love to know your thoughts, how you consume Substacks (mine, and other people’s.) Are you aware of people’s regular timings, or do they just pop in your inbox and you think “oh I’d like to read that?”
I’ve just finished writing a piece that has taken me deep within some past fears, and I need to shake them out. Shake them out of the bedsheets I’ve been languishing in, typing from bed, then sweatily dreaming of my past. They’re on paper now, sent off to an editor. If she likes them, then hopefully you’ll read them soon. If she doesn’t… Well, I’ll probably go back to bed.
It's taken it out of me, I’m sure you can tell. So that’s why this little letter isn’t particularly insightful, but I didn’t want to neglect saying hello altogether. I’ve also, this week, interviewed someone really interesting all about the power of obituaries (do you read them? Send me any you find special) and that will be in your inbox next week, on time. Then there’s the longer-term research I’ve been doing on the assisted dying debate, speaking to people, with lived experience, on both sides. Again, if you have anything you’d like to tell me about that, please do get in touch.
So, there will be plenty of interesting, perhaps helpful, things from me, on this Substack over the next few weeks but mostly I just wanted to say hello, get back in line and apologise for being a bit rubbish. This newsletter, and your support in reading, sharing, commenting is so important to me… but sometimes writing about death, grief and all the complexities of how we live our life, as well as dredging up my own history, can be a bit much. So I know I could try to write something longer, but I don’t think it would be very good. And you deserve better than that!
Instead, I’m going to make some friendship bracelets (one of my resolutions was to take up meditating and threading the beads on to elastic feels almost as trancelike) and share the below poem, which I wrote when once feeling out-of-control by all of the internet’s expectations (so a little like how I’m feeling now)
Lots of love.
I thought I'd begin by counting All the things that I have Ten toes, ten need-to-be-painted toenails (one toe looks like a maggot) (I don't think anyone needs to know that) I trapped my foot under a rock once. Ran a half-marathon. I lost my nails then. I still Existed I always exist Even when dusty With the shame of others' decayed skin cells What makes a person? I'm confused constantly Aren't you? The question is too big for me to swallow I can't list all that makes me living I can try. At this list. At this poem. At... I dunno. The Curly Girl Method? I am tired of all that we are expected to be What makes a person? You're one. I'm one. Let's make that Enough.