Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Recently I’ve (not) welcomed a new guest to my dinner party of unwanted emotions. I already eat next to Anxiety (she separates her peas from her carrots) and opposite Panic (she worries about the chicken being well cooked). Insecurity eats all the bread. I thought I had a full house, but we’ve had to shuffle over for Despondency. She doesn’t eat anything; doesn’t see the point in food. Or anything else.

I’ve never been a massive fan of Ericka Mary Waller. Sleep is never a waste of time, it is a much-needed break from myself, but my self-loathing has reached new heights. It has clambered into one of those rollercoaster cars that creep slowly, slowly up towards an impossible crest. I have teetered on this edge, too scared to look down. These six words in my head – how can you be so ungrateful?

I have everything. I have three healthy daughters. A husband who knows my brittle bones and still loves me. I have the pets of dreams. A house by the cerulean sea. I have a car; I have pennies in my purse. I am cancer-free. I have more than my mother had and her mother before her and her mother before that. My foremothers went without food, so their children didn’t. They worked on swollen knees. They died young and wastefully from illnesses that new drugs will save me from. They gave birth with no painkillers. They menopaused with no HRT. They were overlooked and underpaid.

So, what have I got to feel sad about? What right do I have to crave? To want my career to thrive? To have my name on books and tongues, my made-up worlds printed on pages, taking up precious space in bookshops which are hospitals for the lost and the lonely and the curious?

I have been thrashing this out. I have been raving, manically, to my husband, asking him how he can believe in himself? How is he not just tired of life and the constant agony of trying to exist with presence of mind and grace.

Above my desk as I type this is a wall of family photos. Black and white faces that, grafted together, create my family tree. My grandmother, my great grandmother. My uncles and aunts posing for a single second of their lives. I have studied their smiles, imagined their hardships.

I have apologised for letting them down with my ingratitude.

And then it came to me.  The reason I should want. The reason I should insist on my cup of stars. Why I should answer back and stand up and keep pushing for more than I have. More than they ever had. Because they sacrificed so that I could. They went without, lived through, endured. They carried on working and trying and raising so that one day I could be here, to tell you about my life. To use the privileges, they gave me. To carry on their work.

I was in them as they are in me. My daughters too. I am demanding more from my life so that they may do the same. I am a platform, a diving board, for them to jump from. I am the rollercoaster.

And so disenchantment has been banned from the table and pride has taken her place. She’s very vain but that’s okay. It is okay to want more than the people before you had. More than the people around you want. It is okay to desire and dream and take yourself seriously. It is okay to believe you might carry a tiny spark inside of you.

Or… This may be better expressed in this poem from Donna Ashworth’s Growing Brave

Flames

When faced with a decision that scares you, think of those who walked your lineage.

The women whose bodies created line after line of your blood.

The fierce females who could only dream of the opportunities you have now.

Talk to your ancestors, my friend. Hear their primal roar. They are beside you, you are never alone. When faced with a risk in this life, just once or twice, jump bravely into the fire that they know so well, knowing that they will cover you, guide you through and pull you out the other side.

They speak to you through your gut, these souls with their wisdom learned in lifetimes of bravery, breakthroughs and bold beauty.

Listen. Be held. And jump into the flames.