Come from Love

File:SophieAndersonTakethefairfaceofWoman.jpgWe sat, stunned. I thought, I should be upset, and am not. Now I think, how could I be? After days of Mum lying in bed, responding less, then two days lying unconscious, then a minute foaming at the mouth- how could I feel all that might make me feel?

I wept three times that year. We laid Mum out in a new dress, in her coffin in the spare bedroom, and I kissed her face and was freed to weep. How could I read the eulogy my father composed for the funeral without weeping, people asked. I did not tell them that I remembered stealing her mastectomy breast forms after my father had put them in the bin, and my self-disgust steeled me. Months later at the Bridgewater Hall I heard Rachmaninov’s second piano concerto, and the second movement, poised, balanced, vulnerable, intense, sweet, aching, expressing loss and acceptance made tears pour out, in the crowd, and no-one minded, and that no-one minded was a useful lesson.

Years later I lay on the floor so often, weeping, I am not a man, that I transitioned.

I felt myself getting labile, weeping at anything, angry at small things, and I withdrew. Last year, it seems to me I had withdrawn completely. I knew I had no chance of staying on ESA, and I would have to sign on, but instead of finding a flat I could rent, and even, perhaps, trying to find a job, I hunkered down and procrastinated.

File:SophieAndersonTheHeadOfANymph.jpgI had found a way where I could tolerate my own emotional responses. I did not listen to the news, so much. I read a bit, but not too deeply. I have blogged. I could say, I accomplished nothing last year, I merely existed, but I tested to destruction that way of avoiding uncomfortable feelings. Okay, that doesn’t work, what now? More meditation, perhaps.

More Rachmaninov. Let me feel it fully. Let my anger course through my veins, let my weeping flood me, let my fear do whatever fear does in purple cliché mode. Let me be filled with it, naked with it, one flesh with it. Let me accept it and love it and become one, for it is me and I am bigger than I know, consciously; and I know, unconsciously.

Here I record my progress…messing about…File:LGAnderson.jpg

Fbfnd split from his cohabitee of 18 months, and posted on facebook a picture of her looking beautiful and his good wishes for her, stating their separation. Someone told him he should take it down. Someone else said he should do the right thing, and “come from Love”. But that is impossible. Throw yourself into your work, get very drunk, leave your computer at a friend’s house because facebook is dangerous and email is worse, but do not lie to yourself that you “Come from Love”.

I have been so trapped by my need to see myself as a loving, creative, caring human being: I crush all my impulses otherwise until it takes all my energy. I am unsure what to do with them, but denying them is not working.

I can’t be the only one, stuck in the lessons of teen-age, surely? I tell myself I can be a “loving, creative, caring human being” and pissed off occasionally-

8 thoughts on “Come from Love

  1. Dear Clare

    “Someone else said he should do the right thing, and “come from Love” – an interesting mix of truth (we all do come from love, all the time), emotional blackmail, (“should”) and pomposity (who are you to tell him what he should do?)

    I suggest that, in your delightful way, you stop listening so hard to what other people think, and just be quietly with whatever comes. We all dwell, a times, in places and stages that are less than saintly and less that developed. Just let it go, and it is free then to be what it is. That might be frightened, lonely or ashamed, but so?? It is as it is.

    Bless you, always! xx :-))


    • She meant, it might be a subtle snipe at the woman- I know neither well enough to be certain of this- so he should take it down.

      I find it frightening when it seems to me that I cannot behave exemplarily. It injects too great complexity into a world I want comfy and simple. It is not what others think, but what I think of me.


  2. Totally, but what we think of ourselves – particularly our faults, for some reason – is prone to exaggeration, simply because our perceptions of ‘fault’ are based in private fears which are difficult to express. You can be as you are, though, because we are all the same, in what matters. Put it another way, I love you, faults and all. It is such a relief, to live with imperfect people. ;-))


  3. I see you are exceedingly caring, and full to the brim with love and compassion … but not for yourself, just for others. I know it’s hard to love yourself or even like yourself. Everyone struggles with it, and if they don’t admit it. they’re lying … our hair, our eyes, our weight, our whatever. A change is as good as a rest, and you need a change … of scenery, people, place. You need to be held in someone’s arms and kissed and cuddled. To get there you have to … well … get there. I’m the last one to talk. I spent the better part of three years couped up in the house, crying all day, going out perhaps once every third week for a walk with a friend … because nothing in my life had prepared me for the nastiness that someone put up about me on the web. And yet … here I am … there you are. I’d send you to stay with my friend Malcolm in Lancashire (his house is gorgeous and he’s a professional cook) except that I’ve lost his address. I’ll shut up now.


All comments welcome.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.