Something to look forward to changed to something to dread. “What do you fear?” she asked. That I lose my shit completely, and collapse in a puddle on the floor.
But my worst fear won’t happen.
My friend said it was a good thing F was speaking, and I should on no account answer her. My friend’s hope was that people would get sick of her stridency, and not of mine. I hope for something more: for unity including her, and me.
I said, I am going as a contributor, then, misunderstood, had to qualify that. I am a participant without a particular time for speaking, but intend to contribute, not merely listen. Everyone who shares a meal with me will rise blessed by the experience. Another said, that’s a tall order. Take care. But, the risks are what might make it worthwhile! No progress can come without risk! And the intensity I bring is my contribution.
It might actually be too much to face. I would be sitting quietly in an audience while intolerance was presented as rational argument and concern for vulnerable women and children. I find persuasive falsehoods particularly horrible, particularly prone to wind me up. While I know much of what to expect, something might surprise me, and I might get riled. I can relax in the dentist’s chair, letting the discomfort wash over me, but might try to suppress anger and just blow up.
The whole will be good. I can’t decide what to do with that part beforehand. I must be open to my feelings then. And the stress of anticipating it, and that other thing, is making it more difficult for me to face anything else.
I thought of how I mould reality with words, and how that might be good for me, changing the world for the better, and how it might not. The worst example is Rumination, where the same obsessive thoughts go through a mind, unchanging. I know I was right. I know I was bullied for it. Years later I have stopped running through that story. I might convince someone else with it, I might not. It does not do anything for me, now. It might reassure me about my good qualities, but really, it is escaping the present for the past. It is a self-soothing mechanism, perhaps. I am a Good person! That would be escaping reality for a reassuring fantasy, where being a Good person kept me safe.
Or I mould reality by persuading others. I come up with argument, or a different way of seeing the world, which achieves good ends.
And words help me understand, if my words can get as close as possible to my perception. A good parent (or counsellor) can help a child (adult) understand their emotion, by mirroring it. Similarly an internal state, a feeling, or an external reality, might be more meaningful for the word-using part of me if I have words for it. (There is a part which is not word-using, but- it is not conscious; I need a bridge to the word-using part; not sure. Something.)
Living in past and future does a lot for me. I reassure myself. I gird myself for possibilities. And it takes me away from the present; and not all my thoughts do me good.
Here’s a columnist saying what she most hated in 2019: we endured the increasingly shrill demands of Greta Thunberg, the Duchess of Sussex putting ‘changemakers’ on the cover of Vogue, Jo ‘identify as whatever you want’ Swinson, Extinction Rebellion, the Marks & Spencer LGBT sandwich… These are things I like, and my objections to Jo Swinson are that she is too right wing. That her most objectionable aspect should be her trans-acceptance twists the knife for me. Or, possibly, it doesn’t. That columnist hates all goodness in the world and all that I stand for. Still I exist.
Ha! There it is!
Still I exist!
I will not be crushed into nothingness by Sarah Vine, or indeed by a talk on the evils of “transgender ideology”.