Out of sorts

January 14, 2015 § 13 Comments

Blame it on the moon; blame it on the stars. Blame it on the boogie if you must. I am out of sorts.

I feel pressed down by my senses, though the room is dim, the neighbourhood quiet, my hunger and thirst assuaged. I claw at my clothes, at the constraints of collar and cuff, though to your eyes the fabric is feather-light, forgiving. I pick up a million activities and discard them each in turn. Stitches are dropped, pencils are blunted, a single string vibrates and is stilled.

My skin stands to attention; the nerves relaying discomfort and dissonance and a measure of pain. My mind feels confined; my brain crawls with a myriad scurrying ants of doubt, of fear, of I-don’t-want-to-be-here.

And I don’t. I wish I were a runner so I could fling open the front gate of my life and run till the air is squeezed from my lungs, till I’m bent and wheezing and my sweat splashes into the dust.

I’m not lonely, I’m not angry, I’m not sad or despairing. I’m just in limbo. And I’m tired of holding my world together. I’m tired of the responsibilities and the preparing and the second-guessing. Tired of the bills and the demands and the never-ending will-I-make-it-through-this-day-without-collapsing-in-a-heap. Tired of grown-up, of adult, of what-are-we-eating-for-dinner.

I don’t hate my life or the people in it; far from it. In many ways it is finally starting to look a lot more like my life, like a life I’d like to lead. I am enveloped in a cocoon of love so strong that I am grateful for it every day, every hour, every minute.

I’d just like to take a break from the decision-making part of my life, just for a while. The part that worries and plans and lies awake at night wondering. The part that waits to be found out every day; to be exposed, revealed as a fraud, uncovered as a child in a middle-aged body who spends a lot of her time just making it up as she goes along, and hoping desperately that it will all come out in the wash.

That child has other needs. She needs to run and jump and skip stones, jump puddles and sing and feel mud between her toes. She needs cool grass and hot sand and the whoosh of the ground past her feet as the swing flies in its creaky parabola of pleasure. She needs cool sheets and ripe fruit and hot bread with soft butter.

She needs freedom. She needs space. She needs play.

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§ 13 Responses to Out of sorts

  • MRJones says:

    So well said. I too would run the creek banks until out of breath and glory in that alone.

    Liked by 1 person

  • I often wonder if – aged 80 – I will still be wondering when I will really feel like a “grown up”. . .

    Like

  • Di Brown says:

    Beautiful description of an uncomfortable place.

    I found myself in Limbo 3 years ago and I too wanted to run away from my life. The universe stepped in, sending me a loud and clear message.

    I broke my foot, tripping UP a single step. Really ?

    A week of raging at my misfortune, and then a shift of focus and a tiny bubble of excited hope.

    When I stopped running, the road out of Limbo appeared, and one step at a time I walked out to a different but better world.
    Just breathe and know that Limbo is not forever. 🙂

    Like

  • gussilber says:

    Mandy, your blog is a revelation and a pleasure to read, always. Here you touch the nerve of a very common malaise. As Wordsworth put it: “The world is too much with us, late and soon; Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours”. Wishing you freedom, space, and play.

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  • charliesbird says:

    I hear you, and I think you echo sentiments we all share at some time or another. That inner child of mine often wants to stamp her feet and pout and wail dramatically that it all just isn’t fair, and that this grown upness isn’t what I really wanted. But then somehow, my heart starts to beat a little steadier, a little calmer, yes, often after I have done something intensely physical, and I feel temporarily liberated from that angst that lurks in the dark recesses of my brain. But it is only temporary, the brat in brain isn’t done yet with me. I don’t think she ever will be…

    Liked by 1 person

  • That inner child is your creativity…let her play!

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  • Marie Keates says:

    Walking does that for me. I get to splash in mid and skid on ice, look at the sky and just think about what’s around me. Being a grown up, especially a middle aged one, sucks.

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  • So well written, Mands. And I get this. Oh, do I get this. Which is why, until I re-remember my little Germaine, I use gym as a place where I can just be. Me, in my body, with no worries, no responsibilities, no thoughts. Without it, I would go mad.

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