Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Some years ago (not many, but not a few) – it was during Covid- I came across a truly lovely English woman who, by profession is a teacher, but at the time I discovered her instagram account she was also providing a space for creative writers to, well, write. She inspired, she encouraged, she prompted and prodded and at the time it was a delightful place for me. I’d like to say we’ve become friends, and I have long since been grateful for how she has accepted any type of writing I sent her way. Over the years she has even published several editions a magazine called Scribbles, containing a collection of her followers writings, and I’ve always had the privilege of being included.

Life after Covid changed again, as it was expected to, and R took a much needed time away from her publication side hobby. During those years, life as I knew it came to a startling halt (have I overdramatised my entrance into widowhood?) and I had fodder- so to speak- for plenty of writing content. The lived experiences, the reflection, the emotions, the ups and downs and the revelations.

Now, as I sit this month with my fingers on the keyboard I am at a crossroads. I come to you with nothing particularly interesting to write about barre a long series of woes and conflicting feelings.

Co-incidentally, R has relaunched Scribbles this season. At a time where I’ve needed a push to pick up my creative pen again. During a fortnight of prompts to get the creative juices going, one suggested piece was to write a prompt for others to take up. It was during this writing session that I realised much of my own writing comes from my personal experiences. Even if I wrote an essay of fiction, you could tell the fingerprints of my life. (You can find some of these pieces here if it interests you). I also realised that much of my writing comes from a place of grief, and conflict. I don’t tend to write when life is good. I suppose it makes sense that the writing helps me to clarify my thoughts. The question remains whether it’s what my friends want to be reading- in the case of this blog or on Substack.

While I share snippets of my life’s highlights on the ‘gram, I have the sense that sharing my angst is not wholly appreciated. Why do I feel like this? Do I assume that some might feel like I’m bringing my drama to the table for attention? It could be seen as a case of over-sharing, even more so than usual: I’ve shed many tears as I’ve written to you over the years.

Or do I not share the lows because there is an entire whole world out there whose problems are actual real life concerns for safety, and that in comparison, my anxiety over Pink Tax and so-on is really just me being as privileged AF.

Also, are intrusive thoughts fodder for internet missives?

Getting back to my suggested prompt for a creative writing project, it dawned on me that perhaps I should write something completely out of my comfort zone. At least, for the sake of writing creatively.

This would potentially be a fun project for when I have time to create.

For now, all I seem to have time for is work, anxiety, and the intrusive thoughts that have probably caused something that Doctor Google tells me is occipital neuralgia. (An osteopath has determined this pain near the back of my head stretching to my eye is the result of a pinched nerve. A search online has revealed what it’s called- I reserve the right to be completely wrong 🫣. ).

Headaches aside. I bumped into a friend yesterday in the supermarket- and before I knew what was tumbling out my mouth, I had rabbit-holed down an entire subset of an items that plague me. I call them the Pink Taxes: actual household jobs that women end up having to pay people (mostly men) to do when there is no man in the house. The list resembled something like this:

• The need to have my car serviced and change the tyres on my car for summer tyres. This is a job that Anton would have covered here in France, give it was his car. It’s mine now.
  
• Broken window shutters that need repairs- another masculine type job for Anton. 
  
• The heating system in my home- why can’t I turn it off?? In 7 years in this apartment I’m pretty certain we’ve been able to turn the heating off in summer. Now I sit with a water-heater system that has pressure fluctuation like the emotional cycles of my teenagers. Intermittently, I have periods of cold shower water. It’s particularly annoying, and every time I call the agency for a repair, somehow the system has booted itself back and I feel like an attention seeking whino looking for a callout.
• I also have various household tools that no longer work because they’ve not been used in more than 2 years. These be our high pressure sprayer and Anton’s multimeter. There’s also Something Else that I can’t remember right now.
  
• Not an actual pink tax, but my kid has caught herself a boyf. And it’s left me with a multitude of feelings. Namely pride (because she acted on her feelings, something I tend to avoid) and fear because it feels like I’ve lost her. Like she’s no longer mine. And she’s too grown up now.
• The upcoming need to possibly make a decision about a job. Or deal with the possibility I was rejected. 
  
• On the topic of work, we had a surprise visit from the state health inspector last week. Holy shitballs- the intrusive thoughts…. Ongelooflik is the Afrikaans word that sits on my heart. What left me reeling on Friday is now manifesting in wanting to give up on this career. But this is an essay for another day. A massive angry rant.
• War and the rising cost of living thanks to extreme religious bias AND a dumbass megalomaniac. Expensive fuel. Expensive gas. Expensive food. Meh.

As I prattled off the long list of items that’s increasing the grey hairs on my head, I felt guilty for complaining. For feeling useless and overwhelmed. By the time I took a breath and apologised for being ‘too much’ she reminded me that it was okay to feel this way. That many other women may feel the same way, but have a partner to talk them off tiny little ledges.

Perhaps that’s exactly what really is the most difficult part of widowhood- in my situation anyway: it’s that I’ve got no one to share thoughts with that have invested energy. I can blabber off to any of my wonderful friends who are kind to listen, but I know I can’t truly really ask them what they would do. The only person who can fully do the work is me. That I can’t bounce ideas off Anton about going full steam into a cafeteria career or staying on in a dead-end corner of the city where I have a level of creative art on my side eventually takes an indelible hold on my mental health. That I can’t figure out the intricacies of my 18 year old who may want to leave home and I’m not ready for it. That it’s me who has to make every single decision about everything ALL THE TIME. And it’s exhausting.

Nobody’s looking forward to reading this sort of newsletter, and so I put it off. I wrack myself for content that you’ll enjoy, but still, now, 15 months later, I still come to you with anxious thoughts. How does one open up about the more difficult side of life? Another friend has just publicly announced her divorce. There was a line in her online acknowledgement that marriage is hard, and so often we share the good times, without admitting to the world that behind the scenes, couples don’t actually always agree on everything, and finally after more than 2 decades, they have chosen mental health over societal expectations and it was a big admission. There was so much more to her openness than I’m divulging here and as yet, I’ve not let her know that I’m in awe of her. I will do this week, but for the moment, I’m still stuck in how to share the nitty gritty of my life.

In the few days I’ve been at this particular essay, I can actually tell you that I did drive my car to be serviced. (Driving- for some reason, still leaves me terrified to move out of my comfort zone. I will avoid it at pretty much most levels).

I also called up on friends who came round for a braai and were able to change to my summer tyres.

I’ve paid someone to repair the shutters.

I’m giving up on being British about my heating and will enforce a call out at some point this week. (I’m just not looking forward to a 4pm appointment, because my job really doesn’t allow for half-days off).

My garden is looking a little lush if we don’t look at the weeds, and perhaps it’s not the worst thing that the terrace is not shiny and bright.

Obviously I know that a positive approach to life goes a long way to easing anxiety, so in order to prove that I’m aware of this, here’s a little list of things that currently bring me joy.

• Longer days of spring. The sun setting after 8pm is bliss (albeit thrown me off kilter with meal prep).

• The morning light. (I’m going to say here that I DO immensely miss entire mornings at home. I miss those days so much where I got to soak up every moment if the light was present, able to go for a run at leisure and come home to clean and write. I do none of this after work and I hate the absence of discipline.)

• Spring Blossoms and fresh flowers. They make the world an entirely prettier place.
  

• White asparagus from my fresh produce supplier.

• Lilacs. Have you ever placed a vase of lilacs in a room and smelt the perfume or brings? Completely unreal!
• Job interviews. Okay. This doesn’t bring me joy in the truest sense. I interview terribly, so I’ve discovered. But the fact that I’ve actually pitched myself out there is a positive thing, and I’ll take that for a win.

• Alex’s happiness. She’s happy in love and it’s a joy to see. Now, if only I can take away the terror and fear that is coming up as she tackles the last semester of her school year. Now that the Easter holiday is over, I can see the weight of the upcoming session is sitting heavily on her heart and head. We’ll count the days down until the end of June and tackle a study program. And pray for the best.

• And I forgot to mention Dad and Sheila’s visit! Short and sweet and quiet, it was a proper treat.

The end of April is around the corner. I can’t believe it if I’m honest. I’ve been reminded by a piece of creative writing that I did get to write for R’s Scribbles that there are 3 constants in our lives: death, taxes and the rising sun. Life goes on, and while the sun might not shine every day, it still does rise and so we too become phoenix’s rising from the ashes. Mental health and intrusive thoughts can be overcome- perhaps not as easily as we’d like them to be, but at least to make an effort is a step in the right direction. And for the things we can’t actually control- don’t let them control us. 😏. How’s that for Wednesday Wisdom?

And before I do get another revision on this piece, and overthink anything in it again, I’m going to plunge like publish button as if it was The Red Button, the consequences of who will read this I will have to deal with. (The work stuff is still private, but to what end?)

What does still stick in the mud is that I don’t have Anton around to talk to and it remains hard for me.

On that sad note, adieu for now. Love you and miss you, wherever you are.

GC

Xx