Goosebumps

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I may have mentioned that we watch lovely Helm De Vegas perform three times a week on a Facebook livestream from the corner of his house on the piano. Following a Queen Night, Eagles Night, Boy Band night and a 90s night, among others, a lot of us regular viewers have asked him to do a Pink Floyd Night, which he has said he would love to do, but not sure it would be for everyone. So tonight he got out his guitar and said, ‘This is for all of those who would love a Pink Floyd Night. I know Mr M is one.’

Mr M next to me, waves excitedly at the screen.

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Thank you, Doctor

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5.13pm. So grateful. Trembly. God I love the NHS. I phoned at about 2.50. Doctor called back for a phone appointment at 3.30. Explained chest pains and heart palpitations, she said you’d better come in then for a check. Real life appointment at 4.50. ECG was so quick, so brilliant, friendly lovely nurse, talked about the dilemma of what bra to wear for an ECG as she stuck stickers and wires on my chest and ankles.

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Fucking Anxiety: how it started this time

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Here’s what was scribbled in my notebook for Saturday.

10 p.m. I have just spent 6 hours writing! It feels so good. I thought I wouldn’t do well with him working nights but I am really enjoying my evening routine. Very focused time to do my reading, writing, meditating – all the evening practices, with the Moana soundtrack why not.

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Fucking Anxiety: Update

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So I tried to go for a walk. Made it as far as the churchyard and sat down. Tried to meditate/plan/visualise but just felt weak and dizzy. Tried to enjoy the warm evening breeze and the cool grass between my fingers, but was too exhausted to sit up anymore. I was also annoyed that all through Lockdown I hadn’t sat in the churchyard. There’s noone there and it’s so lovely. Not when you’re weighed down by a wierd worried sadness though. The walk back was slow and heavy. What has happened to my energy? Just feel totally wiped out.

Back at the flat I tried to write a report, but to provide some happy background noise I YouTubed Eddie Izzard, which led on to a string of comedy clips, so that now, at 11pm, I have the beginnings of a report on winter flowers but I have a brain that’s been pumped with three hours of comedy. And I feel better. Thank you. Instead of the nurturing nourishing advice about positive chakra cleansing, I have Sarah Millican asking me if ‘severed cock was champion was it?’ and ‘bit of a slag are we, pet?’

I’m going to fall asleep to her gorgeous giggly northern tones instead of Paul Mckenna’s soporific sleep CD.

5.50am. I slept through the night! Thank you so much. And I just woke up smiling. Still feel punched in the chest exhausted, but the heavy sadness has gone. Hold on to this please, and maybe add a daily dose of comedy to your wellness routine.

The beauty of conflict

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I had to call my counsellor again on Monday. I would have normally dealt with the anxiety and overwhelm on my own but because my job required me to attend the Monday night meeting, I needed to quickly tidy up my spinning head before 7pm. We had a ten minute call in which I breathlessly explained that things were getting really tense at work, there was a lot of conflict and hurt around, and I was scared of attending this meeting in which I’d be stuck in the middle of it all. She very gently got me to slow down and speak clearly, and asked me why the conflict was bothering me.

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3.09am

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This week, instead of lying in bed listening and worrying and feeling outraged by the drunken noise of a pub kicking out at 2am, I have chosen to settle in for an hour on the sofa, to observe. There is an initial scuffle or two, mostly around a misunderstanding of who Milly was going out with, but nothing too violent, and then the crowd flows and ebbs around the market place, gravitating towards its various needs. Kebabs, taxis, each other. At 2.05 the loudest shouts are a variety of ‘fuck you then,’ or ‘fucking twat!’ but once the most disgruntled members have been encouraged away from the crowd, the noise becomes more friendly. Did you find your phone? How are you getting home? Have you got a rizla? I’ll wait here. Who’s phone is this then? Did you have a good night? It’s on 3% mate. Some kerfuffle and two police vehicles congregate by the bus stop, a Wiltshire Council man wearily pulls up his truck, empties the bin, replaces the liner and moves on to the next. Seagulls are gathering around the discarded kebab boxes. One girl has some very important but inaudable things to shout about her hair, and another runs across the road to leap into the arms of a boy. Among the sound of happy chatter and laughter are the intermittent clipping of heels and slamming of car doors. Couples form and wander around together, apart, together again. Groups of boys gather, hugging and laughing in their T-shirts and jeans, and girls with long pale legs and swishy hair walk around intently. A taxi is trying to pull away from a boy who runs alongside holding on to the door – I’ll give you fifty quid mate, I’ll give you a hundred quid! until he lets go and the taxi drives away to his friends laughter. Their names float on the air – Jessie, Freya, Ellie, Callum, and instead of drunken yobs, tonight I see my friends’ children. My niece and nephew, myself 20 years ago. These teenagers are excited about life, they are fearless, powerful and unswayed, oblivious to the concerns of a pandemic that have kept a lot of us locked up for months. Their need to connect is greater than their need for safety. Or warmth. They have looked forward to tonight, phoned each other, planned their outfits, assured their parents they’d stick together. They fizz with the energy and excitement about each other that I remember having, they are urgent and alive. Their need to connect is far stronger than my need to sleep right now, and I almost respect them for it.

‘I’d do anything to belong, to be strong, to say there’s nothing wrong’

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It was 1999, I was 21, I was wearing some sort of embroidered hat, ripped jeans and muddy trainers as I stood in a crowd of several thousand people on a warm June night at Glastonbury. My brother and his friends had some other camp-fire based priorities so I was on my own for the headline act, Skunk Anansie. Being from a very religious family, I had been discouraged from listening to ‘satanic’ music, and my musical expression had mostly been singing along quietly to REM on my disc-man, or belting out the far more acceptable holy songs at Sunday Service.

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2.39 am

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I suppose I should just accept it, enjoy it even. Set my alarm for 2am, make a cup of tea and settle down for the inevitable hour of drama after the pub kicks out. As the sun set over another warm July evening earlier, I looked at the people setting out for the evening and knew it would be a loud one.

The initial fear and apprehension as crowds gather, swaying and swearing, turns to fascination at the dynamics of a drunk crowd. A fight is taking place a little away from the crowd, people watch and laugh. The doorman moves towards them and one eventually walks off, shouting back his defensive ‘yeah fuck you!’ the whole time. Someone is carrying a woman on his shoulders. The others look on amused, as he walks off, and places her down on the pavement so they can walk together. Couples under the tree and more interested in each other and some dancing and giggling is taking place. I try to image their excitement, their euphoria to finally be out, their need to shout to each other, to the whole of Melksham, I’m alive! And their inability to consider the few dozen of us that would prefer to be alseep a few metres away from them.

By 2.30 most of the immediate crowd has gone, I watch them disperse, very slowly, and other little groups form further down the street. The daytime features of beautiful hanging baskets and flags of civic pride adorn the brightly lit street, punctuating the spaces where groups of people now stagger, shouting, laughing, swearing, screeching. It’s another 20 minutes until I can try to sleep again, with just the last few shrieks of ‘fuck you! You’re nasty!’ drifting up through the window.

How many Human Needs?

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Since my blasé summing up of the complexities of humanity into the five basic human needs as outlined by Maslow, I have done more research.

Mostly because I am struggling to categorise this site, as you may have noticed, I’ve got about 90 categories already. I am on a journey of overall health and wellbeing, of which there are many elements. And having tried to fit them neatly into my handily colour coded chakra rainbow, I realise that’s too simple and doesn’t really work. Maslow is limited too, and I just found out, has a modified version that came out in 1990. Then there are the 9 Human Givens, there’s a Max-Neef model, and one I learned years ago when he was first a source of inspiration to me, Tony Robbins’ 6 Human Needs.

So I have spent an hour scribbling them all out, charting the similarities, and coming up with my own extensive list that makes sense for me. The big realisation just now is that there are NEEDS and then there are NEED-MEETERS, that is, ways that we get our needs met. So I may think I have a need for people, but what I have is a need for connection, love, esteem and intimacy, which people (partner, family, community) provide.

CONTRIBUTION is an interesting one, and features only in Tony Robbins’ list. I highlighted it as one of my very important needs, but do I have a need for contribution, or is that my need for esteem, connection and love that is met through contribution?

Writing is an immense need of mine ( have you noticed?) but does that come under creativity, contribution, connection?

All interesting. All too complex to decide upon today. It will expand, but for now I will apply these 12 categories, as the needs being met on my quest for wellness, and then all the little subcategories are ways that these main 12 are met. Let’s see if my journey fits neatly into these now.