Sometimes we all need a band aid. By this I mean a sticking plaster, not the 1980s famine relief fundraising single, although I have a penchant for that too (any song that requires you to cup your hand around your ear & pretend it’s a microphone is good in my book).
Yesterday & today I’ve need several band aids. My mood has ‘swung from high to low, extremes of sweet & sour’, to quote James (over-identifying with song lyrics always seems to be a bad sign in terms of interpreting my own moods, I’ve come to realise). There are manifold reasons why my thoughts & feelings have been so irratic; fortunately being off work for a few days is giving me the time & space to reflect on the swings & shifts and delve into what lies beneath (inside my head feels like a Woody Allen movie most of the time).
At the same time as allowing myself time & space to reflect on what lies beneath (& admitting that there are some pretty big changes going on around me, some of which are rocking the foundations of my life & forcing further questioning of what I’m doing, where I’m going & who I am – all of which would warrant thousands of posts of their own!), I’m trying hard to not allow myself to be dragged down. So out come the band aids, the things that I know work for me & make me feel better – or at least sane.
Today, these band aids have involved: purging my emails; tackling a work-related task to the extent I can do no more until other people have done their bits; having lunch with my mum & godmother; playing with my niece & nephew; making an appointment for blood donation; sorting a Rape Crisis support letter to go to the Home Secretary (easy to do & satisfying beyond belief!); making a congratulations card; writing some other cards & stamping them ready to post (the happiness that sticking stamps on envelopes brings me is immeasurable & possibly slightly unhinged); checking times for a squash court next week; re-arranging a beautician’s appointment; sorting dropping off some handbags to a friend; ordering a library book; sewing a button on; writing a cheque.
None of these are significant acts in themselves. But individually – & even more so collectively – they have served to make me feel better: I am a functioning adult with skills & talents & friends & family & a life that I have created. These acts may only be sticking plasters, covering the wounds underneath, but sometimes those band aids are needed to help the healing process along.