The rain wins.
The rain won.
I did call those damn Perspective Police, but they’ve now buggered off because they have a better invitation. I did look at the beauty, and it did soothe my jangled nerves, but it did not last. And now a host of frets and angsts and shadow fears swarm about my head like angry bees and I can’t drive them off.
Write it down, write it down, say the voices in my head. The only way to vanquish frailty is to admit to frailty.
I like to give you a happy ending. I was grumpy, but look – no hands – the sun came out again. I was in a state, but I talked myself down from the ceiling. Look what an ordinary cussed human can do.
But sometimes, the jangles won’t be denied. All the little pinpricks with which I can normally deal suddenly seem insurmountable. Things which I know how to do somehow become impossible. I know, for instance, that people are never thinking what you think they are thinking, especially when you think that thinking is of the mean and derisive kind. I KNOW THAT. And yet, I sent a very slightly gushing message to someone yesterday and they have not replied and I am completely convinced that they think I am a ghastly person who sends stupid messages and that they are hoping radio silence might put me in my place. The man who was supposed to come and top the fields has not pitched up and has not called and even though my rational mind says he is busy, my inner critics, who have been at the gin, insist that he didn’t come because he was so horrified that anyone could let their docks get so out of hand that he has probably LEFT THE COUNTRY. Oh, and that he’s even now in some charming tavern laughing about my ineptitude with all his new foreign friends.
You are forty-eight years old, say the stern voices; you really should know better than this.
Oh well, say the whimsical voices, every day can’t be Doris Day.
Write it down, write it down, say the voices of sanity. Admit your flaws. Everyone has a shitty day from time to time, for no discernible reason. Everyone has an entirely irrational moment when they feel useless and pointless and feckless and are convinced they must go into the garden to eat worms. Everyone needs to have a little wail, from time to time, no matter how lucky they are.
The critical voices, high as a kite on Gordon’s, are longing for me to press publish, so that everyone can point and mock.
Don’t do it, say the terrified voices. You don’t have to chronicle every single moment of crazed angst. Keep your secret shames to yourself, for once.
Do it, says the small, hopeful voice, so that you know you are not the only one. You really don’t have to be a poster girl your whole life. Sometimes, the rain does win, but that does not mean the whole game is lost.
