Something slightly odd happened today and it set off such a cascade of thought that I must write it all down. This is a long story and most of it doesn’t make sense, so I’ll completely understand if you want to come back tomorrow.
Until about three hours ago, there was a woman in British public life of whom I had never heard. Didn’t know the name, didn’t recognise the face, absolutely no idea who she was or what she did. Let us call her Miss P, because that is not her name. (I’ve got this thing about ad hominem and it’s the only way I can get round my own rules.)
This morning, she was trending all over Twitter for some pretty serious shenanigans. One of the newspapers had done some old-school investigative reporting - how that gladdens my heart - and there were all the usual suspects: dodgy government contracts, hidden offshore accounts, friends in high places, millions and millions of pounds of secret profits. (The word ‘secret’ was scattered about the article like confetti.)
Because I’d never heard of her, I went to look her up. I still don’t know who she is or what she does, but I did find her Twitter feed. (Can you hear the Move To the Exit klaxon going off? I really should not have done that. I have to remind myself all the time that Twitter is not real life.) And there she was, all glamour and huge amounts of rippling hair and masses of make-up. I saw two tweets, and that was enough. I was in a rage.
Do I need to explain that Mabel, my lesser self, is writing this? You’ve probably guessed by now. But I’d been reading earlier about Jung’s idea of the shadow and how we all need to embrace our shadow side and I’m afraid I may have taken that too literally.
I was actually having a really nice morning. I’d written thousands of words, I’d read about Jung, I’d taken the dogs down to see the horses; the red mare and I did some Place of Peace and Florence made me laugh.
I should have been immune to two tweets, but apparently I wasn’t.
You might think that the fury was about the dodgy dealings and the offshore account and the suspect contracts, but it wasn’t. I’m always shocked by that stuff, but there’s been so much of it in the last three years that I’m almost immune. I do a Maggie Smith eyebrow and move on.
No, what made me furious was this perfectly innocuous tweet. It said, ‘Step out of your comfort zone every day. It’s the only way you’ll grow.’
What on earth is wrong with that? I’m always throwing little quotes and hopeful thoughts and lines of inspiration out into the social media universe. Only yesterday, I wrote this one: ‘Move slowly, gently, step by step, towards the light.’ I am in a glass house, and I cannot throw stones.
But Mabel is not consistent and is not rational and can’t see a stone without wanting to pick it up and throw it. She thought the whole comfort zone thing was absolute buggery bollocks. She went on a whole rant in my head, which ran something like this. ‘What if you have chronic pain or your brother is suffering a mental health crisis or your dad is dying? You are hanging on by your fingernails, and some person with immaculate hair comes along and tells you that you must step out of your comfort zone, or you won’t grow. And, also, this person clearly does not know anything about the nervous system, because if you are in fight, flight or freeze, and your whole body is braced for threat, the last thing you need to do is to push it any further. That’s how all the systems break down.’
Mabel was very, very cross indeed.
I like to figure out what is going on, and I’m always looking for the disproportionate reaction. It usually comes because a core belief has been touched. I’m digging into this sudden fury and I can’t quite get it. But I suspect it may have had something to do with the first of the two tweets. It was a picture of Miss P, with that kind of cosmetic application that I don’t understand - all that thing called contouring and three different kinds of eyeshadow and curled eyelashes - and it said something about putting on make-up to feel your best self.
That may have lit the blue touch paper. Is this what young girls should aspire to? I’d love them to be astronauts and farmers and poets and vets and mums, not to spend hours living up to some random and creaking beauty standards, which should have gone out with the ark. (But of course, Mabel, turning on a dime, tells me that this may be one of the most pious and annoying sentences anyone has ever written.)
The touch paper was smouldering, and then the comfort zone statement came along and completed the conflagration. Sometimes, vulnerable and bruised and heartbroken humans need nothing more than to retreat into their comfort zone. Sometimes, they are not growing, but just keeping their heads above water.
The crossness has gone now. I’ve written it out. Now, in this moment, Mabel is quietly eating cake in the next room and I’m back to my sane, sensible self, and I’m wondering why I care at all about a person I don’t know, who didn’t even exist in my consciousness until a few hours ago. Let her bang on about comfort zones, if that floats her boat. Let her doll herself up if that makes her happy. (Although she should probably stop with the secret offshore accounts.)
But they do fascinate me, these fiery flashes of anger. Especially when they are irrational and especially when I almost certainly don’t have a leg to stand on. Are they core beliefs? Are they old, untended wounds? Are they straight Freudian projection?
They only thing I know is that they have to be felt and marked. I can’t put Mabel in a box for the duration, no matter how unedifying she can sometimes be. She is my shadow, and she exists, and I can’t cut her off. I need to listen to her and try to understand her and find a safe place to put her. (It may not be here, but she’s pitched up and I’m giving her to you, as an exercise in honesty and vulnerability. Your own Mabels may want to shout back, and I’m going to risk that.)
Now the unpleasantness is out, I can return to equilibrium. The fury has moved on, to burn down another town. I can remember the red mare’s sweet face as I saw it this morning and Florence’s funny little jokes. (She has, as did my little bay mare, whom I still miss every day, excellent comedic skills.) I can think of the work I still have to do today and the words I still have to write and I can move, instead of being stuck in stifled anger.
There is shame, sometimes, in the inexplicable emotions. I’m trying to rid myself of shame. Of all the human feelings, I think it is the only one which is not useful. Guilt can be brilliant, because it helps me correct my mistakes and say sorry and make amends. Shame is just a crusher. I’d like not to be crushed. So if I can accept the less lovely parts of myself and let them run until they are tired and then put them, kindly and gently, to bed, I can find peace. And I do love a bit of peace.