sugar-coated

I'm sitting here eating jellybeans (which are intended as part of Eowyn's Easter treat...I'll save her some I promise) and reflecting on what sugar seems to do for me. Apart from the delectable taste on my tongue and the glorious rush, it would seem that sweet things have a role in covering up some of the thoughts and feelings I'd rather not have, or feel.

Like anger. Restlessness. Envy. Extreme fatigue. A sense of being overwhelmed far beyond my ability to cope. Loss of faith in myself. All those things that I can be honest about sometimes, but god help me if there's a brownie or a jellybean in the vicinity when the feelings creep in. 

Eowyn egg-hunting in Blockhouse, 2010

I've been working really hard at just letting the feelings be. Even now, at a time when I am experiencing the most stress and the wildest emotional roller coaster of my life, I am trying to sit with those feelings when they are extremely uncomfortable. Right now, in fact, I've zipped up the bag of jellybeans (they're those "natural" ones that seem completely harmless to devour by the handful) and left them right next to me. I'm not even tempted.

They're next to one of the many books I have around the house -- at least one per room, really -- because for me one of the best coping tools I have lately is the written word. Sometimes it's the act of writing for myself, sometimes it's a letter to a friend, sometimes it's a letter I'm never going to send ( you know, one of those), and then there are those words written just for me. I love getting hand-written mail. I checked the mail slot three times today, each time forgetting that it was Saturday. 

I haven't been much into fiction these past few months; perhaps it is too much of an escape from real life, or from a trauma that I feel so entangled in. I don't want imaginary lives, right now, mine is enough (thank you). And I don't feel the same openness to "solving" some of my own problems through reading fiction; it seems too abstract. I can do children's books; in fact, they are a balm for my soul. Fiction and non-fiction alike, although the ones that depict "happy family" scenes do sting a little. Nonetheless, some favourites of ours from the past few months are: Richard Scarry, always in circulation; Black Beauty and other horse stories; and tonight, one of my all-time favourites, found just in time, The Country Bunny and the Golden Shoe. 

For the most part, though, it's back to non-fiction for me, and it's like a little bit of coaching every time I pick up one of the books. You never know what little tidbit is going to stick with you for the day, as an affirmation, a challenging new perspective to chew on, or as simple validation for the way you're feeling. All these feelings are normal and to be expected. Each time I feel the impulse to apologize for them, or spin them somehow into optimism or cheerfulness, I try to remember that I'm entitled to my feelings for as long as I feel them. It's a sticky subject, I find, one that discussions of mental health don't often touch on. What constitutes a healthy sense of one's own feelings? 

Somewhere between text and tootsie rolls, between judging myself, feeling judged, and the jellybeans beside me, I think I will figure it out: how to best be myself, how to be with others, and how to embrace what I'm feeling without needing to dress it up, minimize it, or even, always, explain it.

I'm not saying we don't need our crutches, occasionally. But to know that we can exist without them, and face what lies underneath, can be a hugely rewarding thing.

Sunflower sprouts! What do they have to do with this post? Nothing! But they're tasty.

(And yes, I couldn't resist another handful of the jellybeans. Time for the Easter Bunny to get to work!)