Life in recent years has at times felt as if large piles of manure have landed at my door.
My dad’s decline and death through vascular dementia, my long struggles with “depression” leading to me being diagnosed as having OCD and PTSD from childhood fears, my husband John’s stroke and his deteriorating health with diagnosis of early signs of dementia, and then the biggest pile of poo of all, the sudden, unexpected death of my mum.
These events, especially the traumatic way mum died, are things I can’t mentally let go of, seep away – they fill the recesses of my mind, never far below the surface, always festering, bubbling, suppurating.
I’ve been aware for some while, that the effect on my mental state is a sense of being overloaded, unable to cram more in. I’ve become more anxious, panicky, forgetful, absent-minded. Effectively there’s restricted room for more cr*p.
I thought about this, having earlier today stared down into a pile of poo in our garden.
The toilets had been backing up when flushed, water filling the shower tray and not draining properly, odd glugging noises coming from the basin.
A very nice man called Brad from Drainsolve came out to have a look and explained the problem: “It’s your septic tank love. It’s not draining away, not percolating like it should be.
“Come and have a look,” he said pointing at a thick brown sludge uncovered after digging into the inspection pit. “There’s a build up of too much solid waste for the water to soak through. If nothing’s done about it, you’ll have sewage flowing down the lane and backing up right into the house.”
Nice! I got the picture.
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
“I don’t want to be here,” he answered without pause.
Brutally honest, but fully understandable.
And it’s a sentiment I know well – carrying around a head that’s a full septic tank, where nothing flows through clearly, where my ability to resolve life’s issues sometimes feels backed up to the point of overflow – yes, sometimes I don’t want to be “here” either.
Brad left, assuring me this wasn’t the worst job he was dealing with, though possibly the second-worst, and promising to return soon with a digger.
I walked the dogs to the playing field and sat on a bench, feeling panicky and short of breath, the overflow valve on overtime.
Brad had a digger for the suppurating septic tank.
What kind of tool do you use for festering myriad mind?
I was pondering this question feeling lost in gloom and darkness as I walked on up the river.
The sky turned an amazing deep shade of blue as if to reflect my mood. And suddenly, a beautiful rainbow appeared, for a fleeting, but magical moment.
Rainbows remind me of dad and always make me happy.
They’re a reflection of how we’re feeling, in this case, that sh*t happens, but somewhere the sun’s rays are shining through the rain.