Helpless but not hopeless

It has been so long since I wrote my blog that I can't recall how to post on it any more. But on the eve of Real Life restarting in 2011, I thought it was possibly time to try again.

2010 was like battling through a raging storm. It became harder and harder to move forward, so more and more luggage was set down along the way. Writing felt like a luxury too painful to indulge in, so it was set aside in favour of getting one foot to move in front of the other. I don't mean to overly dramatise the difficulties we have faced, I know there is still a very long way to fall and so much precious to lose before reaching the dark depths life has the potential to take us to. I count my blessings religiously, like a mantra. But, yeah, 2010 was a rough, tough walk.

I am also determined to place no significance on the turning of the year. Nothing has changed, nothing improved, nothing got worse on January first. 2011 could be as bad, much better or infinitely worse. It doesn't matter – one foot in front of the other. This is the way. There is one change. I have had some time to think over the Christmas period (not always a good idea) and I have been able to identify the emotion that has kept me hostage for some time. Helplessness.

There are so many situations that have left me with this feeling that I don't really know why it has taken me so long to put a name to it. I'm only going to describe one, because I know that the key player – youngest daughter – will understand. There are countless more, so although I know you'll read this, dear youngest, you will know this is not only about you.

Christmas is lovely – exciting, pretty as a tree, full of food and sweetness and fun; and if you have CFS/ME, it is utterly energy-sapping and exhausting. So when, a couple of days later, youngest daughter staggered from her bedroom and laid herself in a puddle of tired at my feet, it wasn't a surprise. She didn't have the energy to speak, so communicated in little moans. I knew lifting her would hurt, and I didn't know where she wanted to be or what would immediately help, so I turned to oldest daughter for help. We improvised a system of communication – moan if you want this, don't if you don't; then oldest gently helped her up and in to her arms and carried her to a warm, soft spot while I found the food and drink to give her a quick boost. And all the while this was happening, I felt helpless, but didn't know it. Weird, huh?

Helplessness is a numbing emotion. It is the opposite of control, which is about action and initiative and movement. Helplessness shuts you down and clams you up and saps your reason without your knowledge. It is the rabbit in the headlights situation, only the reason the rabbit doesn't move is because it doesn't know it's paralysed in the glare of oncoming doom. When you feel helpless, all you can do is stand there and take it, and hope to hell you survive. When the car misses, you stumble on as though nothing untoward happened. You don't deal with the emotion,because you aren't really aware of its presence at all.

But, helplessness is not hopelessness. To be without hope is a wholly different thing, a deep, dark thing that if you were to experience in the glare of oncoming headlights, it would have you turn your back and wait for the impact. Helplessness is easier to recover from, once you know it is there.

When I was a young twenty-something, desperately seeking an identity, I asked my man one wrung-out day what made me special. What was I good at, because I felt bad at everything. His answer surprised me so much, I mulled it over for years. He told me that the thing that made me special was how good I was at being able to love. And no, he didn't mean that physically – well only a bit, anyway. He meant that not only did I have a high capacity to love, I was very good at doing it too.

Twenty odd years later (and you can take odd any way you like), I think perhaps he was right. If there is one thing I can do when life holds me hostage in the headlights, it is love. I can't change anything – I can't take away the pain or the frustration or the sadness or the anger or the fear or the despair that the things my family has been going through have engendered, but I can love. I can listen and hold and talk and hug and cook and soothe and smile and laugh. I rarely say the right thing at the right time, but I can try. And to try is to be active, and to be active is to take control, and to take control is the opposite of helplessness.

So this is my new year's resolution. To recognise the feeling of the rabbit in the headlights, and to consciously decide to arm myself with the only weapon I can use. I will be a rabbit, true – but I will be a small furry mammal armed with a bazooka. The bazooka of love. I do hope you enjoy this image.

Winter Love Soup
In a heavy-bottomed casserole or saucepan, sweat an onion gently in a tablespoon of olive oil. Find a selection of vegetables that your family likes and chop them into small pieces to add to the onion and olive oil – as many as you like. Leave any green leafy ones to the end though. Crush some fresh ginger and add it to the mix, then cover with stock to simmer. In the meantime, cook rice and red lentils separately, then add them to the stock with any greens. Add the secret ingredient, which in my case is ginger wine. Simmer altogether for a few minutes, then ladle into bowls. It will be very hot. Add some creamy plain yoghurt, or not, depending on how you feel. Eat with a spoon.

I meant to use this blog to explain myself to the friends and loved ones that I have not spoken to in some time. I guess that will have to wait. If any of you actually read this, though – I am sorry. I am, after all, only a small furry mammal, very recently armed. Give me time.