Unbound

Today I seasoned a cast iron casserole dish, which in itself doesn't sound particularly blog-worthy. But it has been sitting in my kitchen for years, one of a pair handed down from my mum, used over and over and over again, but never really cared for and looked after in the way cast iron should. 

But today, for the first time, I cleaned it and rubbed oil into the dark, rich black heavy iron.

It looked rather lovely and I was ridiculously pleased with myself for not just thinking but doing. I'm becoming quite the adult it seems. 

Then for some reason I started talking out loud. The house was quiet, the rooms were silent, but here I was talking as if someone was actually listening. I started a conversation with my parents, although neither of them are still here. Yes I know, awfully woo woo.

But I thanked them.

I thanked them for keeping me alive.

I thanked them because we always had food. We were always warm. There was always a clean bed to climb into at night and a clean house that we never had to apologise to visitors for. 

There were a lot of difficult things too. A lot of remembered hurt - not physical, but nonetheless painful.

There were words that stayed lingering for far longer than the conversations they belonged to. There were judgements and misunderstandings and throwaway remarks that told me just who I was thought of as being.

These words, these moments, became so ingrained - so deeply embedded within, that I held on to them fiercely - not always knowingly - and they have been steadfast companions during my journey throughout this life. 

Lazy.

Messy.

Useless.

Overly emotional.

Inconsistent.

A flutterby who never landed anywhere for long enough to stick.

Too chatty. Too enthusiastic. Too shy. Too quiet. Too loud.

Too much of one thing and never quite enough of another.

For years I carried those words as spoken evidence of what I truly am.

Today.

Today, I decided to release them and let them go.

I told my parents that I now understand what none of us understood back then.

We didn't know anything about my quirky brain. 

We didn't understand how hard I was working simply to do the things that appeared effortless for everybody else. We didn't know why I bounced between interests, found it impossible to keep my room tidy without piles of stuff gathering, felt everything so very deeply, disappeared into things I loved for hours, struggled with things that bored me, talked too much one moment and couldn't find a word the next, and struggled so much with school, food, and sleep.

So today I apologised for the things that needed an apology.

For not becoming the daughter that they had hoped for when they brought home that baby from the adoption centre back in 1975.

For not being tidier, cleaner, happier, less sensitive, more forgiving, less emotional and more helpful. 

For failing at school. For not getting the job they had dreamt I would. For not having a closer relationship with them (although their move to Spain didn't really help with that).

I forgave for all that I needed to forgive, and asked that they forgive me.

And then I breathed and released all of those beliefs that had been gifted to me by others. 

And now onwards from this day? I will surround myself only with those who see my quirks and love me unconditionally anyway. And I certainly won't be spending any more of my life trying to turn my brain into somebody else's idea of normal.

Oh, and one thing I have realised about my brain?  I actually love her! I love all of her quirky, mismatched, chaotic, intense, messy, emotional glory.

I love that she helps me to see the world with such a childlike wonder. I love that she helps me to make up silly songs and put on daft voices. I love that together we feel things deeply, we can think outside the box, and that we dance around the kitchen without a shrug or a care. 

I love that we stop everything to talk to a bee and feel it is totally normal, that we move snails away from the danger of roads whilst explaining to them just how silly they are, and that we stand frozen as a butterfly passes, complimenting them on their beauty.

I love that we become gloriously obsessed with something utterly fascinating, and that we see possibilities and goodness everywhere, just everywhere!

I love that I never feel alone because there are always 100 thoughts and voices racing around my head - actually, I also hate that I never feel alone because there are always 100 thoughts and voices racing around in my head! 

And together - this brain and I - we make things, and we notice things, and yes, sometimes she is a bit of a mare and we struggle.  Sometimes she frustrates me and I almost wish she was different. But as time goes on, as the days pass by, I am learning - we are learning - so much about each other, and that understanding is helping us to develop a beautiful relationship like none we have been able to share before. 

Quite simply, without her I just wouldn't be the unique and quintessential version of me that I am. 

So, upon reflection, today wasn't some sort of great reinvention, but it certainly was a moment of great realisation. 

I seasoned that casserole dish, walked down country lanes with Milo, stopped for a sit down chat with a village acquaintance in her glorious garden, got in my 10,000 steps before evening, had quite the weight lifting conversation out loud with nobody here, and decided it was high time to stop living inside the pages of an old, hand-me-down story. 

I will mark that down as quite a success.