I’ve made a lot of space. I ended a relationship, gave away my Elladog, moved 500 miles. (Normally I’d say “800 km”, but that wouldn’t make some of you start singing with a heavy Scottish accent.)
Single, overweight, mid-30s, vehicle-less, one bedroom of possessions. Living on government payments in a share house five minutes away from my parents. It would be possible to see this as pathetic.
But it’s also possible to see this as extremely fucking liberating.
As a Professional Invalid – chronic fatigue still firmly in effect – I have very, very limited resources.
It’s like… being permanently stuck on the day before you realise you have a cold, the one where you tell everyone, “I don’t know why I feel so tired, I slept fine.” (Those are the good days. The bad ones are like the second day of the flu, where you are dying of thirst but can’t make it to the kitchen for juice.)
The mathematics of illness is implacable, unalterable, and mean.
Doing this means I can’t do that. A year ago my list of commitments was massively longer than now: finding exercise for the Elladog that didn’t break me, mowing the massive fast-growing Queensland lawn, doing the majority of relationship work, plus a billion etceteras. I wonder how I did it and remember: by putting a lot of other things on hold. Sewing. Walking. Leaving the house. This website.
It’s been funny and sad.
For so long this business was my life, in a Heathcliffe and Cathy way; almost all my thoughts took a small detour through it.
Suddenly: tornadoed away.
Forced to answer questions like: who am I now? What do I do?
All answered by the void.
Stupid unhelpful-ass void.
But here I am…
In my small crowded room. Doing the shopping with my dad. Laying down as my body dictates. Finally settling in, getting the rhythms, feeling safe, knowing where the strainer is.
Hearing my niece say, “Hello Auntie Cafrun!”
Sometimes – not as often as I wish – going to the beach that I missed so much.
Feeling just the teensiest edge of space open up at times and contemplating what to do with it.
I didn’t automatically think that Cash and Joy would be it.
In fact, I was extra suspicious of choosing to offer up my energy to its altar.
I knew it could be unbearably rapacious.
And it might take less time to build a new thing than to get this one re-operational in any capacity.
But most of all, there was no compelling reason to do it. No why.
Then shittiness happened.
People being terrible and hurtful and destructive. My Facebook feed is full of my darlings bleeding over the page, and I ache in sympathy.
I wanted, oh so much, to do something that would help. Can’t give blood until one of my meds is titrated off. Can’t donate much money due to careful budget. What could I give?
Oh. Oh. I could give them Cash and Joy.
I can, slowly as hell, help my wounded sweethearts to build. Create. Make money. Flourish. Support all my delightful weirdos and my unjustly maligned darlings and my fierce strivers. Write about the practicalities of a business that wants to be ethical, principled, and still pay the bills on time. Talk about sparkling clean marketing practices.
I want you, my beautiful heart, to create an alternative to Business As Usual, which is toxic and shitty and vicious.
And, from a personal perspective, I’ll prob’ly talk about how how to manage it within non-negotiable limitations.
So here I am. *fistfuls of confetti*
I will write when I can, which will vary. A lot.
I have zero plans to make money just yet, ‘cos I can’t afford the extra energy that would require.
I can’t focus for as long as I used to, so articles may be broken up, written over time, or may veer wildly at the end. I’m struggling to finish this now.
I will end with love.
Be brave, dear heart,