I’ve got a lot of voices in my head. Ok, well maybe not a lot. There are three to be precise (one short of being classed as “off my trolley” I’ll have you know). Two of these voices are bloody loud and insist on incessantly chattering, especially when the rest of my brain is trying to sleep (It’s like the bed is a magical realm – where as soon as you enter you remember everything you forgot to do that day, and see all that you have to do until the last child leaves home.)
There is the Mother voice, constantly scheduling, planning, thinking ahead, running through the day just gone and the one yet to come, worrying about the state of the world, the price of turnips, the state of the children’s school socks, the cash for clobber bag that needs to be sorted, the state of Donal Trumps hair (I know, I know … there is so much more to worry about with this tango-ed nut, but concentrating on the hair keeps me from running screaming from the house), if there’ll be good drying weather tomorrow, what to cook for dinner to avoid the not-this-crap-again death stare from the kids, if one more dose of Lyclear would be worth doing (eventhough the kids hair is clean and could possibly fall out if it gets dosed again)….and on and on it goes.
Now, I’ve become quite good at cutting this psycho bitch off and putting her back in the cupboard with all the other aspiring calor housewives of the year. She is just one small part of who I am, but lord God the wagon does love to go on.
The other voice is the Writer. This lady used to be very quiet and meek. Poor lamb wouldn’t raise her voice above a whisper without going scarlet and melting into the ground. But, not any more. Oh No. Little Miss “I’m the next Booker Prize Winner” has got notions well above her station and has taken to protesting with 10ft placards, all over my tiny brain. She reminds me when I haven’t written for a while, berates me when I don’t write enough, laughs at the absolute drivel that spills onto the page and point blank refuses to be a part of it. She is also very good at celebrating to excess when I put in a good days writing. And we’re not talking giving herself an extra cookie, or morning off for all the hard work. Au contraire. After a good writing session, madame promptly goes on an absolute bender in the arsehole of Torremolinos, with Pepe and Carlos (excuse the horrific and racially lazy stereotypes) and disappears off the radar for at least a week, only to come crawling back having suffered massive nasal collapse from the endless lines of coke snorted off a camels ass. In her absence Mother voice takes over, and suddenly scrubbing the kitchen floor with a cotton bud is the most important thing in the world.
But, amidst all this din there is another voice (I swear lads, I’m ok). This one came into my life a year or two ago. I didn’t know her well and was a bit wary to begin with. In fact I thought she was a complete and utter knob and would have smothered me mother rather than admit to anyone that she was talking to me. But I have grown to like this voice more than any of the others. She is the mediator that keeps me grounded and keeps the peace between Mother and Writer. This is my mindful, hippie voice, that I used to have as a teenager and young student starting college (you should have seen some of the clothes I wore back then! Pre-Internet and Facebook thank christ.) I lost her along the way, misplaced her among the study,nappies, night feeds, work, life, grown up stuff. During the years that she lay buried, I thought I didn’t need her, thought I needed to grow up, be responsible and let her go. Jesus, but I got a big, aul serious head on me for a couple of years. Now, don’t get me wrong. I still had the craic and the laughs, and created many, many wonderful memories while she was gone, but there was always something missing. A tiny, minuscule chink in my otherwise gleaming armour.
This voice, has brought me back to meditation, mindfulness and the importance of being kind to myself. She has taught me that each day is a new beginning and that all the mistakes, or the unfulfilled promises made that morning can be scratched clean by the stars at night. She has shown me how to turn down the volume on the other voices, and to just be. When I listen to her, I feel positive, empowered, ambitious. I know that I am enough, and that I am doing what I can, when I can. Sorry, I have the sudden urge to ask you all to take out your yoga mats, and sit cross legged “ummmm”ing along to the sound of tibetan monks making scrambled eggs in a singing bowl.
And before any of you get all high and mighty and start telling me what an absolute fairy I am … I know I’m not the only one re-aligning my chakras before I go to sleep, or walking on the beach at silly o’clock in the morning with Louise Hay telling me to be grateful for my toaster.
So while I do like to give out about Mother and Writer, I am damn glad they showed up to the party. They are part of me, define who I am. Sometimes they get too loud, and try to take over the whole operation and that’s where Mindful-Hippie comes in.
I think what I’m trying to say here is that I’ve discovered balance. I’ve also discovered that if anyone could read my mind there would be the immediate sound of sirens rolling over the Connemara hills, and the soft click of a thousand doors being bolted and curtains drawn as the locals lock themselves safely away until the men in white coats arrive for the mad-blow-in back the way, down the road.