Ruadh

As many of you will know, I live in the middle of a forest in a caravan on site as we wait for our house build to be completed. My husband works away, so for a month at a time I’m here on my own. Well, I say by myself not really. One is never alone when you have a cat, two ponies, two ducks, three dogs, and five chickens. 
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So many people tell me we’re living their dream but I think most are just in love with the notion of it. Perhaps if they knew the truth they would beat a hasty retreat. Furthermore, there’s a fair few folk also believe living in solitude would solve their problems. I’ve written before about the realities of off-grid and self-sustainable living but what I haven’t discussed is seclusion itself.

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Solitude is an achievement.

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The thing with being in the boondocks is the silence. It’s a quiet so loud the sound is deafening. Solitude; nothing quite prepares you for conversation it forces you to have with yourself. 
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Over the last three years, I’ve managed to clear out most of my old ideas of things. But the demons never leave, they just lurk in the shadows, waiting for weakness. Solitude takes strength, and when you live the life I do (it’s a physical one) some days I just don’t have the fight to fend them off. As you can imagine, overseeing a house build is stressful but combine that with time spent in the bowels of the menopause, can be a clusterfuck. 

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She is a cruel mistress. The freedom of release comes at a cost. Such is the legacy of life lived in fight or flight, my endocrine system is fucked. Now my estrogen levels are at an all time low, my body is often chronically fatigued and struggles to process stress. This manifests itself in numerous guises. 
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I’ve always been open about my struggles with mental health. In particular, disordered eating and excessive exercising as a means of control. However, the onset of peri-menopause combined with a sporting injury (I tore both my AC and Meniscus while playing rugby) stripped me of my ability to use exercise as a copying mechanism. 
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When we arrived here at An Taigh Dubh, I was in bad shape. The peri-menopause had taken me to the brink. But such is the restorative power of Mother Nature, in time she helped heal my broken parts. Nevertheless, trauma leaves a trace. One can never quite erase the damage done. 
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Since, I have shed many skins, growing into Crone with each passing year. In living the old way one becomes recalibrated. The senses sharpen and grow more acute. The body fine tunes to the seasonal shift. One is re-wilded and I embrace my new found feral.

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But last Autumn despite the increased workload that comes with preparing for the cold, and no dietary changes, I noticed my body began gaining the weight I’d lost in the Summer. The primitive part of my brain knew this was the natural order of things, however, the irrational side did not. The disordered me couldn’t reconcile the two. No one is more scathing than my inner saboteur. So instead of yielding, I pushed back. But Mother Nature is a stubborn beast, my resistance made no difference. The seasonal shift rouses primitive instincts, and like it or not, my body was reading itself for Winter.

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This in itself wasn’t the issue, it was my lack of ability to cope with the weight gain that was the problem. So I spent the next few months a curmudgeon, expertly avoiding mirrors in the caravan. But then Spring arrived and thus the time to stew up n vanished like a fart in the wind. By Summer, one’s so busy you’re lucky if you can find your arse with both hands. 
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Then August arrived, as did the push to see the build complete. My stress levels went through the roof. As it is with a hubby that works away, you can be sure if something goes wrong, it’s guaranteed to happen when he’s gone. It was then I realized that my bad habits, like a sniper from the side, had returned. 
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In the good old days, one of my many tics was to only eat after excessive exercise. Food was seen a reward not a necessity. Growing up self-care and rest were seen as indulgent and selfish. Such is my dysfunction, even though I thought it tamed, my brain doesn’t register physical toil as exercise. My stamina is legendary, I can run on empty long after my brain suggests I stop. So these last few months, I’ve gone days without eating until late. Worse if I haven’t prepped a meal, go to bed on not much. 

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When’s he’s at home my hubby takes incredibly good care of me. He always has. His job is extremely demanding, high pressure for a month at a time. Managing the maintenance of a site worth ten billion that provides twenty five percent of the UK’s gas supply. Despite this, as soon as he gets home, he takes the load off and most nights cooks for us. I wouldn’t be where or half of what I am if it weren’t for him. 
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This only compounds my guilt. The relationship with PTSD, trauma and eating disorders is well documented. So insidiously entwined are they, it’s like a tape worm. Shame eats away at you from the inside out. In therapy, I was told the reason I self-sabotage is because it allows me to predict outcomes. Which then gives the illusion that I am in control. 
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We all carry unconscious bias, mine is that if you are fat you are lazy. Of course I know this isn’t true. But when it’s ingrained from a young age, it’s hard to extrapolate fact from fiction. Just so you know, I don’t think this way about other folk, just myself. 
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Tending to a small holding is exacting and my dog’s require a three mile minimum plus I’m fifty three. Yet I still manage to berate myself for not finding the time to ‘exercise’ every day. And the voice reminds me that’s why I’m fat - it may be a small word but it carries great weight.
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This narrative plays out most days, it’s rare there’s radio silence. If I’m lucky the voice is too busy focusing on the day ahead, but it’s always there. Ready and willing to lend a hand when I need it least. 
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But as if by magick, Mother Nature arrives when I need her most. Reminding me of my wild, and that I too am a force of nature. Shame thrives in silence but it is also the sound of growing things. From little acorns do big oaks grow. 
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Transformation takes time. Without pause there is no Spring. Summer sow seeds while we may. Autumn says there is no sin in slowing down. Winter will come soon and for long enough she whispers. Allow yourself to rotund and heed the beat of your sable heart. Now is the time to retreat and seek out a place to sleep. 
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Without this life there’d be no Foggy Bummers, so I try to be as transparent as possible. Every one has a story, I speak not to garner sympathy but to share. We read to know we are not alone. 
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Solitude, the sound of silence is bliss. Even on my darkest days, I wouldn’t swap this life for the world. But the reality is it doesn’t come easy.

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Regardless, the wheel continues to turn. The sun sets and the moon shines, even when it is not whole,

and I will do better in the morning 🍂