Seachange

I don’t believe in resolutions. People don’t change, not really. Sure, they may be temporarily tweaked with therapy and medication, but our general characteristics are probably more nature than nurture. So a naturally messy person will likely never sustain tidiness, and an active person rarely sink to true sluggishness- but however we value these traits as a society, every characteristic comes with its positive and negative side.

Highly strung though I am, my disposition to order comes with a side helping of neurosis. A fractured childhood tipped the balance and chemicals – alcohol, hormones, whatever – can tip me over the edge. And so it happened that this year’s festive concoction coincided with a toxic mix of stalemate family breakdown and hormonal overdrive into an emotional storm and I could not help the fallout that ensured.

Likewise, stalwart Tom, who bears much of my stress, occasionally malfunctions himself, into various ‘-aholisms’, whether work, booze or worse – he has an addictive personality too – it’s what makes him so loyal – one of my most valued characteristics in others – but which also makes him prey to neuroses of his own.

Therapy is perhaps wise – for us both – to help us recognise what we can do to each other. I’ve already got in touch with Relate, but whether or not another person can solve what we probably already know, without us delving into what we don’t want them to, who knows?

I’ve already had my personality defects and behavioural traps exposed in magnified detail through CAT therapy – my problems are so much more classifiable than those of a sweet boy from a normal family, especially when on a post-partum downward spiral mid-financial crisis, as I was when I undertook my last bout. Now, joint therapy might be as much as an opportunity to explore how Tom can sometimes contribute to his own problems  – which can be harder to recognise in a man many see as a saint for putting up with me – as understanding each other better- which itself feels insane given we’ve spent so much of the last 15 years together. But this year just gone, I pushed him too too hard and he sank to new lows and it feels as though certain behaviours are becoming entrenched.

So, if we resolved anything this New Year, it was to be kinder to one another, and to talk things through before shouting – even if that means getting a mediator, in the absence of regular and reliable emotional support from friends and family. And it’s this third prong in the mental health triplicate of nature, nurture and society that’s perhaps the hardest to fix. I can be medicated for my mood swings and so I am reluctantly turning to hormones to provide an even keel to the ricochet from euphoria to despair of my monthly cycle, for all this may mean I end up always somewhere in between.

You can stick any kind of label you like on it – doctors have mooted bi-polar two, autism, depression, PMT, PMDD being the latest, hell maybe even a personality disorder – although my tendency to perfectionism has always been tempered by a desire for normality and bulked at anything that suggests I’m borderline anything. Though it’s my personality that’s  has willed me to succeed, for all it can sometimes circumnavigate towards nihilism. But, by dampening down this cycle, my corners will knocked off in the process, leaving me somehow lesser, for all I may make others more comfortable.

So there will be no more living on the edge for either of us – a plodding pedestrianism is the safest road to tread, for all I may have been brought up to scoff at averageness. But there is little benefit in aiming for outstanding when to do so is alienating to others, tough on ourselves, and largely unacknowledged by those who should show us the most interest.

And yet, the sucesses, simple as they are, are, this year coming to fruition. With luck, a responsibility rich new job, for which I had my second interview this week, a second property on which we hope to complete in March in time for a working Easter holiday, and a future that’s secure in the knowledge we’ve got a foot in another place. Whatever expectations I may have of myself, my loved ones and my family, we’re doing okay, regardless of the fact the creative writing masters I am signed up for this September may go by the wayside for the privilege of earning a better wage. So I may never finish that novel (unlike a friend of mine from my dancing days, who asked me to proof hers, but which I’ve struggled to galvanise myself for pricks of jealousy- I will though. In spite of myself, I’m happy for her.)

This year is one of consolidation. Accepting failures and moving on; reaffirming relationships which have stood the test of time and discarding others more toxic; enjoying the kids now their personalities are flourishing, without the stress and responsibilities of early parenthood. Knowing for certain, I never need put myself through it again.

This weekend, Jonah turns 11 and while I mourn the little boy I loved and loathed in equal measure, I’m confident we’ve created someone who will continue to bring me joy (and probably still more pain, but the balance is tipped to the positive) in tears to come. Ava, whose speech and hearing issues continued to give me cause for concern over the holidays, is at least happy, and with the changes afoot, the aim is to keep her so over the long-term.

Ultimately, that’s all anyone could ask for, happiness being more a by-product of managed expectations than success. Which perhaps brings me back to Tom. Learning to manage our expectations of one another is key to relationship harmony. It’s what I’ve failed to achieve with my own parents and am keen to instate with my children (perhaps, this year, why we’re winding up the crazy cakes and multiple gifts of birthdays past, which, while fun were also stress inducing). We are all human- each with our own frailties and strengths and agendas. Which is why, the best resolution anyone can make is to accept themselves, be mindful of others, and just to keep going.