Yoga cures Lycanthropy

[smokingboot]

It's true I tell you.

What follows is part rant, part rubbish, part private stuff I have never said before and probably shouldn't say now, but bollox to it. I am not going to be sorry. I will however, use the cut to spare others my demi-ravings.



Lycanthropy. I didn't even know I suffered from this disease until I spoke to my mother this morning. First, she woke me with an early morning call, then, once I had sniffed at the coffee jar, I phoned her back. Against my express instructions, she has told the entire family about my mole and keeps bothering my father and my aunt to call me.

I was so angry, I don't know what came over me. I made a sound I didn't know I could make. It felt as though it started in my feet and just gained volume as it rolled up through my stomach. I have yelled and shouted and screamed at people; I have never made a noise like this before. It was like a roar or a howl or some kind of baying, god knows what the neighbours think. The house felt like it was shaking, but that was just me.

I collected myself long enough to tell her who has the problem, who it is that really needs the doctor. She went all cold and distant and I realised that she knows. Somewhere within she is consciously refusing to look at the real issue. I guess we all do this from time to time, but surely there has to be a point of self analysis, of attempted judgement untouched by self hate or self love, of realisation that there is a problem. How long can anyone run away from solutions? How else does anything improve?

The answer is of course, that some people enjoy being unhappy, and that is just fine with me. Sort it out, don't sort it out, take the pills, don't take the pills, get the therapy, don't get the therapy, just be happy/unhappy as is one's right and desire. My only stipulation is that I am not involved in it. I am sick of the sick. For most of my life I have been a crap-and-trapped pseudo-nurse with no power and all the responsibility. Doesn't mean I don't care, does mean I won't let anyone eat my cerebral cortex, however hungry they are. Now get well or get lost.

My mother is as rational as a box of frogs. I felt myself undergoing a different kind of madness; I didn't dare approach my PC for wanting to punch a hole through the screen and just reach into webworld, grab some total noonad, pull them back into my office and dance a little dance of Kali on their prostrate bod.

Instead, I took off and went to the yoga lesson I booked last week. Oh happy coincidence that made my mother's latest barminess and the yoga class take place on the same morning. It's a long walk but that was OK, I needed it.

My need for anger management was replaced by intense effort and a weird sense of how amazing my body is; how it works for me, how strong it is but how lacking in suppleness, how rigid I have become, how much tension I keep locked up in my muscles, how I don't breathe properly and don't treat my body well - and how it very seldom lets me down for all that. I didn't even need to burn away my fury in the gym. Something intense was working for me there. You can't focus on evilmojo with your ankles round your neck.

I came away, calmer, loosened, human again. It was raining. I walked home in my vest and track suit bottoms and let the rain soak right down through my skin. I'm still damp, and either the monster has gone, or I am a tame monster. No need for silver bullets. Yet.