Loving Molly Anne...

I want to pay a little tribute to a wonderful lady that I never ever had the pleasure of meeting, but I know her darling daughter well, for which fact and whose friendship I am humongously grateful...

Molly Anne Fabre, late of The View from this End was a writer and an artist, a lover of dogs, her French husband, JP, her family, her home and her history.   She told stories about her early childhood that made me cry.   She and her siblings were serially abandoned by her mother into the non-care of horrific nuns, and yet (in spite of her name, which I understood as Moany, rather than Mo-Annie(!), until corrected by her loving and dutiful daughter, Sara,), Moannie never seemed to actually moan about her lot in life.   She spoke about things factually, but from the heart, and with real emotion.   And my heart, my rescuer's heart, bled for her.

Moannie wrote in a way that seemed as if it flowed from her like a running river;   It was as if it were vital for her to get everything, every fact of her existence, out there into the world - To be counted, to count as a woman.   ...She adored comments on her stories, often replying to every one, and she was a faithful and loyal supporter of other bloggers.   

Sometimes when I would write about how I missed my own mother, who passed on a week later than Moannie did this year in October of 1996, in fact, Moannie would appear in my comments box with soothing, caring words, making me feel warm, held, appreciated and supported.

I don't think she ever knew what exactly she meant to me in those many moments...   

Sara took this photo of her Mum in the summer.   It became her favourite.  

Moannie had an indomitable spirit, or so it seemed to us in Blogland.   She oozed vitality, fun, feisty wit, and a maybe not so quiet strength.

Hers had been a life of journeys, onwards and upwards.  Of adventure.   Of reaching out to people.   And being reached.   And met.

Finally, the view from this end stories moved indelibly into the present, with Moannie telling us about her battle with cancer (which she called the Fecker).   She dictated her words bravely from her hospice bed when she could no longer use Paco her pc and, when she was too unwell, Sara took up her 'pen' to tell us all how Moannie was faring.   

This was dignified and touchingly beautiful.   And bloody hard.   And fucking brave.   I never find endings easy.   We talk about having a 'good death'.   What can that mean?   Is it even possible?

I have ferreted back in time, and found these words to me from Moannie, which seem to sum up the very essence of how she was to us here in Blogland, those of us fortunate enough to have known her:  

The context here is that I was whingeing and worrying about a forthcoming operation,

"Dear Fhina, you know the fact that you have made me cry shows how much this Blogging phenomena magically bonds us all together; how we all rush to hug away hurt, and strive to find the right words to soothe aching hearts. 

And the truth is that it is not psuedo, pretend, fake caring -  Why would we spend time in false words?  The pain we feel for you is as real as the sun, moon and stars.  We are real friends even though we shall never meet". 

What more can be said?

Well, if we can see ourselves reflected back in the words and eyes and souls of others; when we know we have made an impact, then we can know we have lived life to the full.   Molly Anne will be terribly missed.

I know she was very partial to a handsome Frenchman!

...And, I like these words from the subject, Marcel Proust.   I once spent a week in a big house right on the golden beach-front in Trouville, Normandy, that had been turned into flats.   In the nineteenth century it had been a hotel that Proust himself stayed in and was also painted by Monet.

These words are principally for Sara, and at the same time, I hope they may stand for all of us who continue to miss the faces we loved:

“Now there is one thing I can tell you: you will enjoy certain pleasures you would not fathom now. When you still had your mother you often thought of the days when you would have her no longer. Now you will often think of days past when you had her. 

When you are used to this horrible thing that they will forever be cast into the past, then you will gently feel her revive, returning to take her place, her entire place, beside you. 

At the present time, this is not yet possible. 

Let yourself be inert, wait till the incomprehensible power ... that has broken you restores you a little, I say a little, for henceforth you will always keep something broken about you. Tell yourself this, too, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.” 

― Marcel Proust

Ah well...

One of my late father's favourites.

I miss the very bones of him, you know.

When I was small, he held my hands and I danced on his toes to music from the ancient reel-to-reel tape recorder he played about with - I know I was a heavy lump and I must have weighed heavily upon his tootsies...

I remember dancing for him to "She wears red feathers and a hula-hula skirt" especially!

I think I had a Fifties' kind of upbringing in a northern coal-town, like my parents' had, although I was born early in the Sixties - Flower-power, and all that. The times of love and peace, man, passed me by until I was in my teen years and took to wearing an afghan coat and going about bare-foot in the streets!

Still, I have childhood memories which now seem golden to me. I'm not sure all of the memories were golden, perhaps it's just in sepia and faded polaroid I remember them...

Dad's ashes have sat for just over a year in a corner of my living room, occasionally accusing me - They are double-sheathed, encased in a bronzed urn and then in the rather distinguished royal purple bag they came in with golden threaded handles. He died four, nearly five years ago.

They sit there in silence, in transition, awaiting transportation to a beach of sacred and long-holy spirit some few miles from my home where I will cast them to the earth and the north winds...

It's a beautiful place that attracts crowds of tourists most of the year.

We holidayed on the quasi-island a couple of times, and Dad insisted we scatter my Mother's ashes here almost fifteen years ago.

And that we did... It was a beautiful ceremony, I know.

And I'm sorry I haven't managed it yet!

I mean the task of scattering yours...

Forgive me, Dad. I know you do. I know you know how much I loved you.

I know you know.

How much I love you still.

I miss your unconditional love of me. Your full acceptance of me. Your love for me.

I hope you know, Dad,

...How much your grandson, my son Grizz, reminds me of you.

Each and every day. He has our fingers, particularly the bent middle finger on one hand that we all share.

He is as careful with money as you were.

He has your height, your grace, your wit and humour, and he is still his own soul. I think he has your nose too!

And I know that you would love him. Just as you always did. Perhaps more.

I want to make your ashes rain from the heavens like stars as you did for your beloved Joanie, my Mam.

Tonight, I can see you shaking your head, and smiling at my fecklessness, noting my loss of you in my life.

I know you will understand why I haven't been able to do this thing, not just yet.

I know you, above all, understand me.

You loved your Daddy's Girl...

And I know I will always be this, as I write these words and my well of tears rains down tonight.

For no-one else (perhaps apart from Grizz) has ever meant quite as much to me in this life, before or since I lost your dear soul.

I will love you always... I hope you know.

I wish...

Now, an evening with Joe Bonamassa is just one that you can't ignore...

My life's troubles were momentarily forgotten as I listened to Joe's virtuoso guitar twanging and his soulful, rhyming, lyrics...

I say momentarily, because I find that when your mind is whirring overly on the detail of things, you can't possibly concentrate on the moment in hand.

Life passes you by.

You are astir. At sea, in a swell of fearful thoughts and non-deeds.

Your mind is otherwise AWOL. Out looking for the plot.

I wish I were, I would... I want.

My mind was not mine own to command, and I found that moments in the concert had utterly passed me by.

...Moments that I could not even recall experiencing. Now, my mind is clearer, a month or so along from the concert. There was no magic wand. I began to live in the moment, and ceased to dwell on a hopeless future.

I also found this very useful morceau d'information at Student Depression dot Org which described for me where I was at that moment of mind in time... HERE http://www.studentdepression.org/stress_anxiety_and_anger.php

I resent, er resemble, at least two of the following examples.

I was clearly feeling a lot of stress and this was leading to a state of high anxiety and catastrophising...

Phew, I find it a struggle to even pronounce that one! As Schnozzle Durante used to utter, "It's a catastroph!"

I know I am also a one for Avoidance!

Please read on:

More depressed thinking habits

The following are a few examples of further unhelpful habits which contribute to angry or anxious habit spirals, and therefore to the depression habit spiral.

1. Rule-bound thinking

   We all use a variety of "rules" or principles to guide our action and streamline thought processes. But unrealistically rigid ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’ set up stressful regular experiences of frustration and lack of control. This leads to angry or anxious feelings, which in turn intensify the wish for the world to operate according to clearer rules… When applied to your own behaviour, the habit of rule-bound thinking can lead to unhelpful self-bullying.

2. "Control freakery"

   Rule-bound thinking is closely linked to "control freakery", or the unrealistic attempt to keep rigid control over ourselves and outside events. Our attitude towards control is very commonly infected by unhelpful all-or-nothing thinking. Aiming for either ‘total control’ or ‘no control’ results in things being chaotically out of control, dramatically raising anxiety or anger levels. True control results from a flexible, relaxed and realistic approach.

3. Catastrophising

   Catastrophising is another extension of rule-bound thinking, when deviations from the rules or expectations are experienced as disasters. Thinking your life will be ruined because you fail one exam is an example of catastrophising. This habit is linked to perfectionism and other habits, like superstitious thinking, which are focused on trying to achieve an unrealistic level of control.

4. Hyper-vigilance

   Being appropriately aware of risks helps us to be sensibly cautious. But risks can't be totally eliminated from life. Over-focus on physical dangers such as plane crashes or psychological dangers such as rejection or criticism raises adrenalin levels without helping us to do anything about these dangers. Unrealistic risk aversion and hyper-vigilance can be reinforced in modern ‘blame’ culture (see page on depression-inducing society).

5. Avoidance

   Over-use of the "flight" response to stressful situations is a particularly risky habit. If you never give yourself the opportunity to face difficulties (for fear of failure), you give yourself instead a kind of ‘evidence’ that these difficulties can’t be faced. At its worst, this habit can lead to complete inertia or even agoraphobia (ie. being unable to go out).

Any of these sound familiar?

If you experience high levels of anxiety or anger, or if any of these habits sound familiar, it is especially important for you to learn about managing stress levels, as well as working on challenging these and other depressed thinking habits.

Can you see yourself in any of these examples?

It is so important to recognise when we are stressed out.

It isn't always easy to do.

If you're like me, you avoid asking for help.

Don't. That's my advice. For what it's worth.

Hopefully, in time, my psychotherapy training will also get me more 'in the know', au fait, as the Frenchies say: I'll be better able to handle what life chucks my way, threatening as it does, to push me off my Penny Farthing into another century...

Then, I will be better equipped to help others. ...Which is right where I want to be.

That's my two penn'orth!

What do you wish for, mes bloggy Einsteins?

Fhina is waiting, and her clinic door is slightly ajar...

Image courtesy of Getty