Harry Potter of 4 Privet Drive didn’t yearn for his Hogwarts letter initially – because he didn’t know of it’s existence.
His attitude towards Hedwig’s cameo was probably along the lines of “Ah, and when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse”.
The letter that will be the product of my (very little) patience, is probably being delivered by an inept, sluggish being that is totally unaware of it’s urgency.
Until then, I have kept myself occupied with branching out to other “means of self help”.
Drop-in support groups, art therapy, guided meditation – I’ve even signed up to learn play the violin!
“You all right?”
Slowing weeding myself back into college lessons has been triumphant. Currently the process of “getting ready” in the mornings is, in my mind, a natural disaster – formerly destined for defeatist retreat to the quilted habitat.
We’re all aware natural disasters can not be rectified, but certainly the consequences moulded into something more “manageable”.
Something that jump starts the engine is:
“Do I want to be this miserable forever?”
“Then I better get out of bed, shan’t I?”
Bolting towards the ceiling with a spring in my step, I reconstruct a scene of a gratefully cured patient. Pirouetting and praising the non-responding sky and bewildered doctor. Cue cheery and somewhat relative song with subtitles! Please form an orderly queue for autographs!
Despite my new found youth elixir getting back in to motion, I am doubtful in thinking my pending psychologist letter is singing the same tune.
“You all right?”
All things are raring to go when it comes to relocating. Loved ones are aware, many of which being supportive – and then there’s Mum.
A written letter was cowardly left on the stairs, notifying her before I continued with my day. A few texts were conjured in wonder of my financial situation and once I returned home that evening, all we exchanged was little conversation about what was for dinner.
I was quite set a back really. I was expecting her to be all guns blazing, me in firing range and out through the door. Our relationship has stayed rather mute since. Then again, how else do you react to your oldest daughter, reiterating she has a mental illness which you before did not act upon, now proclaiming to be leaving the nest, but taking all her baggage with her?
I recently became more acquainted with someone who I had shared second-hand smoke with at college.
We have similar issues, both detailing vaguely of each, both agreeing that cigarettes are all but a temporary and expensive solution, but will do for now.
We came on to the subject of counselling, and how it had been unsuccessful for us. We shared the view that after so long, the phrase “are you all right?” has been bleached beyond meaning. We are still thankful for it’s intention, but if I were to respond to the light greeting with “no, I’m not all right”, would anyone be willing to listen to what I had to say next?
It’s difficult to say. Along with “hello”, “hi” and “good morning”, we spew out such interest in the other party’s feelings, without being that much interested. It has peaked in it’s evolution so much so that if you are asked with such disinterest shrouding the phrase, it’s unlikely your monologue will be appreciated.
Poor Harry, having to the fight the urge of responding “Well no, both my parents are dead, some crazy man wants me dead too and all I have is a stupid lightning scar to show for it”.
So, “you all right?”