{"id":6677,"date":"2016-08-22T17:00:10","date_gmt":"2016-08-22T07:00:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/write4publish.com\/?p=6677"},"modified":"2023-02-24T15:38:08","modified_gmt":"2023-02-24T04:38:08","slug":"the-agony-and-the-ecstasy-of-change","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.anneskyvington.com.au\/the-agony-and-the-ecstasy-of-change\/","title":{"rendered":"The Agony and the Ecstasy of Change"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Inner Journey
\n<\/strong><\/h2>\n

I had, for a long while, been addicted to self development. It was like peeling onion layers; more were always waiting for you to deal with. But I was determined to recover from the effects of crippling emotional baggage I’d carried since childhood.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d felt an outsider most of my life, especially at school, even though there were times when I was popular. I rarely felt happy inside, even though I had a smile on my face much of the time. It started in early childhood. I wasn\u2019t as bright as my older brother and younger sister; I wasn\u2019t as pretty as my two younger sisters. Mum didn’t actually say the words, but when she talked, and she talked a lot,  I read between the lines: ‘He’s a genius… she’s pretty…’ etc etc.<\/p>\n

There was more to it than that, there always is…  But I grew up believing I was unworthy: stupid, ugly. It was all untrue and  I couldn’t shake it off as I grew. I believed it at my core.<\/p>\n

The change in me started around the time leading up to, and immediately after, my father\u2019s stroke.<\/p>\n

It would take a long time, and much inner work on my part, to rid me of the bad feelings I carried about myself.<\/p>\n

Was it just self-esteem problems, or did it go much deeper than that?<\/p>\n

Tying the knot had involved a huge leap into the unknown for me. ‘It’s for the birds,’ I used to say to my parents. They were tied until death do us part. <\/em>With all the fights and going nowhere.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

\"freud-jung-others-1909\"<\/p>\n

I was, at the time, teaching, keeping a dream journal, reading Jung and Freud, and having Gestalt therapy. As far as spiritual matters go, I was the original Doubting Thomas<\/em>;  I was married to a scientist, and surrounded by atheists.<\/p>\n

This day, I’d been massaging Mark for a tension headache that he’d had since childhood.<\/p>\n

We’d fallen asleep on the couch together. It was around lunchtime.<\/p>\n

 A Noisy Spirit<\/h2>\n

\u201cSomething\u2019s broken in the kitchen,\u201d Mark says.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. The noise woke me up.\u201d<\/p>\n

I go into the kitchen and put the glass pieces in the bin.<\/p>\n

I have no idea what the object is, nor where it has come from.<\/p>\n

Two weeks later at the same time, also on a Saturday, Mum calls me from the North Coast, telling me of Dad\u2019s first stroke. Mark and I catch a plane to the country airport. I feel invisible hands holding the plane up in the air. Gone is my usual fear of flying.<\/p>\n

Mum picks us up and drives us to the hospital. She talks non-stop as is her habit, all the way across the crooked bridge and out to the hospital opposite the gaol.<\/p>\n

I sit at my father\u2019s bedside. I feel closer to him than I\u2019ve ever been before. We’re communicating, even though he’s in a deep coma.<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you, Dad,\u201d I say, for the first time. We’ve never been good at words together.<\/p>\n

Mum and my two sisters are outside on the verandah, talking. I go back inside and say the words again, \u201cI love you.\u201d Like an actor rehearsing a role. Only this is for real.<\/p>\n

I touch his craggy skin. His heart beats strongly in his chest. He’s only sixty. Far too young to die.<\/p>\n

After three days, Mark and I drive Dad\u2019s car to the  Coastal resort my parents have recently retired to. I’ve to pick up his pension cheque from their flat. I notice Dad’s brown felt hat and his wallet on the table.<\/p>\n

 \"yamba-beach-hotel-on-cliffs\"A Father’s Gift<\/h3>\n

It was nearly lunch time, so Mark and I walked across to the white pub, seated high up on the cliffs, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Meals would be served at twelve o\u2019clock. I sat at the window and looked out at the horizon, dazzling azure blue, above and below. I took one sip of beer. A feeling like nothing I\u2019d ever experienced, before or since, overwhelmed me. It was a sense of infinity and peace, so amazing that words could not express it. Tears welled up inside and trickled out.<\/p>\n

Then I \u201cheard\u201d my father telling me that his life had not been so bad after all, despite the conflict in the marriage. He\u2019d had nature, the bush, his cattle, horses, dogs and trees to support him.<\/p>\n

It was like a gift from my father and I began to cry.<\/p>\n

Tears ran in a silent stream down my face.<\/p>\n

\"\"Mark stared at me in disbelief.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I muttered.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you want to go down on the beach?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I just want to get back. To the hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d Mark said. \u201cFinish your food then, and we\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fish and chips, fresh and tasty.<\/p>\n

As we ate, I talked about how Dad\u2019s life had been. He\u2019d been a self-made man, just like his father before him. How he\u2019d loved the land and had managed to procure thousands of acres. All on his own. Mum had had different needs and desires. But they\u2019d stayed together through good times and bad.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to be here in his car,\u201d I said. He\u2019d been careful about his possessions. Always thrifty. Mum had  wanted pretty things for the house and smart clothes to dress up in.<\/p>\n

We set out on the hour-long voyage back along the Pacific Highway, the road constructed in pale concrete slabs, by soldiers returning from the War. The car made a sound as if a tyre was loose, and Mark commented on it.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s just the way the road is here.\u201d<\/p>\n

When we pulled up outside the hospital, my brother-in-law was walking towards us. I knew then that Dad had gone.<\/p>\n

I wanted to know what time he’d passed, but two of my relatives gave vague and differing answers. When I asked the sister-on-duty, she looked at her watch and said:<\/p>\n

\u201cMr Skyvington died at exactly five past twelve.\u201d<\/p>\n

That was, indeed, the time of my epiphany.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Inner Journey I had, for a long while, been addicted to self development. It was like peeling onion layers; more were always waiting for you to deal with. But I was determined to recover from the effects of crippling emotional baggage I’d carried since childhood. I\u2019d felt an outsider most of my life, especially […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":19584,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[2873,2696,2872,2871,2870],"class_list":["post-6677","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-writing","tag-epiphanies-linked-to-change","tag-freud-and-jung-fathers-of-psychoanalysis","tag-inner-and-outer-journeys","tag-noisy-spirits-or-poltergeists","tag-the-death-of-someone-close-as-a-catalyst-for-change"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Agony and the Ecstasy of Change - The Art of Creative Writing<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.anneskyvington.com.au\/the-agony-and-the-ecstasy-of-change\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Agony and the Ecstasy of Change - The Art of Creative Writing\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The Inner Journey I had, for a long while, been addicted to self development. 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