the spirit of modern life is a banshee screaming

I wish I was immune to the cacophony of accusations that claim that my worth to the world lies in being as young and attractive as possible. But I am not.

It is Autumn but the past few days have been 22°C and sunny, essentially summer in the UK. Instead of spending every moment outside in the precious sunlight I have been in bed with a cold that seems to have affected my cognition and caused me to sleep 12 hours a night, interspersed with moments of trying and failing to do work.

I have a project due by the end of next week and feel distressed by my lack of accomplishments and a ‘to-do’ list that is days old and barely crossed off.

Every afternoon I have dragged myself out of my slovenly cocoon and forced myself outside for a walk. For the fresh air, lymphatic movement and nature trifactor. Most of the time I stride forward equally purposeful and dizzy, as if dragged by some unseen force that is willing me to get well again.

I consider physical conditions like this one energetic upgrades. So much has happened.

Four and a half months ago I left Mallorca. I moved four times and am about to move a fifth. I went to six festivals. I got into two relationships, back-to-back, so contrasting in their nature it felt like the universe was playing a kismet joke on me. I ran a month-long writing class, presented two workshops at a festival, sold all my online courses, closed my digital classroom and that particular chapter of my online business, and re-opened enrolments with a brand new team for The Mentor Training. I saw friends, kissed their babies, and travelled across the country trying to find the perfect place to live and then was asked not to move too far away by my current paramour. It’s been a lot.

To integrate my body has demanded deep rest and I have no option but to submit. I can’t function anyway.

This evening I sit in my bed in Margate, one I have cherished for its comfort, with a healthy hot chocolate (I keep it simple: organic cacao powder, sea salt flakes, hot water poured over and stirred, a healthy dash of creamy milk and a spoonful of raw honey) and my face pink and stinging after an at-home micro-needling session.

I might not be able to use my mind productively but I can use this rest to make the most of healing.

The beauty-youth-health triad that our capitalist-driven society reminds us women to consider every day that we negotiate the world is not lost on me. I wish I was immune to the cacophony of accusations that claim that my worth to the world lies in being as young and attractive as possible.

The spirit of modern life is a banshee screaming into our every day reminding us that somehow everything we are, is wrong.

So I find a fine balance between allowing myself to age gracefully and being proactive. What else can I do?

I learned to limit my expression to limit my expression lines in my twenties. Still, the genetic frown between the eyebrows is slowly burrowing itself a permanent home. I use retinol and fade creams to soften creases and hyperpigmentation in the evening. And a light rosewater moisturiser and mineral sunblock in the day.

During the first lockdown as a consolation gift I invested in an expensive red-light LED mask that used to work, I swear, by giving me plumper, glowier skin but in recent months I am not so sure anymore. I feel like it’s causing my skin to dry out and break out. I am confused.

And when the softer light of the sun rolls around I give myself monthly micro-needling sessions. A terrifyingly invasive but incredibly effective way to wake up my skin’s natural regeneration process and get the collagen and elastin returning to the surface of my face.

For what? So I can elude the fact that I’m not 20 anymore? So I can delude myself into a false sense of security that my physical appearance will somehow save me from having to face the effects of time that has passed?

Maybe.

Sometimes I wonder if these tactics of extending our age now will have some consequences later. Does the collagen I’m forcing to the surface now steal its efforts in my future?

I’m not interested in being perfect or pure anymore. I’m interested in finding a balance between all things. Including the balance between natural ageing and the scientific advancements that make that process just a little bit kinder.

After all, it is said that anyone under 50 right now is most likely going to live to over 100. We still have a long way to go.

So I sit in my bed, grateful for the collagen that remains supple in my skin, the incredible ability of my body to heal and the innate wisdom of nature that I am made up of. Face red and sore, tummy full of liquids, preparing to go to sleep and wake up again to another day of being awed by the mystery of life.