I’ve loved all of RuPaul’s Drag Race, firstly the UK series, and then the US seasons going back 14 years. It took a bit to get used to the US seasons, a culture shock if you like, but fascinating watching the changes over 14 years, the beginning of surgery procedures – lips, cheekbones and asses and the use of breast plates and seeing how things have changed over the years. It’s fascinating to notice how my attitude towards these queens as individuals changes as the season progresses. Obviously it’s fashioned in such a way that builds your bias towards certain competitors, as the program makers censor and manipulate what you see, but all the same, without fail as they give each queen more exposure to open up, I find myself falling in love with them. Not all of them, there are some villains I never get fond of and some I actively despise, but off the top of my head I can only think of Willam. I would happily see Willam fall down a flight of stairs, though he would be an interesting subject to pick apart. Narcissist? Not sure. Maybe just delusional. I hate it when people always classify obnoxious behaviour as “insecure” but maybe it is just that. But there is a tiny piece of me that thinks if I’d seen all of Willam and not just what they showed, that maybe he’s a really funny deadpan comic, and that his bitching was actually very tongue in cheek, but we never got to see quite enough of that to warm to him.

I love RuPaul because of the queens, their interactions, their vulnerability and their humour. Watching the relationships grow and feeling more and more affection for them, as well as the fascination and awe in their talents and artistry, is real feel-good viewing. RuPaul’s messages, whilst I don’t agree with all of them,  most of them are about just being who you are, shining your light in the world, never apologising for who you are and being confident in your own skin. The only message I take issue with it the reenforcement that we have to WORK REALLY HARD to succeed, which isn’t unique to RuPaul but is a sensitive one for me as it’s one of my major trigger points. Having had this reenforced all my life to my detriment I now choose to believe that we are entitled to live a wonderful stress free life, where the concept of “hard work” is replaced with passion, joy, a vocation you are compelled to do. But it’s a struggle to overcome these longstanding beliefs. However following a passion is what these girls are doing. They wouldn’t stop just because the cameras weren’t there, so the “hard work” aspect is just our human-ness trying to justify our existence. It seems none of us feel entitled to live our lives, however much we enjoy what we’re doing, without complaining of how hard we work in order to justify our worthiness.

I’m re-watching RuPaul as I’ve run out of new seasons, and it’s amazing all over again, but even I like a bit of variety. I found Vera and started watching that although suddenly watching adverts again on ITV (television for the lowest common denominator according to Gary, yes, that’s me!) felt like a violation and then a special offer on BritBox fell into my lap so obviously the Universe wants me to watch Vera. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, Vera is a curmudgeonly detective who lives alone in the wilds of Northumberland. After the glitz and glamour of RuPaul this is quite a change.

Vera. Dark, gloomy, wet North Eastern English skies. Moody windswept moors and wilderness as far as the eye can see, the occasional quaint rural town but mostly huge, largely run-down farms, deserted and decaying, tumble-down cottages, with open fires and Agas. The occasional incredible old house fully restored, but most of the characters live in almost medieval conditions, old battered furniture, paint chipped surfaces, all bring about an attitude of a hardy, stoic rural population, hard-working (that word again) but impoverished, just getting on with it. Down to earth and practical. Completely the opposite of Drag. The scenery is, to me, jaw-dropping. The tumbledown, unaltered cottages with old fashioned kitchens made of wood and wood burners, deep ceramic sinks, battered wooden furniture and threadbare carpets, is EXACTLY my dream house. When we bought our first house, all I wanted was to be able to walk all around my little house without bumping into another one. Having grown up in Kenya and having never lived in a flat or maisonette I had no idea that these were criteria firmly defined by disposable income, so that all came as a bit of a shock. My first house was indeed a little country cottage on a farm but I had to compromise on neighbours as it was a little terrace of 3. My ideal home was actually our last one, my dream country cottage, where I thought I would end my days, but the Universe (or rather Twiggy the cat) had other plans. 

When we drive through rural countryside I am always on the look-out for my ideal home. Gary points at every roofless, decaying stone ruin and declares that that’s my dream home. Gary’s is floor to ceiling windows, blond wood and stainless steel surfaces, as opposed to my battered and rustic charm, but we both fell in love with Watergate Cottage. As soon as I saw it I was in love with it. As we made our way around the tangle of garden I was besotted. As we entered the cottage I saw immediately it was quirky and unique and something inside me shut down. I knew I loved it. I loved it so much I thought my heart would burst, but I knew Gary would hate it and I couldn’t bear the disappointment, so I wandered around the crooked cottage in a daze, trying not to take anything in. When we got back to the car, I sat numbly and we sat in silence for a few minutes. “I love it”, Gary whispered. I looked at him in astonishment. I hadn’t even looked at it as I was so sure he’d hate it. Just goes to show….

Vera makes me feels safe. Despite the murdering and robbery, I feel safe in a cocoon of simple, rural life. Of windswept, unforgiving countryside. Of solid stone walls and slate roofs. Of Vera herself. A middle-aged woman, choosing to live on her own in a rickety old cottage that hasn’t been decorated since the 40s or 50s. With no neighbours, as far as the eye can see. She also drives a battered old Land Rover Defender 90, the coolest vehicle on the planet. I even owned one briefly, until about a year ago when even I couldn’t justify the £12 grand estimate to repair. I actually cried when I had to give her up. Esther. I cried for days. Never really given much of a toss about vehicles, but losing Esther broke my heart. I loved every second of driving Esther, high about the rest of the world, impenetrable, unstoppable, and very, very safe (do you see the theme here?).

The house we live in today is all windows, perched precariously on the side of a hill with amazing 180 degree views of the Forth Valley. The view is simply spectacular. It’s not what I would consider “my sort of house”, although if you take each point individually of what I asked for (a view from the kitchen sink, lots of space, a balcony) it delivers everything I wanted, just not in the form I expected. Which also goes to show that the Universe knows what you want even if you can’t articulate it! However in high winds this house shakes and rocks, the windows flex and whistle constantly. It feels like the front of the house could just be ripped off in the wind, so exposed are we here. In Watergate Cottage, whilst Gary joked about the Money Pit (1986 movie about renovating a house, not for the faint hearted), I never worried about anything. The cottage had stood for over 200 years, I didn’t feel that anything much could hurt it. Water running down a stone wall isn’t as ominous as water soaking through plaster board, sagging and collapsing: you know where you stand in a stone built house. When the wind whistled around the cottage, it was just annoying, but I never felt unsafe.

If you’ve spotted the theme you’ll notice it’s all about me feeling safe. If I needed any prompting about Law of Attraction, I’ve certainly got it the last couple of weeks. It’s always the same. I’m chundering along, feeling mostly OK and occasionally blown away by the stuff I’m learning, my connection with animals and my connection with my guides, and them poof! Out of nowhere it all seems to go Pete Tong. I’ve never thought of myself as unstable, now I’m not so sure. Now that I no longer beat myself into shape and blindly carry on, now that I no longer push through I realise that I spend a lot of time unsure, unsafe, anxious, not always really knowing why. That’s the trouble with slowing down in order to heal, you suddenly start to feel things. You may wonder why you bothered, thinking that your previous existence seemed, well, less troubled. You’d be wrong of course, it’s just when you’ve spent so long pushing down your emotions, pushing through your pain and ignoring your discomfort, you almost get used to it. But at some point your body or mind or both will cave in but a lot of people survive a lot of years putting up with unhappiness and not even appreciating that there is a better way to live. 

Working with my guides and learning about Law of Attraction has helped me see how many of my default behaviours (in Soul Level Coaching speak we would call these workarounds) are about feeling unsafe. At the root of wanting to live in Vera-land is not just about being close to nature but about not having neighbours, in the mistaken belief that if I don’t have neighbours they can’t let me down.  Because I can’t control neighbours, and because they live close they potentially have the power to make my life difficult, this makes me feel unsafe as a lot of my childhood was characterised by not feeling safe around the people closest to me. My underlying (unconscious) belief being that people will always let you down, eventually. My solution is to have no neighbours. No people at all. However, Law of Attraction has made me see that as long as I feel unsafe, there will always be things that make me feel unsafe. If I moved into the woods and lived in a cave, no human life for miles, it would be a bear. A spider. A murderous toad. Or even just my own crazy mind. Feeling unsafe is nothing to do with my surroundings. Feeling unsafe is my own personal negative belief that will follow me everywhere until I address it. Happily I am addressing it with the Soul Level Intuitive Coaching®, and when I’m done I may still chose to live in the middle of nowhere, but it won’t be because I feel unsafe.

The wonderful truth is that we CAN shift our underlying beliefs. It’s not easy but it can be done and the rewards are worth it.

If you want to shift your deep-rooted negative beliefs, Soul Level Intuitive Coaching®  works with your guides to help you discover your own path of least resistance to soften them. When you’re ready to change your unconscious behaviour, check out my services.

I’ve been trying to write for several weeks now. I have numerous good stories I’m keen to finish off but I just can’t get my head organised, it’s easier to start a new blog than finish off an old one. Just seem to be getting stuck with finding the point of it all. Can’t pull it together, all the bits hanging, fraying, disintegrating under my scrutiny. The last few weeks have been a real challenge for me. The guest house is shut for winter so I have no distractions. I have finished my intuitive coaching certification. I have some wonderful coaching clients who make me feel worthy and whole. I’ve had some amazing readings with exotic animals, and the comfort and security of knowing what these animals do for us is heart-warming. I have a couple of fabulous alternative healers I’m swapping sessions with and learning so much whilst receiving and benefitting from their skills. I’ve been on a few healing courses that have galvanised and propelled my healing to another level. On paper I should really be in my element. Coming out. Celebrating. Moving my business forward. Stepping over the ledge.

The only way to write this honestly is to be brutally transparent in a way that will embarrass me, but it has to be done, even if I never publish this. In order to forgive myself I need to acknowledge my deepest emotions and secrets. I’ve been really down. Triggered by a couple of situations that I couldn’t control. People “letting me down”, or that’s how it felt. But the sort of thing that can’t be undone, a bit like learning that someone doesn’t like you. You can agree not to fall out about it, but really, you can’t undo that can you? So in the first case, it was discovering that something I thought I could do, and was excited about, I can’t (as in not “allowed”), and it came as a real shock. I felt let down, mislead, betrayed and whilst technically I can just do it anyway, I felt shoehorned into an uncomfortable position whereby if I did what I wanted to do, I was “doing wrong”. The second was a conflict of interest between two parties close to me. They may agree to play nice but I can’t manage the stress of supervising that (I’m paraphrasing for your understanding, it wasn’t quite like that!). I know it’s not my place to, and I know I can’t, control it but I still haven’t learned how to distance myself, my pain body, my energetic and emotional body, from people who are close to me. The irony is that in both cases whilst I feel in the wrong and responsible, the people whose feelings I’m all worked up about, are fine. They’re over it. It’s all me. Then follows a spiral of self-blame that after all I’ve grown and all I’ve learned, I cannot insulate myself from other peoples emotions. Or even my perception of other people’s emotions. And I feel powerless.

Before I had a mental breakdown I would never have known or acknowledged I had “issues with mental health”. Whilst I’m mostly hugely compassionate person with people individually, face-to-face, my capacity to be empathic with mental health issues was all about whether it was something I could reference. I was empathic towards substance abuse (more so alcohol, less so drugs) because of my own experience. I could understand the hopelessness of being overweight since I struggled there also, but there was also, if I’m brutally honest, a huge amount of judgement in all cases. I’m fat but I’m not that fat, how could you let yourself get that bad – my mother’s words slide out before I’ve even consciously arrived at the discussion. I like a drink but I’ve never been that bad. How could you lose control like that? You’re not even trying to help yourself. No sympathy for anyone with mother issues, I mean, who hasn’t got mother issues, get over it! (Oh the irony). And secretly comparing myself all the time, proud to wear the badge of damage, but only up to some arbitrary point that was acceptable to me, beyond that I would disassociate myself, the unspoken words being that I was not that bad.

Whilst I don’t consider that I live in a cloud of bliss, that’s the goal and I know it’s achievable, I feel that I bob along in mild contentment most of the time now. For many, many years I was barely surviving, and whilst I know there is a better place to be than “OK”, fortunately feeling down is unusual and I feel it very strongly. This is a good sign, it means that I have grown used to a happier state of being so my awareness of being knocked out of it is stronger. However the flip-side is that is can trigger the self-blame of not being happy. How dare I not be happy? In the last few days I’ve been acknowledging things that I haven’t admitted to myself. Ever. Acknowledging that I don’t want to ask my friends for help because secretly I’m afraid it may bore them. I’ve never acknowledged this before. Nobody wants to be around someone who is depressed. I’m embarrassed that I don’t have legitimate reason to be depressed. I know if I told them my fears they would be horrified, as I would be. I know if I told them they would bathe me in love and appreciation. But still I don’t say anything. I’m worried that my spiritual partner and colleague is tiring of my not being positive. That she thinks I’m ignoring her advice. That she is frustrated with my lack of growth and my complaining that she is so much further along than me. I can’t tell her that deep shameful secret that feels ridiculous to put into words, but that’s how I feel. If I did, I know that she would love me and lift me gently out of my misery. But still I say nothing. It’s like watching myself through a fishbowl. Through the fishbowl, a distorted view of what’s actually happening, and a knowing that my perception is distorted, but I’m paralysed, stuck in my suffering. All this behaviour is red flag signs for depression and ailing mental health. I can see them and I ignore them, not because I don’t know they are there and they are real, but because I don’t want to go there. This has opened up a whole new awareness of the value of meeting people where they are. Including myself. I had boxed my breakdown into something that happened, not be be repeated, a reaction to a circumstance. When in fact it was just an extreme indication of the vulnerability that we all have, every day, that can claim us without warning, however “strong” we think we are. None of us are immune to it.

Is my fear that I don’t want people to think I am that person? Looking back over my judgements in the past, there is a theme of abhorring weakness. My true self, faced with a person who is suffering, doesn’t judge. But when it’s second- or third-hand, stories told by others, my judge is pompous and righteous about how weak these people are. And by implication, how strong I am then, especially since I have danced around the edges and not fallen in.

All the teachings tell me I need to acknowledge how I feel and then turn my attention towards happier things, but when you’re in the midst of depression, it’s hard. It’s infuriating to know that you “just” need to find happy things to think about, when you’re wallowing around in a pit of sorrow and self-abuse, because they don’t come readily. I know why that is, and I know how to get out of it, but knowing how to do something and being able to do it are not the same thing. You literally have to “snap out of it” said with love, in a Cher voice, but not in the condescending voice of a well-meaning friend or spouse who thinks you need to “pull yourself together”.  And turn away. Turn towards anything that lifts your spirits. I was speaking to a client in deep grief yesterday and I was getting the same messages from her guides. You have to turn away from the darkness, and gather some momentum in the other direction. There is a habit of suffering that some of us are comfortable with and whilst I have overcome it to a large degree, the patterns are still there, a well worn path. Paths I didn’t know existed, but paths that can be triggered when I least expect it. And paths that pull in only one direction. My new awareness of this has helped enormously, once I’ve got over the shame. Hence the acknowledgment that poor mental health can happen to each and every one of us, whether we know it or not. And in that I have found relief.

This episode has taught me that one of my fears is to be seen as weak. Because if I’m weak I can’t be of use to anyone. And if I’m of no use, then I’m unloveable. It’s all nonsense, it’s all variations of a theme, but this is a new one and chasing it down has brought some further relief. The behaviour I’m exhibiting is hiding, and it’s very common, but it’s not something I ever saw in myself.

So back to the turning away. Exactly how do we do that? You can’t turn from sorrow to joy on a ha’penny, but you can climb higher than powerlessness. Even anger is preferable. For me, if I allow myself, I can watch my chickens long enough for the love to sneak in, I can’t watch them for any length of time without a slight warming in the heart. The trouble is when you feel shit, it’s hard to give yourself the time to unwind the sorrow long enough to feel the tickle of something else. You really do have to work at it, to persevere long enough. Abraham Hicks says it takes 17 seconds to start building momentum – of course it depends how far you sunk the other way, but you can start changing your momentum in as little as 17 seconds, so stick with it! Whatever brings you joy, laughter, happiness or even peace, neutrality. There is a lot to be said for kitten and cat videos if that’s your thing. Part of the problem is that we have grandiose ideas about therapy about what is good and nourishing for us. Joining a class or starting a new hobby would be admirable, but it’s likely be out of reach if you’re in a ditch. For me, TV. I’ve been battling this “worthiness” around TV but I’m finally ready to let that go. Watching “RuPaul’s Drag Race” and “the Great Pottery Throwdown” is feel-good TV for me. It’s full of love and affection. Even “Dating No Filter” feels like I have a bunch of friends around, friends I don’t have explain myself to, don’t need to mix drinks for, but I benefit from their company. My favourite feel-good tip is slow dancing with the cat. I hold Sally the cat in my arms and sing George Michael’s Freedom into her head. Or Rufus Wainwright’s Dinner at Eight. She makes pudding on my shoulder and purrs like a fridge as she loves the vibration of my singing. I challenge anyone who loves cats not to feel better after that.

So if you’re in a dark place, focus on the small things that feel better, and just try to hold that for long enough to build momentum. It’s very hard to stop thinking about something – the only way you can do it is by thinking of something else, so line up a few neutral or positive scenarios to think about. Day dream. If you can’t muster up the enthusiasm, then shamelessly scour TV or the Internet for anything that will make you smile, but seriously avoid anything negative. You don’t need to know what’s going on the world right now, and you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone. Most importantly never let anyone tell you how to feel or what to do unless it feels right to you (including me!). And on behalf of all the people in the world who just don’t get it, including the old me, I apologise for our lack of understanding. As Neale Donald Walsh says, ‘don’t say “there but for the grace of God go I”, but rather, “there I go”’.

I’m doing my tax. Because this is the first year I’ve made any money in the guesthouse this is the first time I have to claim all the expenses of the build etc. I’ve been picking my way through all the categories and trying to understand why one thing is claimable and another is not. I even got myself an accountant, but it turns out they just plug the data in, you still have to present the data. Truth is, I love a good spreadsheet, but it doesn’t feel “nourishing” when you realise you’ve spent 4 hours working out that you can claim £8.59 back on your internet bills. There’s also this bizarre illusion that expenses that are claimable are free, a small shiver of excitement when you realise you can claim the tax back. You forget it’s just that, you get the tax back. It’s not free, it’s just that you won’t pay tax on that amount if you actually make any money. Woo hoo. You still have the make the money first.
Anyone around in the UK in 2009 will remember the Moira Stewart’s Inland Revenue self assessment advert. “Tax doesn’t have to be taxing “ she said smugly. Well it fucking well is. Gary and I have had years of humour from this line, Gary delightedly chiming in at every opportunity (of which there are many) as I blow off about how obscurely difficult it is to work what they actually mean in the forms. I mean, it’s not rocket science, it’s not even a complicated sum, so why are the forms so impenetrable? “But tax doesn’t have to be taxing” he’ll intone, seriously, never failing to be amused by this. I just looked the advert up to get the date, and I have to acknowledge it was quite a funny series of adverts. The phrase “thinking man’s crumpet” came to mind, and I thought that was about Moira Stewart, who indeed is quite the babe in these adverts. I’m reminded of the famous row about BBC axing all the female newsreaders, crumpet or not, at the age of 50. But in scrolling though the news I read it was in fact Joan Bakewell, not Moira, who was dubbed the “thinking man’s crumpet”. Joan, was a veteran broadcaster the Times called “the government’s ageism czar” who challenged the BBC about the issue. Oh there is a whole pile of blog subjects just in this last paragraph about so many issues. I admit to finding this sort of language funny, but I’m beginning to see how detrimental it can be, humorous or not, to continually and habitually demean women through this sort of language. “Thinking man’s crumpet” is actually quite insidious on a lot of levels, as is “ageism czar” because someone points out that any woman over 50 is being fired from the BBC. Just looking that up in Google brought up a slurry of typical newspaper headlines, and most of them subtly sexist, agist or simply downright rude, about woman in general. That’s a subject for another day.
Fact remains that tax is challenging. Whilst I wallow in my beautifully manicured spreadsheets, the deadline looms. To add insult to injury, I get dumped by my tax advisor. This opens a whole other can of worms. It appears (for want of any other explanation) that I’m asking too many questions. I know, logically, that £585+VAT to throw together a tax return when someone else has done all the donkey work, should allow me the luxury of a few questions. There’s clearly something going on here that isn’t just about me, but all my old, all but forgotten, insecurities arise out of nowhere. Am I difficult? Have I become (or have I always been) the sort of person people roll their eyes at when I enter a room? Do people make throat cutting gestures to their colleagues when I’m on the phone to them? I have come across enough tedious people in my previous line of work to know how annoying it is to be with a detail oriented person when you’re not interested in their particular detail. I am aware that my obsession with balancing out every decimal point may be a step too far for most people, but I think I keep most of that to myself. I don’t demand an audience for my spreadsheets. I honestly thought I danced the line between vaguely “special” and charmingly witty in an approachable way. Apparently not. Now if I’ve learned anything from RuPaul’s Drag Race it is that I am who I am and I need make no apology to anyone, so why does a small town accountant who is intimidated by my questions bother me? If anyone is typically more tedious than a software engineer it’s got to be an accountant, should I really be worried what he thinks of my personality? It’s not even my personality, it’s the job, surely, tax law by its very nature is subtle, detailed, nuanced. And on top of all that I really do know this is nothing about me. But given that I barely know him, never mind seek to impress him, why does his opinion matter and why does it throw me into a puddle of anxiety and regret? Thankfully though, and this is evidence that my self work is actually working, it doesn’t suck me in for long, and quite soon I’m just mildly irritated, rather than drowning in despair. Now I’m just plain fucked off that he’s wasted so much of my time, and that I recommended him to one of my friends.
Thank you Mr Accountant for reminding me that I still have insecurities that are ready to swallow me up when I wobble. Thank you, Mr Accountant (thought the temptation to name him is real, maybe I’ll send him a copy of my blog) for reminding me, in the most mundane way, that to shine my light I have to stop caring what other people think about me. Thank you Mr Accountant for reminding me that what other people think about me is none of my business. I do OK thanks, I have enough people who do like me for who I am, I don’t need more friends but most of all, thank you Mr Accountant for reminding me that one of my biggest “workarounds” is thinking that people have to like me in order to treat me well. That I won’t get fair treatment, or even professional courtesy, unless people like me. That I have to ingratiate myself to people just to get a fair shot at things. This (subconscious) belief is so ridiculous that I’m actually ashamed of it: it goes against so many of my conscious beliefs. Consciously I want to believe in the best of people. I want to believe that people, generally, are trying to do the right thing, chose to do a decent job, just like me, they work hard, and if they have the tools and the opportunity and the encouragement, they will do a good job. They will treat people fairly. On top of that I like to think of myself as indifferent to what random people think of me. I like to think I’m self-assured and confident. The realisation that I’m wired to people-please horrifies me – when it extends to professional relationships, it appalls me. Oddly, I never encountered this in my corporate job, I was lucky enough to work in environment that encouraged outspoken people, that mutual respect was at the root of relationships between colleagues. But show me a plumber, an electrician, a neighbour, an accountant, and apparently I need to be the nicest, fairest, most likeable person in the world to them, just to ensure that they don’t screw me over. This is a hard realisation to stomach.
Workarounds are behaviours we use from an early age to protect ourselves from our negative beliefs, or the effects of those negative beliefs. My huge negative belief is “not good enough” and “unworthy” and stems from the lack of any genuine affection or affirming of my worth as a child. So it makes sense as a child to try to make people like you so that you feel safe. As an adult it is crippling. As I study my own workarounds through my coaching, I’m beginning to see how all the behaviours tie back to beliefs, and in this awareness, I’m beginning to shift them. So whilst I still topple into that black hole of despair when my accountant dumps me, I don’t stay there very long. And there will come a time when I will barely trip over it. In the meantime, thank you, Mr Accountant for saving £585+VAT and making me realise, again, that it’s something I can do myself. I also realised that it’s OK to love a spreadsheet, and if I can reframe it from “work” and acknowledge to myself that I actually get pleasure from doing these things, I could allow myself to enjoy it. So maybe tax doesn’t have to be taxing.

If you are interesting the coaching Kate has been through and now offers to clients, you can find out more here.

Days pass and each day I think today I will write my eulogy to you. And still days pass. It’s not that I can’t think of what to say, no. It’s quite the contrary. There is so much to say to you. There’s nothing that you don’t know, but this isn’t really for you is it? It’s for all of us you’ve left behind. It’s for me. To say goodbye.

I didn’t think this would make me cry, because I haven’t cried that much. Well just a bit. But you’re immediately in my head, singing a naughty little ditty, making a quick witty joke, making me smile and then making me laugh out loud. People will think I’m a lunatic, crying and laughing to myself. You’d like that, you’d have something to say about that too. But this is making me cry. The photo I really want to put up is you in that panda suit, but it’s a bit out of focus because we’re laughing so much. Or you with a scarf over your forehead, swimming goggles and a COVID mask on, with your eyes all wide, looking like a ridiculous cartoon. Or the one you sent from your hospital bed, in our last WhatsApp chat, lying in a bed with a COVID mask on “getting drugged up” you said. And you said you were scared. So I sent you a video of the chickens sending you love. Little did I know that would be my last glimpse of you.

We had a memorial in our beOpen community – a community of psychics and animal communicators and sensitive people. Oh my goodness. I cannot believe how many people you touched myMaria. In the tiny time we’ve been a part of this community you’ve won the heart of every single person. I’ve never known anyone to be so universally loved. I am so humbled that I was a part of this, myMaria, witnessing what it truly means to shine your light. In the 18 months I knew you, every community you touched, the beOpen, the LEDA online challenge, they’ve all rallied around you and now mourn you as a sister, a comedian, a saint, a friend, a heroine, a compassionate and funny companion, a fierce fighter, an amazing animal communicator, a talented psychic and a budding medium. And now it’s so clear to me why we were blessed with you, why our community was your final resting place before you moved on – precisely because we’re psychics and mediums. We believe in life after death, we know the spirit lives on, we communicate with the spirits beyond, and we listen. And now you have an army of people who knew you, loved you, worshipped you in the flesh, and you can touch every single one of us forever! You have an army of people who can still hear you, through whom you can continue to shine your light. And your army have their very own angel, to support them when they doubt, to hold them when they waiver, to help them shine their own light. In life you gave us all the support we could ever ask for, and in death you have given us an angel for eternity.

I met Maria in my first animal communication lesson. A tiny little childlike figure, with big dark eyes, in a shadowy  room, propped up in bed, and on oxygen. I wondered who this strange little person was, but within days she was my closest friend in the world. COVID had just struck and we were all locked up. I saw nobody for months except this animal communication community on Zoom. And Maria. Maria was in Spain, I was in the UK, everyone else was in the US. Maria is half American but our Europeaness set us apart, and our timezones threw us together. Nearly every day we practised, we laughed, we cried, just the two of us or with other friends, hours of video chat several days a week. I’ve never spent that much time with anyone! We knew each other’s pets inside out, constantly reading them for practise, or just for each other.

Our teacher’s administrator was also called Kate, and our teacher Danielle, referred to her as “my Kate” to distinguish her from me, and immediately Maria claimed me as “her Kate” and I became “Maria’s Kate”. We both went on to the higher animal communication classes and the soul level psychic classes, and finally the soul level coaching. We coached each other, we dug into the darkest secrets of our souls and shared our deepest fears. All this time, I had just assumed that Maria and I would set up some sort of partnership once we stopped studying. With myMaria, I was invincible. Maria’s animal communication was incredible. Where I saw “a pot plant”, Maria would see archangels, gondolas, rainbows, clouds, angels, fairies, butterflies, birds, ribbon, and all to the music of a thousand piece orchestra, often with a few saints thrown in and yet Maria loved my readings. “I get all this fluff”, she’d say, “I wish I didn’t, you get the gold”. I didn’t want to believe her, such are my own demons, but actually I did, because whilst I knew she was my biggest fan, I also trusted her implicitly. We did our first tandem reading together for the community, and I wasn’t even nervous, with myMaria beside me I knew we’d be fine, and we were, we were so in tune with each other and making each other giggle, our vibrations soared and it was so much fun. Everybody, after that, called me Maria’s Kate.

I value funny above most things. Even, probably, kindness. But myMaria had everything. I have a 50+ years old friend who can text like a teenage girl, he’s so quick and can carry on multiple conversations, he’s both hilarious and slightly scary, but even he had nothing on Maria. Maria could look up an animated gif that summed up your comments that was not only appropriate, unique and eye-wateringly funny, but she could send it before you’d finished your sentence. I’ve never been a fan of theses types of media, but with Maria, I was hooked. The first one she sent, in one of our earliest chats,  when I said I used to cycle to work, before I even mentioned that I hated it, she’d sent a clip of a man throwing his bike into the crowds in a temper tantrum. It’s almost as if she were psychic. It pretty much summed up my feelings on bikes and I knew I had met my best friend. Maria was the funniest person I know. I’ve downloaded all our chats because you can’t get wit like that from just anybody. If ever I’m feeling a bit down about it, I just look at our chats. She had the quickest, sharpest wit I know, couple with a zany, unique sense of humour, I got her completely, and I was dazzled by her.

I struggled so hard to trust my growing abilities, and my negative beliefs kept getting in the way, but myMaria was always there to cheer me on. I  knew there was no bullshit with Maria, loving and compassionate she was, a lick-arse, she was not. Maria is one of the feistiest people I know. I didn’t ever really appreciate how sick she was, partly because she never complained, but mostly because she had so much fire in her soul that it was impossible to see her as anything but whole, robust and alive.

In one of the early soul level psychic readings you gave me, you saw us in the grass together, small children, little girls, messing about, playing, making daisy chains. That picture has stayed with me forever, I can’t remember the words, but I know that we have shared another life together, and I know we will continue to do so. The week just before you died I had that image again of you leading me gently by the hands, through the daisies, because with you by my side myMaria, I am invincible. And now I have you by my side forever, because I can feel you, I can hear you, I can see you. And if I should falter, if I should ever lose my faith, I know it will be you who picks me up and puts me back on the path. Because you believed in me. After you passed, every time I thought of you I could hear the song “Superstar” by RuPaul. You made me a superstar. I’d forgotten the other song, but you just reminded me – “Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London..”. I look at the last thing I sent you in WhatsApp. It reads “You took me by the hand and led me through the daisies…”.

And then you were gone.

This topic has been bouncing around in my head for a few weeks. I missed my self-imposed deadline of writing every 2 weeks because I’ve been trying, oh so hard, trying to be kinder to myself. To recognise all the rules I have made for myself. And to give myself permission to break them, or at least let them slide. The food program I’m doing has me looking at my emotions around food. I have a great blog on that but it’s a bit raw, and coloured with angry profanity at the moment so I may have to let that settle down and go back with a calmer eye when I’m less furious with the world of food. And less hangry. Food is a great example of the “rules” I have and the program (Wild Fit from Mind Valley) is supposed to help me let go of my rules. Only it seems to have introduced more rules, not less, giving me even less choice in my already spartan hair-shirt food list. Hence the anger and frustration. The looking at emotion is always good, I’m quite aware of my emotions around food, and it never hurts to suffer a bit more does it?

Where does my rule-making come from? Why do I need this structure in everything I do? Well it’s not everything, it’s in the areas I don’t feel safe. Like around food. But I digress, allowing myself the rule-breaking meant I didn’t write last week. The irony is, that in letting some things go because I’m so overwhelmed at the moment, I’m letting go of the things I want to be doing, instead of letting go of the things I don’t want to be doing in order to give myself the time to do the things I want to do. Like writing. And that’s a whole other subject.

The subject I’ve been trying to address is responsibility. Because ultimately I find it impossible to choose the things I want to do over the things that I think I should be doing because of this rigid responsibility I have. Somehow I’m seeing it everywhere, as is always the case when you turn you attention to it, and it makes me mad. I feel so much anger and disappointment in myself that I was so beholden to so many people and constructs for nearly all of my life, and that even now, fully aware of it and determined to change, I realise with surprise that I am still. What’s worse is that those to whom I feel duty-bound these days are probably completely unaware of my obligation. For example, you, dear reader. I have let you down by missing my 2 week deadline. I feel obliged to stick to my 2-week rule for reasons I can’t quite remember but that invariably includes: proving to you that I’m serious about my business, proving to you and the world that I’m working hard at it, proving to everyone that I’m reliable, proving to anyone and everyone in earshot how hard I work and therefore how worthy I am. Then there are all the commitments I feel towards Gary, who bumbles along in his life, enjoying the fruits of my obligation, but with no conscious acknowledgement of or demand for it. I have assumed responsibility for most things in the home, and of course now that I don’t have a full time job, who am I not to continue? The house, the bills, the garden and the chickens are my responsibility and the default position on the cat is that I have to check with Gary if her usual care-taking ritual is to be interrupted, to ensure he is around to deliver a seamless service.

Why?

At risk of perpetuating a sexual bias, I do think this is a problem for women more than men. Not exclusively, but I’ve only met one man who assumed total responsibility for his elderly mother, and he didn’t have a sister, so I’m happy to stand by the declaration that typically women pick up all the responsibility for just about everything unless she’s deemed incapable somehow (of choosing car for example, or getting the right insurance) or it was something the man did for himself before they met, and even then I suspect it would slowly slide over to her side of the plate. And for any same sex couples I would dearly, dearly love to know how that dynamic works. I do appreciate it’s a personality thing too, but the carer vs provider generally falls to female and male respectively. Gary used to do the car insurance. Other than cleaning (and painting, he insists I add), and before all you women applaud that Gary does the cleaning, it’s not like I walk away from the dishes, laundry, etc that’s literally all he does, running a duster and a hoover around whilst listening to loud rock. Then because he’s “working” and I’m not, because obviously running a guesthouse and building a business doesn’t qualify as work, that snuck back into my remit. Now whilst I do get mega fucked off about these things, it’s only fair to point out that Gary is simply taking advantage of the burdens I impose upon myself. When I try to point out the inequity it usually ends in a squabble but I’m fully aware that it’s because I’m usually FURIOUS by that point, and I address it in a sarky, confrontational manner rather than just NOT doing it, which is what I should do. I have spent my entire adulthood caring for people and resenting it. All my own work. I have spent my entire, sensitive adulthood feeling the discomfort of other peoples wants and needs and insinuating myself into the situation to soothe it, carefully strapping another little load securely onto my back.

When I met Gary, his mother was already an invalid. My mother was already consuming much of my time. I didn’t realise I was a people pleaser because I actually have a pretty good radar and a natural avoidance of high maintenance people. Unknowingly I’ve somewhat sidestepped these people and they’ve never got a foothold. I have no high maintenance friends. Not surprising said my counsellor, when your mother has consumed every spare minute you have. I did, however, worry that Gary did not see his mother enough. I somehow, miraculously, spared myself the hardship of taking on the role of trying to fix that myself, I think only because I was well on the way to being completely fried by then. But I saw Gary as selfish. I pondered how he was able to stay so distant. He got on well with his Mum and Dad, and he was obviously extremely fond of his mother. She absolutely doted on him. She literally lit up when he walked in, something that made both Debs and I gag, but it was touching to me: he wasn’t my sibling. Yet he walked away and didn’t worry between visits. If he didn’t feel like going to see them he didn’t. There was no wringing of hands and convincing himself his absence was justified. He just didn’t go. Or he did. Depending on how he felt. He SHOULD be taking more responsibility, my inner judge raged, parading out of all the sacrifices I had made for my Mum. Yet oddly, as I unpack the things that have held me hostage all my life I realise that Gary was right and I was wrong.

Abraham Hicks says people who call you selfish usually do so because they want you to do something for them, instead of you doing something for yourself. They also point out that we are unnecessarily in servitude to everyone around us all the time. Abraham says it’s lovely to want to get on. That is wonderful to love, and absolute love for all living beings is the ultimate goal, but meanwhile, here on earth, we are here for our own experiences. To enjoy and interact with other people, yes. To take responsibility for their care and their happiness, no. And never, ever at our own expense. That’s actually quite hard for us to process. It instinctively feels wrong.

Why?

Because we’ve been taught from an early age to please others and our society and every single mechanism in the family, at school, at church, at work, in politics, in every area of life, we are taught to obey, to fit in. To strive to please. To be accepted. Not to speak out. Not to rock to boat. To be good. To win approval from our parents, our teachers, our bosses, our friends and our society. And even when we speak out, it is usually to form alliance with another group with its own rules and viewpoints, different from the mainstream perhaps, but rules all the same and another, different, obligation to garner approval. It’s so insidious we don’t even know we’re doing it. And it’s all somehow tied up with our worthiness. That in order to be worthy we must be “good”, as determined by someone else’s standards, opinions, whims. Some people manage to balance their own needs with this desire to please, but a lot of us don’t, and for that we are doomed to eternal unhappiness as we strain, impossibly, to please everyone around us.

We all know that I worship RuPaul. And if we don’t then let me state, categorically for the record, that I worship RuPaul and RuPaul’s Drag Race is a constant source of entertainment, information, education and pure enjoyment for me. Sprinkled throughout out all episodes is a light touch of profound spiritual advice, though not advertised as such, it’s just fabulous teaching – about how the only way to be happy is to please yourself, to be true to yourself, to be who and what and how you are. To celebrate yourself exactly as you are. To not care what others think. Ru is always advising that all the queens are simply beautiful, talented, gifted beyond measure, and that the only thing that stands in the way of success is their own belief in themselves. It’s the teaching I only wish we had all had at school. All our lives in fact. I’d pay Ru to pop out of my bathroom cabinet each day to remind me.

However a little dark smudge in even this amazing series, is when the queens talk to the camera after elimination or after a performance that aren’t proud of. It’s only happened a few times, and it’s only ever said in private, but the last time I heard it I almost wept. “I’m only sorry that I let Ru down. That I have disappointed her”. In my version, Ru would appear out of the shadows and bitch-slap her hard and tell her to wash her mouth out. That she could NEVER be disappointed in them or anyone, that the ONLY thing that matters is that you did your best, it’s just a competition and failure is no reflection on your worthiness.

I might write to Ru about that. There’s enough of us trying so desperately to pointlessly please others, that to defile this wonderful series with any element of disappointment or responsibility to please Ru is deeply off message and should be corrected.

Meanwhile as I struggle to let go of my rules, I have a newfound respect for Gary. That everything that I thought made him selfish, somehow less than than me, actually makes him more than, a more balanced human being than me. I do so hate it when he’s right.