As above, so below (or confessions of an angry woman with termites)

Dear readers,

I’m still here, but I’ve moved house again and I’m in the process of defragmenting my life.  So much has happened, but I’ve realised that not everything is the subject for a blog post – and to tell you the truth I’ve felt the need for anonymity and privacy while I adjust/get my act together.

I confessed to someone recently that everytime I move house I get angrier – at my father, my childrens’ father and at the world. I tell myself that I have a plan now for taking care of my family myself (I’ll never get the help I need from the fathers) and that my anger will help fuel the journey.

The house I’ve moved to is telling me otherwise.  I’ve a bad case of termites.

This morning as my runaway-train-brain began on its ritual daily rant about the dispicable inequities, (financial and otherwise) the weight of responsibility I bear alone and (I’m ashamed to admit) a torrent of fantasies in which my father, ex-husband and various other males I know all suffer a slow and painful death from rotting testicles – I had a flash of those termites eating away at the roofbeams of my home.

Not much explanation necessary, but I really needed to see that I’ve crossed over from metaphor to metonym with this one –  my thoughts have become termites – and something has to be done.

For years I’ve been using various techniques to clean up my thoughts as they happen – Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), The Work, Ho’oponopono, the Sedona Method.  These methods provide temporary relief from pain and minimise damage  but don’t cure the underlying disease.

The pest control guy who came to treat the house explained that termites return to their nest in the ground – sometimes metres away from the house – and that he would inject poison into the woodwork for the workers to take back their queen.  He went on to wax lyrical about arsenic, which is only legal for termite treatments these days (and,  with levity, the possibilities of use to eliminate exes and other man-pests).

So I figure I’ve got to follow those ugly, destructive little fellows into their muddy underworld and confront the Queen, who is always ready to breed a whole new batch of the buggers.   Clear out the whole colony from ground zero, rather than attempting to work on the ones that keep appearing on the surface.  Before the house falls down.

Someone please pass me a shovel?


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