I ran here, pursued by shrieking ghouls. And it took several years to arrive. Even longer to decide to bolt in the first place.
There’s a word – bolt. I bolted doors, windows, cupboard doors and all to keep the ghouls at bay. This became my bolt-hole and later, my place of sanctuary. Later still, well I’ll get to that.
At first I was a live bundle of nerve endings. Afraid, exhausted, relieved, hurt, someone with a past but no discernable future and certainly without a plan. The new GP I signed on with was happy to offer a medicinal route out of my troubles. But I wanted to face the ghouls, not reach for their temporary suppression. I was grateful for sick notes to allow me a couple months off work. ‘Anxiety’ it said on the note, by way of explanation to my employer. Ha, and the rest, I remember thinking.
In fact, it was work that eventually put some structure into my bolt-hole living. Get up; work; shop on the way home; eat; watch TV; bed; fall asleep or lie awake. It was a routine and it divided days into useful units of time. I could plan now: small things first like what to watch and what to eat. That felt good, just being in control of tiny sections of my life.
The other real change came when Nell moved in with me. She was in a sorry state when we met, through someone at work. Apparently her owner could no longer care for her and things had started to slide in her world. She had her own troupe of ghouls following her so we got along really well with this common ground. Now the daily shop included dog food and we had to have outings to the park and trips to the beach to meet up with other dogs and their willing serfs ready to throw balls and sticks and to excuse occasional lapses of etiquette.
The longer term was still a bit of a challenge. I began to understand it all when I came across the word ‘liminal’. When I looked it up it seemed to be about a space in between two states; in between a past and a future way of being – a transition. What a very encouraging idea to hang on to. Although not necessarily a comfortable state.
My bolt-hole was transforming through sanctuary into a liminal space. I certainly knew what was, the known known, the ghouls still wailed – less distinctly, but they could still manage quite a racket. I couldn’t quite produce an outline of a future – the unknown, unknown as that US president said.
The whole joy of liminality was, for me, the thought that there might be a future however unknown at present. Nell was in it, of course. And one or two of the dog walking people we sort of knew. And work. And shopping for our dinners. Life goes on, it seems.
