Recycling

I cried at the tip today Sorry, recycling centre as we call it now. And if you’ve got a couple of minutes I’ll tell you how A grown woman who ought to know better Stood there sobbing While people stared.

In over fifty years you’d think I’d have learnt That crying isn’t socially acceptable. It’s not the first time I’ve been burnt By my inability to control emotions. There’s no excuse And I’d be lying If I told that this will be the last time That I stand in public crying.

I’d worked so hard to be prepared, sorted all the rubbish into piles Researched the website, contacted the council, I thought I knew My wood from my rubble, My waste from my recycling. I had it in the garage all laid out and labelled ‘Scrap metal’, ‘household waste’, ‘electric cables’.

But somehow, I’d misunderstood the online instructions The brusque and bossy woman in charge soon put me straight! ‘No! That’s chipboard,’ she said to me! ‘It’s also glass,’ I said Apologetically. ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ she replied.

And that is when I cried.

She didn’t know how hard I tried To sort my waste according to the rules Or that, five years ago today, my father died And it was his possessions I was disposing of And I don’t wear a T-shirt with the handy warning

Menopausal woman with anxiety issues, proceed with caution So, I stood there panicked and hysterical And I’d still be there now – with her shouting that I ought to calm down If my husband hadn’t been there and gently said ‘Come on let’s go home – we’ll hire a skip.’ So, with half a boot still full of rubbish, we left the tip.

And again, at the age of fifty-one I failed to be a normal human person Not because I can’t sort rubbish – who gets that right? But because I still cry in public and have never learnt to stem the tide Of grief, fear and insecurity From overflowing from my inside out.

But… now here’s a revelation What if we gave up all the moral indignation? The shoulds and oughts and judgement calls And all tried to be kinder? I include myself in this. What if – compassion became the new normal And replaced the expectation of perfection In others and ourselves? And what if just for one hour every day It was ok to not be ok? If sharing our own weaknesses became our joint power. Then maybe crying at the tip Wouldn’t be so bad. It would just mean that I’m human A woman, flawed and broken Imperfect, sometimes sad A little bit uncomfortable with herself. And just as normal in my own way As everybody else.