I jogged five or so years ago as a way of trying to defeat sadness. Sadness won, so I went to therapy.
"How do you feel?" my therapist, TP, asked each week.
"Sad," I replied, each week.
"What does it feel like, this sadness?" TP persisted.
"Well .... sort of .... sad."
"For a poet," TP stated, never one to hold back from the necessary truth, "you're remarkably inarticulate about emotions."
What the sadness felt like was a weight I'd been carrying since Upper 3 Biology with Miss Beynon. I could tell you about how I was working hard, copying a diagram of a radish from the board, labelling tap roots and leaves, wanting her approval. But the point is that in the middle of recording and analysing life according to someone else's prescription, I realised everything was meaningless. And I realised Miss Beynon preferred plants to children.
I was 11 and the afternoon sun was making things too hot in the lab, and I had a home-made haircut, and a home-made skirt and a home-made God-given attitude, and I didn't know what to do with this feeling. These feelings.
I tried re-thinking things in History, and found a bit of relief in hearing about the Battle of Waterloo, but after that, the weight never left me.
Never one to take the truth or an insult lying down, I prepared myself for therapy, and TP's next knowing provocation, and started a list, took it as a script to my next session. That'll learn you. We ended up laughing, a lot.
And I found out that the point of everything, for me, is to know how, exactly, to go about, and around and about, naming things.