Olivia de Fleuriot Perry

2024

Definitions from Oxford Languages:

Contain

1.     Have or hold (someone or something) within.

a.     Be made up of (a number of things); consist of.

2.     Control or restrain (oneself or a feeling).

a.     Prevent (a severe problem) from increasing in extent or intensity.

Latin origin: continere, to hold altogether.

I have this burning desire to be creative – like a motor that has to move. I am constantly being pulled in all directions, so I am unable to make which leads to anxiety, agitation, and depression. Yesterday was intense, like a force that could not be stopped. I had to move my body. I had to get out, so I jumped in the car, drove to get a tomato plant, came home, and gardened. A feeling of peace came over me.

I got this cover a couple of weeks ago, and it saved the strawberries from the slugs. Before the covers were put back on, the kids had a strawberry each.

Today, I had an appointment with a psychiatrist. We discussed my worsening symptoms for the third time postpartum. She suspects I have ADHD, compulsive OCD, and an unspecified mood disorder (mild/low on the spectrum of bipolar 1). I likely wasn’t diagnosed until now because I learnt to contain my symptoms. As my life has progressed, I have gained more and more responsibilities, causing my symptoms to worsen. I can no longer contain what is within.

To contain, to contain keeps looping in my head. I can’t stop thinking of the image of the strawberries contained in the mesh cover, contained and protected.

iPhone note from July 26, 2024.

2022

I mend the accidental tears and cuts. Jude sees me using a needle and thread and tells me to be careful not to poke my finger.

The muted shades of nylon are soft to touch. I feel a sense of shelter when I place it on my lap. My hands gently hold the delicate fabric as I stitch the harsh open hole I made with scissors. I tenderly stab the fabric, repeatedly weaving the thread through in loops. The sharp needle threatens to pierce my skin. Jude watches with nervous anticipation. Hoping I take care of myself. Hoping I take care of the fabric. I feel his eyes on me, and I reassure him I am trying my best even if my best falls short. I lose my sense of place. I drop the fabric, and it slips off my legs onto the floor.

Jude jumps up and grabs it before I can. He puts it to his cheek and looks at me with knowing. Knowing my pain. Knowing my despair. He knows it. He has felt when I am lost with no map to bring me home. I am his sense of place, his home. His eyes stare into my own, and he hands the nude covering to me. He gently whispers, "here you go, mommy. You got to be careful." I respond, "yes, my child. I will try my best." His words bring me back. I smile and wrap the covering over us, and he giggles. I hear Elias crying for me, and I leave Jude alone with fabric over his face, watching me walk away.

2020

I start sewing at the dining room table while my child naps. As I sew the fabric stretches and tears. A piece of yarn pokes through. My hand holds the yarn in place methodically looping back and forth. The same action repeated tirelessly, mindlessly. I sit and loop. I slide my hand through the stocking as the fabric calls to be inspected. My body becomes the piece. The yarn gently moves as I twist my wrist changing form, adapting to the imposed stress of movement. The loose threads find their place after each sway. My child cries, and my body responds.