Feelings of powerlessness

Sewage, and plastic surgery; at first glance, do not have much in common. The former prompted a glut of complaints from Southcote residents who are fed up with regularly-blocked drains, spewing sewage into the gutter. The Reading Chronicle reported one woman’s experience of a particularly unfortunate overflow: ‘it happened three times in three weeks, around the time of May bank holiday. There was sewage everywhere, along the road and by the garages’. Complaints poured into Thames Water, the underlying frustration appearing to be, no matter how much residents complained, the situation stayed the same. A draining (literally) experience, underlying how little control we often have in everyday life.

Flip to the Evening Post’s report on cosmetic surgery. The paper tells Helen’s story. After years of shame and humiliation Helen, from Reading, went under the knife to boost her breast size. Three thousand five hundred pounds later; ‘I wanted it done, and money was no object to me’; Helen was able to go topless on the beach with pride. However, she may not rest there; ‘I’m not fully satisfied with their size and would like to go bigger, I want my nose done and I’m really tempted to try liposuction’.

Different stories, linked by their sufferers’ feelings of powerlessness. In the modern world, we are led to believe that ‘choice’ is a given. Providing we have the appropriate resources, and enough drive, then our destiny is ours to choose and fashion as we please. When life throws us a curve ball, in the form of environmental changes (spewing sewage) or genetic make-up (small breasts) then we get edgy, often justifiably, and want to control the outcome.

Of course it is not wrong to want to remove ourselves from an unpleasant environment or change the way we look within reason, but I know from my own experience of having tried to ‘control’ much of my life, how unrewarding that rigidity can be. For me, redundancy sucked, and depression was debilitating, but I was forced to find another way to ‘be’ rather than ‘do’. In that raging pain and stillness I learned more of God than in a month of activity filled hymn singing Sundays. My powerlessness, ironically has enforced my fragility, but in some ways, given me a greater sense of self; and forced me to become aware of my need of God in way I had never grasped before.

We have no control, either, when it comes to the name our parents’ choose to give us. We cannot vote on it, comment on it, or refuse to take it. Deed poll is the adult’s way of dealing with a decision that we simply cannot live with. Even then the shadow of our former selves and that first name lurks in the background, to be recycled by an unsuspecting old friend or school acquaintance. I was amused by the former Doctor Who, Colin Baker’s column in the Bucks free press. He reports that a nurse had to explain carefully to a blissfully proud mother of a newborn, why Chlamydia might not be the ideal name for her daughter. I am glad then, that my mother did not call me Candida (it was a close thing), and if you don’t know why, a medical dictionary will enlighten you. Enjoy the read.

Clare Catford presents BBC Radio Berkshire’s Sunday morning programme on 104.1