Talking To Rocks

In an attempt to alleviate my health anxiety, I have started talking to rocks.

This work acts as a record of my recent visits to the doctor, after four years of being fixated on one part of my body, convincing myself there is something seriously wrong. During these visits, I focused on the moments spent in the waiting room. I used the notes app on my phone to list what I could see, hear, and feel during the seemingly interminable wait for my name to be called. This gave my mind a distraction from my spiralling thoughts.

After reading about superstitions within Irish folklore, I started to notice the habits I already practise. In my head, these habits prevent bad things from happening, such as house fires or encounters with spiders – my own superstitions.

Whilst the doctor prescribes me medicine for my physical symptoms, I prescribe myself rituals for my mental health. These rituals include telling rocks my secrets, to unburden myself of some of my biggest fears and rubbing half a potato over the area of concern before burying it, hoping that the problem would rot with the potato. These are both ideas drawn from Irish folklore.

In a book called Irish Superstitions by Dáithí Ó hÓgáin, he writes:

“it was thought that a secret could cause its possessor great stress and even failure of health. To avoid this, he might confide it to an innocent witness, such as an animal, tree, stone, or hole in the wall” (Ó hÓgáin, 1995, pp. 86-87)

I took each rock, told it one of my fears, and then photographed it.

Ó hÓgáin, D. (1995) Irish Superstitions. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan.

Waiting again

I’m in a third waiting room.

There are three big windows in front of me.

I have a direct view of the entrance alleyway – it glows orange with the outdated lights.

The sun has already set.

The same red chairs sit here.

The two in front of me have been moved closer together.

That’s me now. It’s 4.38.

Urgent triage, she said.

Oh no, mine’s not urgent.

I can put you in for a phone appointment tomorrow at 9.30.

No, I’m working tomorrow, but I’ll call next week.

My room is cluttered, but not as cluttered as yesterday, before I finally decided to tidy away the small mountain of clothes that had spent the last two months moving from the bed to the chair, and from the chair to the bed every single day. There’s still more to be put away or thrown away, but I’m prioritising other things. The room can wait, even though it bothers me.

I am asked twice, ‘Are you happy?’,

and both times I answer ‘yes’,

but I am lying.

I read of an Irish cure for warts in Cecily Gilligan’s book, Cures of Ireland, that involved rubbing half a potato on the wart and burying it. As the potato rots, the wart disappears.

She writes: “In Irish folk medicine the concept of transference is based on the belief that ill health can be passed from the affected person or animal to something or somebody else.” (2023, p. 162)

I don’t need a cure for warts, but I took this idea and applied it to my own area of concern.

Gilligan, C. (2023) Cures of Ireland. Kildare: Merrion Press.

Rule Number 1:

Before leaving the house, unplug every plug in your bedroom.

Leave each one on the floor and ensure none of them are touching.

Rule Number 3:

Before giving treats to the dogs, place your car keys on the kitchen table.

Rule Number 5:

Before getting into bed, check under each pillow.