10/09/2014 § Leave a comment

It’s been a very social week and I’m torn between wanting constant social interaction and being exhausted by it. Needing quiet time to retreat, but feeling lonely when alone.

I spoke to a friend about this and she feels exactly the same. We agreed it pretty much sums up the year. It’s been a fabulous year and I have a pretty good idea of who I am now. Seeing how other people deal with hurt in their lives helps me deal with my own. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening in my relationship lately but it’s taken a very odd turn. His behaviour towards me is most frequently needing time away from me, almost always angry, often sad, occasionally flashes of warmth.

It’s very confusing and difficult to deal with emotionally and I’m a little proud of myself for not breaking down under this strain. When you invest so much in a person and they’re your first real love, this treatment crushes you.

Hayfever is making the days hard. I’m ready to detox, I’m ready to earn money, I’m ready to receive the love I give.


Ok Forever

10/09/2014 § Leave a comment

April 2014

I will always associate the scent of roses with my mother. When I miss her I inhale rose perfume and pause over wine bottles at the supermarket. Sometimes when I miss my boyfriend I rub my ring like it’s a magic lamp or listen to his (repetitive, one genre, but good if you’re in the mood) music on Spotify.

There are many things that make me happy, and some of them are: Completing a piece of art or design I’m pleased with. Having a good workout or pole-dancing session. Receiving flowers or picking them myself. Cooking with someone I love. Spontaneous nights with friends. Cuddling up in bed. Dancing to good music. Conversation over hot drinks. Candles instead of artificial light. Sunshine instead of artificial light. Sun-cream. Being productive. Warmth in the air and the sky. The kindness of someone making me a cup of tea. Being able to appreciate my family from a distance. Being missed.

Why did I write that? So I don’t stray when the twisted grip of misery falls. There’s nothing like depression to twist perception and make me push good things away.

I said it’s reassuring in a way, that having children is no guarantee of happiness. It means if I end up alone and childless at forty due to unfortunate circumstances the pain will be eased. I look at three children raised the same way and one of them is very unpleasant. Psychopaths, schizophrenia, childhood death, betrayal, adult death. She said but it can’t let that stop you from doing things, you can’t let fear stop you. You have to take everything one step at a time and focus on the now or you’ll never do anything. I thought everything would be OK, and it was. It’s luck of the draw.

I work with a girl around my age who’s five months pregnant, and she seems very relaxed and confident about her situation. I saw an old lady in a service station toilet with an impeccable lilac suit and fashionable jewellery. The point is you don’t have to be scared whatever your situation.

There’s no use in worrying and you have to live in the now. I read that people who worry a lot have the deep-down belief that the more they worry about a bad thing happening, the less likely it is to happen because worrying about and over-thinking a thing helps prevent it. I get that mindset and I’ve been there myself but it both isn’t true, or a good way to live.

One of the reasons we find it so hard to let go of negative feelings is that we think if we have them it will prevent things and protect us.

A while ago I wrote: the realisation that home is wherever you are, and without you my room is just a room with painful possessions.

Sometimes it’s okay to accept you’re never going to fully heal from damaging experiences such as bullying or rape, and try and do something good with the scars, or moisturise them in safe spaces with people who love you.

I love seeing the people around me happy, but sometimes if I’m unhappy myself it’s so hard not to be bitter.

She says a lot of very wise things calmly, as if they’re nothing at all. When I was younger and stupider I viewed her as a loving kind mother but also a silly housewife, and I looked down on her for her lack of academic intelligence. As someone who always got top grades I viewed intelligence as the most important thing, and judged people I thought were stupid.  I know now that kindness is far more important than IQ, and there are many different ways to be intelligent. For people who’ve achieved reward for conventionally high intelligence all their lives this can be difficult to understand.

I’m close to my mother, I know about her four year relationship to a man who ultimately cheated on her repeatedly before she found out and broke it off, I know about her abortion, I know about her move to Scotland and more importantly I know about her thought processes and feelings about these things, then and now. There’s nothing like hearing other peoples stories to help you live in your own.

My grandfather and grandmother’s relationship is one I admire. A lifetime of support and hard work and trust and loyalty. Two very different pieces becoming a whole. I’m starting to see him crack under the weight of caring. He truly is one in a thousand men, even with my bias it’s true. My mother told me she hopes she dies soon to make things easier on him. My mother is very good at accepting things, and her emotional strength comes from working things out in her head and sharing them with the people she trusts. Luckily my dad is emotionally strong, because if he wasn’t he’d rob a bank or commit suicide before he let the people around him emotionally support him or shared his feelings. Male pride can damage the men who have it.

A while ago I wrote: But the thought of her sitting in the living room watching TV whilst her head rocked from side to side on her neck and her mind went round in slow repetitive forgetful loops was quite frankly terrifying so I tried not to think of it too much, cruel as it is.

Her head doesn’t rock any-more, that aspect of the illness has gone and she’s very still. I spoke to her on the phone two days in a row and for the next two, not at all. Everyone’s so wrapped up in their lives and there’s no-one like a middle aged woman (so many mothers) to think of others like no-one else, far more than fathers and men, and far more than me. Why?

Everything I write now is scraps and sentences and rarely do I write a cohesive piece without cobbling things together. I’m not sure whether this is because I’ve grown used to life, or peoples insides have become more predictable to me, or because there’s less things that happen that I want to write about.


Where Am I?

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