Tag Archives: relationships

Mood

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I’m in a terrible mood today.  It started with a bad dream, continued with a hideous journey into work followed by eight hours of exasperation at faulty software systems, ending in another vile journey home.  Somebody suggested that I cycle to work.  Sure! I’ll go the whole hog, get a little basket for the front of my bike so I can stop off at the boulangerie for fresh bread and pastries and roll up to work as fresh as a daisy after a nine mile ride on some of the most treacherous roads in the city.

We’re supposed to be having an Indian summer, but I missed all two hours of it because I was held prisoner in a windowless office where the only weather I’m ever aware of is rain as it batters down on the timpanic roof that covers the building’s atrium. Other than that, I am cocooned in a soulless, airless hell where, if I sit still for long enough, the lights dim and I get plunged into darkness.

Within a day of returning to work my back has started aching again, my permafrown has returned.

The dream I had last night has been with me all day too; thoughts of past betrayals coming back to haunt me out of the blue.

Frustrations with bad traffic, work technology and my own personal failures have put me into a bad humour and I’m feeling snarly and miserable.  

But this time of year scares me as I anticipate the darkness and the cold, never knowing quite how badly I’ll react to it all.  There’s a strong possibility that my recent depression has had a physiological cause which has now been rectified and I will be fine this winter, but I only have the past few years to go on and so I am naturally apprehensive as the days shorten noticeably.

I should embrace the winter months, starting with Bonfire Night.  Standing in front of a raging bonfire, holding a sausage while fireworks explode above me.  Looking up as the smoke clears to reveal a starry sky on a crisp November night.  Walks in the woods, kicking through the fallen leaves as the sun starts to set at 3.30pm.  Frost that persists all day on hard surfaces.  Big jumpers and scarves, warming casseroles and the autumn TV schedule.  Yes!  I can see how that would be lovely.

But what’s the reality?  The temperature hovering around 10ºC, high winds and torrential rain.  That’s what we get.  And that ruins everything. And the TV schedule isn’t that good when X Factor yields the same ridiculous stories each year while one contestant becomes a tabloid hate figure.

Work becomes more stressful and the journey gets worse as December approaches.  And as December approaches, you resign yourself to spending another festive period on your own, putting a brave face on things, putting on parties for the family, but they’re really for yourself.  

And at the back of your mind, you tell yourself, just see it through to March; things start to feel better in March.

The wife project

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So this is where I find myself:

  • Single
  • Quite lonely
  • Fairly content
  • But quite lonely
  • Wanting to change the current situation

    • I could try harder with my friends and make more of an effort to enhance my social life. This would be a good thing for me irrespective of my relationship status. Maybe I’m quite lazy on the friends front, but I don’t want to impose on people who have proper lives, who are busy, who are capable of making their own social arrangements. I’m also lacking in confidence in terms of inviting people to do stuff with me, mainly because of the reasons stated previously. If others are successful in finding relationships and friendships, why can’t I be? Because I think I’m a little bit odd. Perhaps.

    But I’ve never really been one for going out and doing stuff. When I was a child, I never had best friends at school, I didn’t hang out with people out of school; I just came home, did family things, homework, then went back to school. I felt awkward amongst my peers, possibly because of the age difference between us: it’s quite difficult being nearly a year younger than a lot of people in the same class as you, especially up to the age of about sixteen or so.

    Anyway (:@) all that aside, I think I’m ready to be part of an us again, but without a throbbing social circle (and anything remotely attractive going for me), finding a future Mrs Me is going to be quite difficult.

    I could throw myself into the world of internet dating, but that is bound to end in disaster. Desperate people searching for the love of their life by prescription. I’m not going to be expending a huge amount of energy, or cash, going down that line of investigation.

    People only lie on those dating sites anyway, or they’re way too open to start off with and immediately cause me to recoil in horror. It’s still amusing to have the odd look at women who think that a profile photo of them drunk and surrounded by their equally drunk friends is remotely attractive. Or those who can’t find a picture of themselves without photographing their reflection in the mirror. This results in them posting an image of their doppelgänger, don’t they know this sort of thing? Then there are the ones who can’t write in sentenced. Those who think others want to date somebody who’s always out rock climbing or fell running or playing golf or riding bare back or whatever. This isn’t impressive, especially considering that most people just work, go home, eat something, then veg out in front of the telly before going to bed.

    Why can’t people who post profiles on dating sites just be:

    a. Honest
    b. Coherent
    c. Interesting
    d. Normal
    e. Intelligent
    f. Able to fucking cook

    Yes, we all want a nice relationship with somebody who isn’t a drama queen, who hasn’t got too much emotional baggage, who doesn’t play games, who is trustworthy, etc, etc, etc. But what exactly do you like in your life? More importantly, what do you not like?

    And this brings me on to the wife project. The problem with maybe, perhaps being on the lookout for a potential relationship, possibly, you know if something came along, is that we only know for certain what we don’t want. Or do we? Me being me, I have a huge list of absolutely nots, such as:

  • Dyke: I’m a gay woman, I want to date WOMEN, not somebody who looks like a bloke. Jog on.
  • People who say they want to be wined and dined. Who doesn’t want to be wined and dined? What do you think others want? To be beaten up by a pissed up partner? Come on, show some bloody imagination.
  • Women who describe themselves or use profile names that include: cheeky; mental; crazy; lezzer; sexy; boi. None of these things are attractive. Why not just cut to the chase and describe yourself as an unstable freak with no pride in yourself? Being “crazy” is not fun to be with, why would anybody think that? You’re a dick. Grow up.
  • Vegetarian. Because vegetarians suck if you’re not one yourself.
  • Vegan. Because they’re all fucking weird.
  • Having a faith. Fingers burned, should’ve known better. Smacks self in head.
  • Hippy types. Just fuck off and get a bath and a job.



    • The list could go on and on. And it does. But the more I look at dating sites, the less inclined I am to ever want to date anybody ever again because I build up a mental image of SUPER LESBIAN that just puts me off all gay women altogether.

    Maybe I’m just too set in my ways to date again. I don’t think there’s anybody in the real world who could match my ideal woman fantasy. She’s a hybrid of Miranda Hart, Kirstie Allsopp, Emma Thompson; NIGELLA; Jess Ennis and Kate Winslet. The problem with fantasising about that sort of thing is that the reality might turn out like Bernard Manning. No, they’re all too posh for that. Errmmm, Carol Thatcher.

    Dear Lord. I think being single is looking like the better option.

    Giddiness

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    Having finally got over myself and the year of the big sulk, life is feeling OK. (I do wish people wouldn’t empty bottles and cans into their recycling bins after 9pm). There are some days that I feel positively child-like and bouncy, to the point of being annoying. Contrasting this unfortunately, is the fatigue and weird dizziness that I get, but I’ll happily take minor physical malaise over month after month of despair.

    Nothing major has changed in my life to bring about any feeling of positivity, I still have no great plans to make, or events to look forward to. The future still presents nothing but the continuous cycle of work, weekend, work, weekend, work, annual leave, overlaid by the changing seasons, ad infinitum, but these days, that’s fine and it’s not a prospect that I find particularly distressing.

    Raise your glasses to the healing power of prescription medicines and time.

    (And now there are mating cats having a ding dong out there).

    This new perspective on things has reminded me how nice it is to share your life with somebody special, and while it’s not something I’m going to force, I’m no longer dismissing the notion. A recent encounter with a woman who contacted me through that lesbian dating site is providing a pleasant distraction to my otherwise blissfully mundane life. At the moment our e-mail exchanges are fun and playful, almost akin to a Morris dance – we skip around cagily with bells on our ankles and then WHAM one of us smacks the other with a bladder on a stick and throws in a mildly flirtatious remark or a serious question about past relationships. And then back to the skipping. If nothing else, it’s really rather nice to find an e-mail from a friendly stranger arriving in your inbox a few times a day.

    I wish Rocky could read and write, I’d love to get e-mails and text messages from him while we’re apart.

    8.05am “Mummy, I’m bored, when are you coming home?”
    8.09am “Mummy, I’m really bored now. When are you coming home?”
    8.16am “Mummy?”
    8.17am “I’ve taken your slippers out of the kitchen in case something bad happens to them while you’re out. Oh look, a tissue. TASTY!”
    8.19am “I’m just having a snooze on the bed in case you’re wondering where I am when you come back.”
    9.32am “MUMMY! It’s that nasty Scottish man on the radio. PLEEEEEASE come home and make it stop.”
    10.24am “Mummmeeeeeeeeeeeee? Muuuuuuuuummmeeeeeeeeee?”
    12.06pm “There are people shouting at the radio, I’m really scared.”
    1.42pm “That blackbird keeps looking at me from Martin’s roof.”
    1.59pm “Hmph”
    3.48pm “Mummy, surely you’re coming back now? I’m so bored. SO BORED!”
    5.15pm “I know you’ll be back REALLY soon. If I wag my tail really fast, it’ll make it happen sooner.”

    Actually, I already know how fed up he gets when he’s alone, I’d rather not have documentary evidence of the torture.

    Poor Rocky.

    Brown

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    So, in the sense of “so” I suppose, I’ve been trying to collect my wee all day today. Two things are apparent:

    1. My aim is poor
    2. I’ve not had enough to drink today

    I know number 2 is true because my collection is brown, rather than yellow. Maybe I should dilute it a bit to make it look more normal. Maybe that would be the most idiotic thing I could do.

    Hopefully I just have one more collection to go and I’ll be able to take the piss (ha ha ha) into the hospital tomorrow morning. I say hopefully one more collection because I really don’t want to be doing that palaver in the middle of the night.

    The whole thing hasn’t been as traumatic as I’d imagined and I’ve managed to get through the day without weeing on myself any more than I usually do.

    Go me.

    Hunger
    I’ve not been hungry today, despite eating about a fifth of what I normally would. This includes eating only one minty Viscount at Mum and Dad’s as opposed to the five or six that I’d normally demolish. Go me again.

    The one concern about this new eating regime is: how does the chew each mouthful twenty times before swallowing apply to soup? Since I’m now doing soup for lunch on a regular basis, this is something that I really need to know. Am I supposed to swish it around in my mouth twenty times as one would taste a wine? If I do this, will I get confused and spit instead of swallow? In addition, what about stuff like fruit? Do I really need to sit down at the table and put my cutlery down between each mouthful when I’m eating an apple? I think I might contact Paul McKenna to find out.

    Irrespective of these quandaries, day one of hypnotised Tina has been fine. I really enjoyed my dinner tonight and I really did feel satisfied having eaten about a fifth of what I’d normally have guzzled.

    And I’m doing this without counting calories or points or worrying too much about fat content or paying a subscription fee to a diet club. Because it’s not a diet I suppose, it’s effectively a new relationship with food.

    How do I approach a burrito from now on? Surely there’s only one way to tackle a burrito and that’s to shove as much in your gob as possible before the whole thing falls apart. We’ll see.

    This questioning of lifestyle change is very much akin to how things were when I gave up drinking so many years ago. What about my 30th birthday? What about going out for drinks after work? What about Christmas and New Year? What do I do if somebody offers me a drink?? It all turned out to be remarkably easy as it happened, I just asked for pop and told people that I didn’t want to drink any more. Some people were fucking arseholes about it, but the vast majority just accepted it as I had done. The pressure on people to drink alcohol in social situations is utterly ridiculous, society needs to grow the fuck up.

    Idiot
    I e-mailed my ex this morning. Something in me hopes she sends me straight to spam, but you know how it is when there’s something eating you up inside and you just feel compelled to get it off your chest? Well, short of driving to Derbyshire to find her and have it out with her, then ending up a blubbering wreck instead of a strong and forthright person with a valid argument and lots of pointy hand gestures, this was the best option.

    The upshot of it is, if the e-mail doesn’t go to delete unread, she knows I’m desperate for revenge (answers, closure), but I’m not going to do anything about it, however, I’ll be starting to reduce my dose of antidepressants starting next month.

    That’ll keep her on her toes.

    I shall now toss and turn and metaphorically punch myself in the head for two hours while I try to find sleep.

    I thank you.

    Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma cha… arse off

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    On a number of occasions over recent days the notion of “karma” has been brought to my attention.

    It’s OK that somebody can be hideous, or do something hideous, because the laws of karma dictate that they will get their arse bitten for their misdeeds in due course.

    I have constructed a very well thought-out and philosophical argument with respect to this discussion and my viewpoint is thus: what a load of absolute bollocks.

    The only way to ensure that somebody pays for their wrong doings is sweet revenge at the hands of those who have been wronged. The cleansing of the soul, that feeling of “YES, you bastard, you deserved that” can’t be put on hold while waiting for ripples of consequence to do their cosmic rounds and eventually, maybe, turn back into a tidal wave of shit that smacks the fucker in the face engulfs their entire being with all the crap they’ve poured onto others.

    Revenge allows this. Standing over somebody as they cry and plea for forgiveness, as they surrender when they can’t take any more of the unholy smiting you unleash on them, as their world falls apart around them and they are left, as you were, a wreck of a person cast against the rocks in an stormy unrelenting ocean of despair from which there is no rescue. They shall pay, and the currency is SCREAMING!

    Acts of vengeance are controlled, enacted and witnessed by those who have been wronged. They are certain. In one way or another, they allow closure, and maybe a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but oh that sweet feeling of finally letting go of your demons would make the harshest environment seem like paradise compared to the life of hell and emotional turmoil that would otherwise be your certain destiny.

    Karma? For a start, there’s no evidence for it, in fact, all evidence is contrary. Horrible things keep happening to people who’ve never done any harm, yet nothing bad happens to complete shitbags. Even if karma did exist, there’s no control over it, it might just happen… one day, when you’re probably dead anyway. And you’ll probably never get to know that the bastard has had their comeuppance. It’s a rubbish notion and I’m firmly with the Old Testament on this one: go out and get revenge.

    And this is where I stop because my thoughts of revenge range from a few scratches on a car to The Life and Loves of a She Devil. Poor Bobbo.

    Poor Bobbo indeed.

    Rickety
    After much speculation as a result of allowing my imagination to run away with a few selected Google facts, I saw my GP for my test results this morning.

    He’s been reading up on my current history, he told me, as I sat down and awaited the bad news.

    The bad news is that I almost died of shame at having to be prescribed vitamin D because of a severe deficiency. In 2013, in the UK. I was actually hoping that he was going to prescribe me a month in Mauritius, precisely because I live in the UK in 2013 and we haven’t had a summer for six years. I might just go to the electric beach and pretend.

    In other news, I probably don’t have lung cancer, which I kind of knew anyway. I do have to go back for a second chest x-ray from a different angle… OMG! He didn’t want to break the bad news to me, did he? Maybe I DO have lung cancer and he didn’t want to be the one to tell me, certainly not at 7.30 am on a dreary Monday morning. I could tell the way he avoided eye contact with me. I’ll stop now, I need a second x-ray because the original image wasn’t good enough to prove conclusive and they have to be sure.

    So my hypochondria lives to see another day, and I live on to see many many more. Enough to plot and scheme and imagine dastardly deeds. Or just a few drunk texts.