Episode 9 – Nearly into Double Digits… somehow

ElsaDaughter is baking. She can’t find a bun tray which is strange because my mother has all of IKEA in her kitchen cupboards. I’m supervising – trying to pass on the homemaking skills I inherited from my grandmother, Miss Marple. I’m skipping My Lady, the Queen’s Mother who was not exactly a homemaker: I distinctly remember croissants from a can and a lasagne being thrown at me. She didn’t throw the lasagne at me intentionally – it just met with a mishap. Still lasagne was exotic in small town Ireland in the eighties so I guess I was lucky.

Lucky. I’m definitely lucky. Lucky to be here today. Forty eight hours ago, thirty hours ago even, I was a whistling kettle of self destruction. I don’t remember it all. Corkscrews, Screwdrivers. Pain. Puking. Tears. Scalding. Boy, I wanted out. I’d made up my mind. Enough was enough. And yet here I am: Mary Berry hovering over ElsaDaughter’s workstation.

Why? How? Am I a coward or am I brave? I don’t know. My Lady thinks it’s courageous to hang on, to wait a few hours to see if it passes, to get up to put in another day. Another day, another dollar.

I feel like I chickened out. Got stage fright. Flaked at the last minute. I hate when people flake. I have a few friends who are notorious flakers – you can be sure if you make plans with them they’ll cancel at an hour’s notice. I’ve become a flaker lately. Actually I just don’t make plans with my friends because I’m afraid to see them, afraid of the company, afraid of the small talk, afraid, afraid, afraid… what the fuck Dotty?!

I flaked on Saturday. Or maybe I wasn’t thinking straight enough on Saturday. I couldn’t have been. I don’t want to be that girl. I hate her. I despise her. She’s everything that gives women a bad name. She’s the opposite of what I had always hoped to be. No classy lady, that’s for sure. No CJ Cregg. No Alicia Florrick.

Jesus, I’m mortified by myself. By Dotty. It must be Dotty and not the real me, I hope to god it is because she’s a scary fucking bitch.

There are a few people who seem to be quick to judge Dotty and Dotty’s life. I’m fucking sick of them. A woman should be a virgin princess in a tower. Back to the rosaries and ovaries again. Jesus Christ. His BFF was Mary Magdalen (and no I’ve never read the Bible so don’t start on me). Today I was told that my “casual sex” with a certain ex (which it wasn’t) was repulsive to a another certain ex. I can count on two hands the men who’ve graced my bed (and sometimes it hasn’t been all that graceful) and if I were a man I’d be trying to clock up my notches, bragging to the boys. I am so incensed by the textual reproach that was dished out to me earlier. That’s a fine looking high horse. Tangent, I know.

Anyway, yesterday morning I had my bag packed. Where was I going? I knew I couldn’t use my card or take my phone – they’d trace me pretty quickly. I knew I had limited cash but the car had fuel. I had a limited window of opportunity in a hectic house during which I could flee. Flee from what? From myself. I was going somewhere quiet like an old dog, to do what Frank Sinatra sang about in Episode 8. I was going to drive. The West maybe? Not the North – they’re all a bit weird. Like I was going to be going out for pints with the locals. But then I heard footsteps and I couldn’t get out quick enough. Fuck. It Anyway. Can’t even get the timing of that right. The Great Escape me arse.

Anyway, before I could reach for the razor, Elsa Daughter was talking me down off a ledge (her words) and yes I know she shouldn’t have to do that, at any age and I’m a selfish wagon who seems to be threatening to do top herself without ever actually getting round to it. Procrastination has become more of an issue for me lately. I’ve been putting off facing up to my ugly self for a long time. The tears rolled. Too long a stone indeed.

It was a bright and clear day today then it looked like that tumult in the clouds was heading our way again. Now the skies have cleared again. This is not metaphorical. I’m just talking about the weather like all Irish people do when they need to fill the awkward silence. “Grand day.” “Heavy oul day.” “Rain is lettin’ up thanks be to god.”

Anyway, the long and the short of it is, I’m still fucking here. Disappointed? There might be one person who is. He wouldn’t have reason to be terrified I’ll do something worse next time then. But “We’re done” and that’s that.

Weirdly, yesterday turned out to be a lovely day. For me, not the weather, that was shit. I can’t say why it was lovely because I promised it wouldn’t feature in here but enough to say I had fun in IKEA without actually being interested in anything in IKEA.

It’s pissing rain now and I’m tired so I’m going to watch Vikings and daydream about being like Lagertha and ripping out the entrails of the man who tried to rape her.

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