So I told Quarter Pounder it’s widely agreed he’s a dick. Probably a bit harsh. But it is true: that it’s widely agreed that is, not that he’s a dick. That’s too subjective to prove. And I’m sure he’s not a dick to everyone.
Nobody blames me for GameBoyGate, in fact they say they would’ve done the same, or worse. But he likes to say I’m a psychotic bitch and he’s afraid of me which I know is actually just an excuse not to talk to me anymore and I find that a bit fucking rich after he never left me alone while Father Rory Best and I were a thing to the point where Rory changed my number and told him to back off.
But I wonder how passive I was with the blessed Father, I let him control a lot of what I did and what I tried to be, for him, and the Holy Family. Quarter Pounder was heartbroken, allegedly. So it galls me now that he has the absolute cheek to use my illness as an excuse to forget all the things I let go over the years, to make me out to be the only problem. He’s almost hinting that I’m using this whole collection of episodes as an excuse for the (replaceable) damage. And I say “only problem” because I know there was a pair of us in it. God knows I could’ve let more go and stopped fretting over our doomed union.
But the more I think about it the more of a lying manipulative fucker a man can be. I am so angry that I have been positioned as an actual threat to the safety of a man I haven’t seen in two months.
He knew me better than anyone. Perhaps that’s how he knows what to say to make me question myself. Am I the toxic one? Am I a threat to others? I know I can be a threat to myself but I’d never deliberately hurt anyone else. Their computer maybe, but not their person.
Ugh, apart from that, ok afternoon.
I booked a table for the girls’ annual Christmas catch up. I’ve kind of dreaded it the last few years, being such a significant mess in the midst of all those fabulous women but now that I’ve come out with my Dottiness I don’t mind so much. I’m so blessed with such good friends. Much better than I deserve. I’m kind of the one who’s lucky to be in the group: not really cool or together enough or as well defined but hanging on by a thread for twenty two years. Wow, I’ve known these women for that long. They’re being so sweet to me. I want to be a better friend to them all. I’m looking forward to the night out.
I’m also looking forward to tomorrow when The Marchioness arrives. So much to discuss.
I have things planned for tomorrow. I’m not even going to mention them because they may not happen. But I’m not thinking about it. That can all wait till tomorrow.
I feel a bit sick now. Pukey sick. I ate dinner. We had a big selection of deli salads, ElsaDaughter’s homemade soup, bread, fruit, and then treats on the coffee table and it was lovely. No effort on my part, she made the soup in school. Bad mother.
Then we walked the dogs, which was stress free and pleasant. Not quite cold or windy enough to blow any webs away but still fresh air. The most movement I’ve had all day.
I feel bad about saying that to QP now.
“Don’t!”, I can see the message from Posh already.
I feel an empty space inside me. I can’t pinpoint where it is, it seems to be moving between my head, chest, tummy and vagina. What am I missing? There’s a piece of my anatomical jigsaw gone astray, swept under the rug of my denial at some point over the years and I think it’s only starting to show itself now. Can a Black Hole be invisible and then unveil itself? That’s what this feels like: those black smoky cloud things in Harry Potter, they could be called Tormentors? Dementors? Which reminds that QP’s song for me was “She Drives Me Crazy” by the Fine Young Cannibals. Who tormented who? Driven demented he was. I think there’s one inside me, but hole shaped. It needs to be plugged, filled up with something: it could be self belief, it could be inner peace, it could be a good breakfast or a big bad handsome man in my bed. I don’t know what the hell is missing, but the lack of it hurts and taunts me.
I’m sleepy now but dreading going to sleep. The rainforest chills await in my land of hormonal imbalance. And the nightmares. The nightmares of Harvey Keitel raping me and slitting my throat, then me being dead and voiceless and unable to plead with him not to chop my body up into bits and scatter me for the wolves of regret. See? A horrible dream but a good story. A horror story, I don’t watch horror. For my own safety, and maybe for the safety of others. Being so dangerous and all.