I said I’d write an actual (I’m not starting with the whole “actual” thing again) Episode today. At the time, I meant after I’d had a good night’s sleep but the Sandman seems to be delayed in his delivery of ShutEye so here I am, in bed. My feet could belong to Captain Oates they’re that numb with cold and my head is banging more than topless dude from the Chilli Peppers. I never got into them. The nineties got a bad rep for music and fashion: ok, so grunge wasn’t a great look. I wore my oversized grey jumper to death, like my mother actually (get the thesaurus, quick) literally (I’m doing this on purpose) took it from me when it started to fray. She had knit it for me, a gesture she came to regret as she watched her work fall apart, stitch by stitch, on the daughter whom she so desperately wanted to see adorned in anything other than grey and angst. But the music was good.
You’re reaching for your Stone Roses collection, aren’t you?
Anyway, I’m in bed. And I’m not asleep. Obvs. The dogs are being unsurprisingly selfish with their hogging of the bed. MY bed. They don’t seem to grasp possessive adjectives no matter how loud I shout “This is actually [right, that word is banned] MY bed!”. They smell like biscuits and not in a good way. The kind of biscuits you find in a soggy and crumbling mess down the sides of the gear box when you’re cleaning out your car when your kid is five. Or fourteen.
I want to be asleep so badly. I need to switch my brain off. Or my heart. One or the other, or preferably, both.
I had to cut someone out today, yesterday. I never know when to start using today and when it’s not “yesterday” anymore because midnight is not really black and white is it? Not unless you’re really crap at figurative speech. If you’re a rubbish sleeper like me, there’s a whole grey vacuum (can a vacuum be a colour?) sitting there, smirking at you in the waiting room between other people’s Sunday and Monday.
I feel sad. I didn’t want to cut this person out. But I had no choice. Despite numerous interludings, I spent a good deal of the day wondering, imagining and it was too reminiscent of the mind ramblings of months, years past to be anything other than a sickening recall of that feeling of powerlessness and impending, inevitable pain.
I now know why I’m the serial dater queen. I probably knew it all along but now I’m willing to own that realisation (ugh, psychotherapist X Factor vocabulary). I might do a second date, in rare and exceptionally handsome/interesting/intelligent circumstances but usually, one date is enough and then I move on. It’s not about sex. That kind of intimacy doesn’t freak me out. Which is probably weird given a big reason I’m in this mess: The Thing That Happened. It’s the emotional shit. It’s the commitment.
Commitment?! After two dates?! I hear you scoff. I balk at my own dramatic self-isolation but they start asking questions about work; they want to be friends on Omnipotent Social Networking Site; they wonder what I write about; they read this blog and I am gone quicker than Enda Kenny from a Pro-Choice rally.
I am terrified of getting hurt; of being exposed; of seeing my weakness reflected in another disastrous relationship.
Self-sabotage. If I’m not cutting my legs or plunging a toothbrush down my neck (I haven’t done either of those in ages, I promise, Mammy!), I’m ruining potentially lovely relationships and friendships by being a cold bitch or worse, opening up to them and inviting them to run for the hills. Which is what happened, he looked inside and pitied me and anything I might have felt lampooned itself as a pathetic, unrequited Crazy Dog Lady crush. I am so annoyed with myself. I know I’m on the mend. I am making huge progress but there’s this need for power over men and my sexual being. There’s always a chink in the “wants to date but nothing serious” armour and of course, a tiny beam of light hit the split, prism-bloomed and there I was, falling, too bloody fast.
So I had no choice to get out of the friend zone to which I’d been sequestered before I made an even bigger fool of myself. And I’m no stranger to making a fool of myself.
At least, I know I can cope with this self inflicted, ridiculous, emotional set back now because I’m A. a lot better and B. removing myself from the situation early.
AnnaPuppy just punched me in the head to push me off my own pillow. Biscuit Breath.
I think Pieta needs to be about the resurgence of my struggle with intimacy. They’ve got me to the point where I’m not bungee jumping off the Suicidal Intent Scale, hopefully now they can help me put a stop to this incessant sexual power hunt forward slash self-immolation buzz I seem to be on.
Of course, tomorrow I also need to figure out more mundane stuff like how to stay awake and how to pay my rent.
And I need to be thankful for everything I have:
My family, both here and abroad
The gift of being ElsaDaughter’s mother
A lovely roof over our heads
The bag of groceries My Lady sent up
My physical health
I read an article about a girl dating while fighting cancer today. There was plenty I could identify with, like the half lies she ended up telling to cover up not being in work. I’ve never felt as guilty. Well I have because I feel guilty about everything, including sleeping in MY own bed (they’re both spraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawled across said bed now, snoring).
Jesus. Maybe I should be down on my knees thanking God any man wants to go on even ONE date with me?
I wonder are there any biscuits?