I’m cocooning again – wrapping myself in warm, loose clothes; layering myself in the thick, solid, old walls of this building as if the brick can barricade out the incessant knocking of these endless cycles of stress they call days.
The fear – is fear too strong a word? – of going outside is seeping into my veins from an IV drip of agoraphobia. The relief of closing that door behind me everytime I come back in can only be measured in direct inverse proportion (I think that’s the term?) to the horror my eyes are faced with when it opens in the first place. January light has the most unkind way of bringing the dirty brownish grey pavement up to meet you: “Walk on me, tread on me, you who forget the comfort of grass”, hisses the concrete as it slushes up from the cracks and the half-muck under the squelching tyres of endless commuters and mothers and servants.
The fresh scar on my thigh is calling out for a sibling. I’ve been trying to hide it from ElsaDaughter even though I’m sure she knows it’s there. The shame of her actually seeing it. The ridiculousness of it. The pathos of her mother. I had changed into a nightdress last night post-SaltScrub, forgetting about the uneven, slightly doubled, faded magenta line. For a second, I couldn’t remember: how did that get there? Those dogs have to stop jumping up on… Oh, yes.
Blood and pain of a different sort were thrust upon me by the Uterine gods (they must have been male – women wouldn’t do that to each other, would they?). I’ve been off the pill for a while. Big fucking mistake. I thought staying off it following blood tests might help, my hormonal tide might stem itself. But I’m wondering if Monday’s attack could have been exacerbated by the onset of menstrual mania. The cramps were actually contraction like, and I don’t say that lightly. I was brought to my knees three of four times, forced to employ birthing breathing techniques to get me through. Unable to speak or stand for a minute, maybe two. I’m calling for a prescription tomorrow. Give me the drugs. I said that while in labour too, with some degree of force in my voice, and possibly a clenched fist and an expletive.
The female body seems to be dominating my thoughts this week; thrown to the forefront by the, I have to say, irregular, examples of misogyny with which I have been faced.
I guess watching “The Fall” isn’t the best choice for me at the moment. I’m more than troubled by my reaction to it. I can’t seem to watch more than six or seven minutes of it at a time without having to take a break from it. The intensity of it is overwhelming and my attraction to Jamie Dornan (who let’s face it, is a big massive ride with a Northern accent) completely distorts my response. I don’t want him to get caught. I want him to escape, not just the police but the confined banality of the life with his family that he’s created for himself. I don’t want him to hurt or murder anymore but I want something free and powerful for him. He’s a fucking sexual predator! He’s a murderer! Yes, I know it’s fictional. I know real life is a very different thing. I’ve been there. What does this say about my state of mind? My view of sexual violence – my knee jerk, uncensored emotional and sexual response to it, if not my measured intellectual view? This is all too fucking Freudian. Or is it just damn good television?
I need to watch Countryfile or something to purify my mind.
The show raises interesting questions about women and sex, and the male response to it. At one pint, Scully (Gibson) scolds Simon Delaney’s character: “I’m not interested in judging”, when a victim’s online dating video is, apparently, “asking for it” and another time she is forced to call out a man’s barely concealed disapproval of her having a one night stand. I wonder is there a woman on the scriptwriting team?
During last weekend, I was called out as being a “bit of a princess” on a popular dating site: this was after two reply messages from me trying to be very measured in order to make sure I had read the tone of his correctly. He had started the conversation by telling me that he was shocked by how forward women were on the site; how they were obsessed with good looks; how they had spent far too much time on their careers; were openly boasting about how much money they made and were now desperate to find a man to give them babies. After his third message, I decided I’d read him right from the first word: Neanderthal Prick, but maintained my dignity while representing my gender and told him that I’m sure not all women deserved this criticism just as not all men have earned the cliché of dickhead and I hoped he found what he was looking for. At which point I was told to get over myself.
I’m sorry, what?
Pity the woman who depends on his sperm for a kid. Serves her right, shouldn’t have spent so long on her career.
There was also the picture above. Reposted as “great advertising” by Lovin Tends on popular With-The-Right-Filter-I-Look-like-A-Celebrity app. There were, naturally, outbursts from hysterical, oversensitive women who didn’t like it. Sure, you can’t say a word to the hags who don’t get fucked often enough, right? According to one lovely gentleman anyway.
I especially love that he told us all to fuck off, three times.
Frigid bitches, can’t take a joke.
There was another guy who looked like he’d broken out of prison. A prison where they made Russian porn. Although I must admit I’ve never seen Russian porn so I can’t be totally sure I’m on the right track with that assumption. I didn’t reply. An hour or so later I got “fuck sake”, not a possessional apostrophe in sight, in return for my silence. How dare I not respond? He obviously didn’t get the memo from Neanderthal Prick that I’m firmly atop the “Bit of a Princess” List.
Another guy, very moodily sexy, that I’d been emailing (he avoided my requests for number swapping for best part of a month) finally admitted he’s married last night. I fucking knew there was something. I did some digging today. He doesn’t know anything about covering his tracks. He could be all talk anyway, going to do x, y and sexy all over to you and then does nothing.
I actually don’t know what I’m doing.
What am I doing?
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Everytime I try to get on top of things to sort – that word is becoming my enemy –
I have to SORT out the rent
I have to SORT out these papers
I have to SORT out my head
I have to
every fucking thing out and my head, my mind, my consciousness is like the tin can I hear aimlessly trundling and tinkling down that rain darkened road outside: empty and yet full of noise; intermittently dodging whirring tyres, glass eyed foxes, stumbling boots until it meets its ultimate fate: splat.
I’m becoming far to reliant on the semi colon, as an aside. Is there a support group for that too?
I was nominated for a little award on here by a kind follower. I have to do something with a badge. I don’t know what to do really. I think I nominate other blogs with the badge. I don’t want my readers to think I’m not grateful. Can somebody help?
Twitter machine – @DottyRocker
Facebook – offmydottyrocker.com
Instagram – offmydottyrocker.com
I’m posting links to articles that likeminded loonies might enjoy or identify with and sometimes I just post shite, which is much like I do here, but you bunch seem to appreciate that so there’s more of it to be found elsewhere on the InterWeb. X x