Episode 2-65 – Widow Swift

So I went to Pieta. God, it was tough. I got myself into a right state, as was probably obvious in “Interlude – Go”. I really didn’t care to face it. I almost made myself sick. The foot tapping; rocking back and forth; staring through circumstance to a safe, imaginary spot in the depths of the landscape of PanicLand all became visible reactions as the TraumaTrain chugged towards me in the guise of my really very lovely therapist. I’m beginning to despise her because she serves all this soggy, stinking wet grass on a plate and sits there and watches me eat it.

I couldn’t look her in the face. She’s an attractive lady, pretty, but I’m thrown violently back to the wall when I catch her eye as if she had the power of Scarlett Johannsson in “Lucy”, which, I will offer a brief review, is a very odd movie.

I hadn’t been since December 4th and boy, was skipping class a bad idea. It was like starting from scratch only this time I was catching up on coursework in a subject I had no aptitude for instead of one I could possibly get my head around.

For some reason, in my Leaving Certificate, I chose to do two science subjects: Chemistry and Biology, probably because Posh and Gwyneth Paltrow were doing them, certainly not because I was scientifically minded. I managed Higher Level C3s in both of them but when I think how much better I could have done if I’d chosen subjects I was naturally hard wired for, like German or Music, and of course, if I’d actually worked harder to realise my potential instead of going out every weekend drinking and kissing boys. I’m still disgusted with myself for not doing better; I knew what points I needed for UCD Arts and I didn’t feel the need to try for any more than that. But then I’m always disgusted with myself about something. I’m never happy with anything I’ve done : always could have done better which in itself probably suggests I have great notions about myself and consider myself to be some sort of underachieving genius. I’m of very average intelligence, for the record. I just know I could have done better if I hadn’t been drunk thirty, (forty?) percent of the time.

Anyway, Pieta. Ugh. Hardship. The questions in my head about that article I linked to the other day. The white blankness of his face in his fancy car that day over Christmas. Why didn’t he look at me? Why didn’t he see me? Why would I want him to? Of all people.

I loved the bit at the Golden Globes about Amal Alamuddin (now Clooney – I’m raging with her for taking his name…): her achievements are outstanding but her hubby gets a lifetime achievement award?! Nicely played Tina/Amy. Some pretty edgy stuff from those ladies, don’t ya think, Bill?

I wish people would leave Jennifer Anniston alone by the way – is she less of a woman because she hasn’t birthed a child? Please. Motherhood was an optional role last time I checked. Opting out doesn’t seem to have diminished Helen Mirren.

And why hasn’t George Clooney had kids yet? He’s clearly not a real man; his life couldn’t be complete; he must be desperate for children; maybe he can’t have them? He’ll regret it!


After Pieta, I visited The Rose of Tralee. I always feel comfort and a sort of “yeah, everything will be grand” sort of vibe when I’m leaving there. She has a nice, easy going way of making sense – a no-nonsense hug and a slap-on-the-back way of letting you know she’s behind you and go get ’em. Two cute kids and pomegranate salad help too.

I also managed to go donate blood, back into town I went and bled myself dry (for the squeamish, I’m exaggerating: it’s only a pint – your body barely notices it’s gone) for the good of some poor soul in a far worse way than me. I’d do anything for free pens and a Toffee Crisp.

I was absolutely frozen in town so I went in to buy myself a pair of gloves (all mine left in my car, filthy with beach muck from rooting for tennis balls unrecovered by the four leggeds) and I came out with a furry jacket on sale for €11. I’m slightly concerned that I look like a hirsute zebra in it but ElsaDaughter assures me it’s not the most mortifying thing she’s seen her mother wear so I guess that’s affirmation of its wearability?

I slept well last night, right through and nightmareless only to be woken abruptly by my two legged kid for a lift to school. I whinged like a teenager (roles are often reversed in our house) but I did get her and her two friends in with five minutes to spare; took the dogs to the beach; almost died of hypothermia; got home; changed and made my GP appointment on time.

The results of said visit are as follows:

-Go back on the pill as clearly, following last week’s Battle of the Uterus, my hormonal balance is as off-kilter as gender representation in the Dáil and needs to be corrected before there’s an oestrogen coup.

– Stick with the Venlafaxine but make sure to give a record of up and down days/period issues/hours of sleep/PanicLand visits to Psych next week.

– Referral to endocrinologist because something is clearly not right about the SaltScrubs at night and HotMelts during the day. My GP seems to think the extremities of the temperature swings in addition to the cold nose, feet and hands are more than physical manifestations of emotional stress. Given that My Lady is currently under the care of the consultant to whom I am being referred, who at one point expressed a potential concern that my mother’s condition could be genetic, it seems a little delayed that this is being picked up on now. I didn’t really make a link until today. I kind of thought, you might recall, that given the hot flash/moody bitch syndrome and my grandmother’s super early menopause maybe there could be something there but I dismissed it when my bloods came back fine.

However, on further analysis, it turns out one of my hormones – SHSomethingorother was actually slightly high… Oh right, we’re just noticing this now?

Also, my calcium levels are low. I don’t know how. I drink milk, I eat cheese. I eat green vegetables – they have calcium right? I’m not adverse to a yoghurt and I love a good dollop of real butter.

So now I don’t know. My lady is convinced there’s something physical underlying all of this. But is that just a cop out? Something to blame for batshit crazy daughter? I’d love there to be something clinically amiss. That sounds bad: ungrateful and ignorant. Of course, I’d never belittle an illness or the real physical pain and terror somebody goes through when fighting a disease or condition. But the fact is, God forgive me for saying it, if there was an actual physical something wrong or unbalanced, at least I’d be… justified. I wouldn’t be this big, lazy fraud pretending to be sick.

Fuck it, you are sick you thick bitch!

Sick in the head.

I’m so confused right now.

Is this just how I’m hard wired? Do I actually have a neurological misfiring in my cerebral programming?

Is the problem not in my brain but in my mind which seems to me to be a very different and separate entity to my actual brain? Have events, circumstances and bad mental habits led to me being a self involved, unpredictable, lazy slut?

Is there a textbook malady in my body which can explain everything and be fixed with a hormone pill?

Is it all, or two, of the above?

I hate not understanding. I hate not knowing.

I met a guy. I like him. I think he’s too good to be true for me. I don’t want to screw this one up.

That new Taylor Swift song, that’s me. I watched the video and I thought, fuck: it’s the younger, more glamorous, skinnier version of me. I can fuck it up like Taylor.

We came down home tonight which is nice. We’re just here for the night. Right now, the house is quiet. The dogs are all snoring, my favourite people in the world are under this roof and they are all healthy, safe and loved. There was a woman at the doctors surgery today whose ten week old baby girl is still in Crumlin Hospital awaiting heart surgery. I wanted to apologise to her for being ahead of her to see the doctor, let her go ahead of me so she could get to the hospital to her baby sooner. I felt so guilty I wanted to slap myself across the face and order myself a large cup of Cop The Fuck On and get back to work. Then the doctor’s door opened, she called my name and I rose meekly to attention and apologised to her for being back again.

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