I haven’t cried in a while, as in weeks, I think, but I damn well cried today.
I dreamed about QP last night: he pops up once a month or so and I wake up with fresh wounds and ripe regrets. It’s a funny thing how your subconscious likes to dredge up the filthy silt from your emotional river beds to form a scum on your day.
I’ve just noticed that I never replaced the photograph of QP and me all dolled up at his relative’s wedding hanging in a collection of FAMILY photos over my fireplace. I should fill that space. I’ve plenty of family with which to do so.
I’ve been doing my typical Push Everyone Away Before You Get Hurt Because It’s Inevitable That You’ll Fuck Everything Up Anyway routine the last few days. Picking fights, going into hermit mode, obsessing over budgeting (I think I’m on version six of zero disposable income by now). I have to learn from past isolations. I am not going to drive more people away. I will chill the fuck out.
Then I heard this song Christy Moore – The Voyage which was a song Fr. Rory Best used to sing to me. He’d a lovely voice. He also used to sing Christy Moore – Black is the Colour and Moon River .That was before he’d had enough of me. For a while, Missy Higgins – The Special Two was his song for me, make of that what you will.
I’ve hardly been outside my room in days,
Cos I don’t feel that I deserve the sunshine’s rays.
I loved him, I truly thought that was it. Hollywood love. Silly bitch.
I did run a fairly decent paced three and a half miles; gave grinds; sorted a bill and semi-sorted another one; baked and cooked a nice stir fry. I also tidied and walked the dogs and tried to distract my lovely cousin who is due her second baby tomorrow with pooping during childbirth stories. I bet that helped.
But I boohooed in the arms of someone I’d rather didn’t see me cry after the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre called me to schedule my first appointment.
I don’t want to go. I already feel sick.
The psychiatrist says it will be hard; Pieta said it will get worse before it gets better.
Fuck him. And him.
I feel like I’m grieving for something, not a person but a time, or a feeling. Something that I’ll never get back. I’m not even sure what it is.
On the bright side, the telly is back on so I can follow the election tomorrow. Seriously, that’s my idea of a good time.
I’m going to end up alone, aren’t I?
Dublin Rape Crisis Centre Homepage
1800 77 88 88 if you need them, I hope that you don’t. X x