I’m tired and trying to limit screen time in the evenings, especially when I’m in bed. Besides, with two dogs and a mountain of pillows (I’ve gone all American-overfilled-bed-style), there isn’t much room for my Mac (I like throwing it in that I have a Mac: I never thought I’d have a Mac). I’m also trying to get back into good reading habits and currently it’s the turn of the doomed Romanaov princesses to tell me their sad tale (I really need to alter my subconscious thematic gravitation towards the life stories of unhappy and tragic unhappy women), so this will be brief.
The Rape Crisis Centre had been trying to call me with an appointment – of course my mobile has been disconnected (lack of bill paying will do that – and I have no idea how to check the mailbox on the landline, if we even have one. So, luckily (I guess), I was in today and picked up the phone. I’ve got better at picking up the phone, even though it has no caller ID, so it could be anyone calling to demand another bill be paid, and I expected it to be my completely incompetent waste and recycling company who missed my collection, once again, eight days ago and still hadn’t retrieved the mound of debris growing outside and pissing off the neighbours.
Trash aside, or rubbish as I have now reverted to calling it, the softly spoken woman from the RCC (I’d imagine they practise a soothing tone) offered me a slot tomorrow afternoon as she hadn’t been able to get in touch with me to schedule the one originally bookmarked for me.
I knew it was coming. I had been offered a slot before we went off on our travels but had to turn it down. “Well, as soon as you get back then, ok?”
“No, don’t let me say no. Yes, I’ll be there. Don’t wait for me to change my mind. Thanks. Ok. Bye.”
I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. I wasn’t going to let myself say no.
This feels like bad timing. I’ve been doing so well. Like, really well. Too well, my doctor hinted. Mania? Maybe. But it’s been good. I like manic me. I get shit done. I laugh and joke and cook and bake and paint doors and join choirs and sign up to Pilates and don’t obsess over stupid crappy little things and even the car alarm going off outside isn’t too grating. I smile at people and I don’t hate my body. I plan classes and things I can do to get off Illness Benefit and be sort of self sufficient again.
This will not burst my bubble. My bubble is carved from the crystallised suds of goddess and warrior queens who will imbue me with the blood courage of their conquering mothers and I will crush any memory that stands in my way of greatness.
Actually, that car alarm is really fucking annoying.
I’m going to have to face all the really terrible stuff that I’ve had done to me and worse, all the destruction I’ve left behind me. I was the damaged goods clichée. The victim. The self loathing, self pitying victim inflicting pain on anyone who came near enough to me to reach. I vomit the word “victim”.
Now, I am warrior queen goddess daughter. And I shall be the victor.
Also, my “problems’ seem minute compared to the suffering in the world.
I will kill this weed slithering to survive inside me; I will overcome my weaknesses and I will help others to live their equally precious lives without fear.
Thank Christ, that car alarm has stopped.