It has been an age.
True to form, I have become afraid of writing lest the words pierce my bubble. It is lovely in my bubble.
I’ve been so normal over the last while: my School of Speech and Drama is getting of the ground and while I love teaching – especially teaching my own curriculum – it’s also very nice to have enough money for bills and groceries and not have to go begging to the family. Saving for a trip to the States for my annual mental respite is another story but I’m focussing on the positives. I am determined to save our fares. And there are plenty of good things going on. (Positives? Where is our Dotty and what have you done with her?)
Scandi and I were both sick with some sort of weird ass tummy bug/fever/headache thing a few weeks back and that was crappy. I had an IUD implanted which was like a very painful and bloody period but seeing as it’s a copper coil, there shouldn’t be any implications with my migraine prone brain as it’s hormone free. Also, I won’t get knocked up. Thank fuck.
As I write at my bedroom desk, I can hear the dogs in the living room and I have a sneaking suspicion that they are destroying something and creating a huge mess: do I go and check or let them finish chewing whatever it is they have plundered?
Yep, crumbs everywhere. Goodbye nice wholemeal seed bread. Hello dog diarrhoea in a few hours.
The Boyfriend is still on the scene. It has been reconfirmed for me that I am not good at being a girlfriend. I am so used to doing things my own way and never being accountable to anyone that I’m having a tough time adjusting. I don’t like talking about how I feel so I’m sure I seem like a cold hearted bitch most of the time. I knew that even through my relationship with Berger (Quarter Pounder), I was fine dealing with stuff on my own – as in parenting; home making and general life admin – even if I was completely dependent on him psychologically for both pain and affection in equal measures but now I realise that, as a result of all of my disastrous relationships, I have effectively ensconced my emotional self in a very high, very solid round tower and I don’t know how, or even if I want to let down my metaphorical defences. Why would I? I am safe here in my self sufficient armoury.
The fucking dogs are now eating their way through another room.
An almost empty tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food mauled on Scandi’s bed. Lovely.
I skipped my Rape Crisis Centre session on Monday as I just couldn’t face it. I know, I know. But I just couldn’t, which sounds ridiculous when typed or said aloud but I just couldn’t reveal myself; expose myself; sit there and be judged. Or at least that’s what I think my counsellor is doing as I lay bare my shame and regret and doubts and secrets. I want to ask for a new therapist but I don’t want to offend the one I have: she’s perfectly nice (apart from the time she was was snotty with me over my first missed session and ensuing confusion. In fairness, I think she was just tired and when I started crying apologies at her I think she felt bad) but the truth is I don’t trust her. I don’t feel like I can tell her the worst of what I’ve done; what’s been done to me or what goes on in my fucked up cavernous skull. I was too tired on Monday and I didn’t want to talk to her. Now, I feel guilty because the RCC is an invaluable resource and it’s a charity and I’m lucky I got in there at all when their funding is so critically low but the counsellor I have, while she’s probably great for others, isn’t for me.
I have to go get ready now as I have a full day of teaching ahead. Thank you dear blog for welcoming me back to your empty pages after so long. I feel I have a lot to tell you after this initial scary re-entry post into the subconscious layers of my mind.
I do hope my readers are well. Feel free to share your mental escapades with me so that I don’t feel like a loony loner.