Forgiveness and Love

Forgiveness and love are complicated things. I would say they are intricately linked in ways I can’t even begin to fathom and find infinitely painful to examine at present. But like a true sadist I find that I can’t distract myself from its topic. I can’t leave this one alone; indeed I haven’t been able to leave this one alone to heal for a long time. Just when it seems that wounds are healing over, renewing themselves and becoming something other than gaping and all encompassing, I start ‘picking’ at it, re-examining it and fussing over it. I want to know why it happened, how it happened. Essentially it comes down to a need to know what I did wrong in order to end up with it in the first place.

Why is it that I find it easier to forgive family members who have hurt me than I do others? Perhaps it has everything to do with my mum’s words “You don’t hurt you sister, you love her” that I seem to unstintingly apply that mantra to most – but not all - things in my life.

Perhaps I forgive family that much quicker (although I can’t say it is ever easier) because I have to love them. You can do nothing but love them. There is, with family, a tie which can’t (not ever really) be severed. They are, at least in theory and are meant to be, the one constant thing in your life. No matter what you do they are meant to love you and to forgive you and vice versa. The reality is that it is never that easy.

The question I find myself wrestling with, and for some time now, is how you let go of hurt and love someone again? How do you get back to that place of trust and love that you were in before with them? What do you do if for so long it has been doubted that you can or will? How do you get back to looking at them with the kind of love that you did before?

The process of self-analysis is often misleading. I’ve found through personal experience that looking closely at things more often than not presents a distorted picture, distorted because my emotions at the time are undeniably so intimately connected and bound up in things that I’m not able to see clearly, I’m not able to be reasonable. I panic. My fears take over and I’m lost. Doubt insidiously works its way in to the chinks of my self-analysis and becomes all pervading. So, I ask, doubt aside, how do you recover from the kind of hurt that has wreaked a kind of devastation that has marked all other aspects of your life? How do you deal with the kind of hurt that has tainted and tarnished what feels like everything with such sadness you feel you might not ever smile (the kind that reaches and touches you inside) again? How do you heal from such a hurt? How do you stop the ashes of its rupture from influencing everything else? How do you look to the future knowing it is going to happen again and accept it willingly in the name of love? Is such a thing possible?

I look down the road of my future and I know, without really knowing how, that its going to happen again. It’s happened before, I’ve been here before. And while it is a comfort to know that I got over it, its a small comfort. Last time it didn’t take this long to work out, nor did it hurt this much and I can’t say that I knew then that it would something I would face again. I do take a measure of comfort in knowing I’ve begun the healing process but it all still hurts monstrously. Some days it is still so unbearable. It is crippling and debilitating in ways that I can’t describe, in a way that renders me speechless beyond tears.

No one ever anticipates just how devastating it can be to need someone, to really need them in ways that you’ve never experienced before, and to be let down. Reaching out to someone when you are at your most vulnerable, when you are crippled by the need for support and understanding, to find yourself totally alone is crushing. It isn’t just about trust, it isn’t just about disappointment, or hurt, or confusion, or fear, or even anger if you can muster your wits enough to experience that one. It’s all of those things, but its being assailed and assaulted by ALL of them at one and the same time. There’s no drawing your breath, there’s no gathering yourself together, there’s no picking yourself up off the floor. There’s nothing, just an aching and raw need to slip over the edge into oblivion. There is only the desire to freefall into its embrace.

I fell and there was no one there to catch me. The people I needed to be there for me wasn’t. I don’t need people very often – experience has taught me it is best not to – but every once in a while my guard comes down and I do. I allow myself to. It hurt. Really hurt. There wasn’t any anger about being let down, not then and not even now really. Just the hurt, isolated and alone like me. The hurt didn’t come from finding out that the person wasn’t the person that I thought they were - I didn’t have my wits about me enough to think that profoundl. It was more basic, more primal than that. It was about feeling vulnerable, feeling like a child and feeling abandoned.

I know the intent to hurt me was never there. It wasn’t something they consciously decided to do, but that doesn’t lessen the pain or the hurt. It doesn’t stop me pushing them away because right now I can’t love them the way I should no matter how much I want to. I want to be able to feel about them they way that I used to. I want to be able to look at them and to see their flaws without feeling the hurt and sadness that comes along with them. I want for them to be what they always were for me; everything.

How do you get back or move on so you can find that place again?

Oversensitive

Staring at this page it has occurred to me that I’ve been attempting to keep it blank, to stem my thoughts and feelings – like that was ever going to be feasible, got to love hindsight. I’ve been hiding, or at least attempting to at any rate, from all the things that are worrying me in the vain hope that they would (miraculously) resolve themselves without any input from me. But I didn’t come here to talk of hiding, I’m thinking about sensitivity. At what point does being a sensitive person become being an over sensitive one with poor self-esteem? What comes first – the low self esteem or the being over sensitive? And more to the point who decides which one you are and why do they get to be the one to decide?

Taking time to think about it, I’m now pondering the possibility whether all this doesn’t really come down to a battle for who is right and who is wrong? I’m reasonable enough (at the present moment) to see that when I’m being unreasonable there is always a right and a wrong. Hhm food for thought.

I can readily admit that I am a sensitive person, especially when it comes to my loved ones – they always know precisely what to say to hurt me while I try not to show it – not much of a surprise. Let’s see... what to unpack first why loved ones always hurt you more than anyone else or why I feel the need to hide it. Well, neither one is at the heart of my thoughts ... in a true narcissistic fashion I’m thinking just about myself. I’m looking at myself, looking at how I respond to different things and different people and I’ve discovered my world is an internal world because that is where everything happens for me. Insightful but not particularly helpful at this stage in figuring out when I went from a sensitive person to an over sensitive person. What does it say that I feel this migration from one thing to another as a loss? What does it say that I feel that it is a negative thing?

I don’t know when it happened but some time over the last couple of years I made the transition from a sensitive person to an oversensitive one. I went from a person who was able to utilise the anger she felt when I someone said something hurtful to her to get over it, to a person that feels constantly criticised and as though I am being found lacking in some way.

In my lifetime I haven’t often (can’t say never because there have been a few occasions that I have verbally lashed out) responded in kind when I’ve been ... how to should I phrase this... character assassinated (it’ll do for the time being). It was usually my older sister, the middle one, saying the hurtful things to me and mum had always said “You don’t hurt your sister, you’re meant to love her” Arguably it would seem I was either the only one listening to her when she said such things or my sister just didn’t think they applied to her, which would after a fashion make those things one and the same thing – you make up you’re own mind.

Basically I’ve gone from a person who would only take so much from anyone before I’d retaliate to someone who still doesn’t show how hurt she is but feels it keenly, more keenly than I’ve ever done before and never retaliates now. I no longer stand up for myself; I don’t see the point because it feels like a futile exercise.

I don’t like being called oversensitive (ironically it hurts and feels belittling) it makes me angry and defensive. It makes me feel like whoever is calling me it is doing so deliberately; because they know it is going to hurt me and they know it is going to make me defensive. It feels dismissive and reductive; like the person is just dismissing everything said, reducing it down and therefore diminishing the validity of what has been said. It feels like the equivalent of a person shouting louder than you just so their voice will drown out yours. And yes it hurts. It hurts that they aren’t prepared to even go through the motions of listening, it hurts that they aren’t sympathetic. Worse it makes me feel angry that they are, in part, right, I am being oversensitive and they have no idea how I wish this was otherwise. I can admit they are right because surely if it wasn’t then it wouldn’t hurt as much as it did when they said it?

Having recently (more than once) been told I am being oversensitive has made me think about all of this. It has made me wonder when I made the transition and how I get back. I’m not foolish enough to believe that there can be a complete going back, but I do believe a measure of it can be achieved and I want it. I want to go back to being sensitive but balanced, to feeling anger and momentary retaliation before I let it all go. I don’t want to hang on to every hurt and mis-justice the way that I seem to be doing now. I don’t know if that is possible and if it is how I achieve that.

So, once again, I’m stuck in this no man’s land of half realisations, its the proverbial two steps forward one step back.

Silence and Filling in the Blanks

Not for the first time in my life I’m lost for words.

I’m faced with a blank page and find I have nothing to say, nothing to fill that empty space with. No thoughts. No words. No ideas. No feelings. That isn’t to say I have emptiness – emptiness is still ‘something’ even if it is only a space defined by what it lacks.

Instead of feeling panic that it MUST be filled, that I MUST say something, I think it is okay to leave that page blank. It is okay that I have nothing to say. It is okay to be silent.

And I’m going to leave it that.

Ripples, laughter, Christmas

I promised to post memories as they came back to me and to prove I’m as good as my word here is the first...

A few years ago there was just myself out of us three girls still living at home with mum. My sisters had long since moved out into places of their own and were getting on with their lives. Mum hasn’t had a particularly easy life, and as much as it pains me to say she has made it harder for herself with her appalling taste in men. How is it that there are some women out there who go through life only knowing love, care, devotion and companionship while others in desperately seeking those things never seem to experience them in the same way? I can’t say that mum hasn’t known love; we – her children and her family – love her more than she will ever know but I know that there are times in your life when only the comfort of your partner’s arms around you will do. I hope with all my heart that one day mum will find someone as special as she is to spend the rest of her life with.

Getting back to my memory... It was twelve days before Christmas, I know this because we were in our front room, surrounded by boxes of bright sparkling baubles, tangled fairy lights while music played loudly in the background on the stereo. A few months before mum had ended a bad relationship with a man who had been intent upon manipulating her away from all those that she loved. I’m not making excuses for him when I say I do, in part, understand why he tried to do that. He loved her that much that he just didn’t want to share her, he couldn’t understand that we – as her children - came before him and always would. He couldn’t understand the closeness of the bond mum shared with her sister either, it seemed all of us were to him some kind of threat, an enemy who needed to be overthrown. Love is the most powerful thing in this world but it can destroy just as easily as it can nurture. The relationship ended terribly and with so much hurt on both sides. While I was relieved so many months of anguish and anxiety were over it was still an ending and ending are by their very nature tinged with sadness. I only understand now, nearly seven years later just how much I was changed by that ending. I am beginning, I think, to have an appreciation of how much of an impact it’s had on my life and the person I’ve become.

The months that followed the end of that relationship I remember as the most serene and tranquil, happy even, months we have ever shared together. Those happy months of light and laughter brought us to that day, the first day of Christmas. It was a Monday.

Arriving home from work I dropped my coat and bag down on the sofa rather than hanging them up in the coat cupboard, a habit I still haven’t grown out of in my thirties. I remembering feeling so glad that mum hadn’t started to decorate without me. I don’t know what it is about decorating the tree but to me growing up it always had a sense of ceremony about it, held some kind of emotional significance. As I began to take decorations out the box, carefully revealing their shining magnificence by removing the layers of protective tissue paper mum opened a bottle of wine. We had by this point fallen in to an easy pattern of living with each other; we would take it turns to cook and clean, sharing the bills and enjoying the pleasure of taking care of each other. But for some unknown reason food that evening had been forgotten.

We sang and danced and laughed our way through two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates that night. Mum even taught me to jive that evening, something I can still do, although badly and I wouldn’t recommend asking me do it with you, not if you want your feet uninjured. The tree? It was perfect. All things considered it should have looked like we’d just thrown the boxes of decorations at it and hoped for the best, but somewhere in between the laughter, the spinning and twirling we had created the picture of perfection and harmony.

I haven’t had a Christmas or a tree for that matter like that since, but that doesn’t mean I have run out of hope for one in the future. Events, big, small, happy, sad are like pebbles tossed in a pool; they create ripples of movement and emotion that can be felt way out in the stillness of the years to come. I’m feeling one now remembering that moment of shared healing with my mum, and I know again, some time down the road of my life, I’m going feel another ripple and I’ll remember all over again.

Transition

I’ve been of a thoughtful mood of late, the last few days really, and so many memories have started to come back to me. Strange as it sounds, this time of year – autumn - tends to do that to me, make me thoughtful, introverted and introspective. I have a pretty good memory for just about everything – it’s a blessing and a curse especially when it comes to drunken adventures (come on, we’ve all got a few of these lurking in our subconscious) – so not an exceptional thing by itself. What I find exceptional is that for the first time in what has been too long they are happy memories.

When you are going through a tough time, when things feel like they are never going to get better and you are always going to be stuck in that awful moment of transition, it is hard – impossible more often than not – to remember good times, that it is just that a moment of transition. I’m not sure what they this says about me (I dread to think) but when I am moored in this trying time, I look to my past for the answers to change it. Often this is not a good thing, I usually see only the other trying times without seeing the most import thing; that they are in my past and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, a silver lining to the cloud – call it whatever you want – the significant thing was that it is over. That was yesterday and this is today.

Something different has begun to happen though. I am not looking to my past and only seeing the bad, the difficult, the trying, the sad etc I am seeing the good, the happy, the easy and the laughter that was there nestled comfortingly between these more challenging moments. All I had to do was look. If you go in search of bad things and bad memories that is what you are going to see, don’t ask me why (let me think on it for a while and by the time you come back and we meet again, I might have a theory for you) it just happens that way. Usually, but this time something different happened, unprompted happier times and memories started to come back to me. I’m sure there is a reason for this and there is something I am meant to take away from these unlooked for reminders of happier times, whatever it is it eludes me for the time being, but I have hope and faith that I will have an epiphany and all will become revealed.

Right here in the now I am just going to enjoy them, smile and laugh. I will put them here on this blog so that when my mood starts to darken, they are there to remind me it is only a moment of transition. So, until we meet again to exchange these instances of happiness and serenity think happy thoughts and remember the good along with the bad.

What to be when I grow up

Hello blank page of my dissertation, it would seem we meet again... is it your turn or mine to buy the coffee? I’m feeling more than a little anxious and preoccupied today, so you’d better make mine a camomile tea – no sugar or anything no. Yuck, why would you suggest such a thing? Yes I know the handful of mars bar celebrations I’ve just scoffed won’t help my anxiety... I know I should avoid caffeine and sugar, that’s why I asked for camomile ... of for crying out loud just get me a camomile tea.

What have I to preoccupy me? Oh the usual – my awful written and still not finished dissertation, my turbulent see-sawing emotions, my lack of libido, the future, my past, my present... if you think of something that I’ve missed feel free to add it to the list.

Here is a question for you – how many of you are doing what you thought you would be doing for a job? How many of you are in your dream job, or are working towards achieving it? How many of you even know what that might be?

My hand can stay firmly at my side for that one. The ironic thing is at no point when I was playing with my cabbage patch dolls in my garden, make believing about being grown up, was getting to thirty-two, screwing up a Masters degree, struggling with my relationships and compromising my sanity a part of that game. Yes, it is true that in playing with my dolls I was doing just that – playing with them – and not envisioning my life as wife and mother. Thank god I am not the second, no offence to those with children, it’s just that if you knew me you would know why me as a mother is an unnatural thought (I haven’t yet grown out of arguing over the red crayon when colouring in... I’ll leave you with that thought) I was never the little girl that had her children’s names picked out, knew they type of wedding dress she was going to wear, and how her day was going to go. I couldn’t even decide out of the two boys I fancied which one I was going to pretend was my husband and which one was going to be my boyfriend – my lover. How thoroughly modern of me. The frustrating and more than a little soul destroying thing is I while I didn’t envision the 2.4 children, 2 cars and nice house future for myself, I always assumed that by my age I would be settled, for want of a better phrase and I am pretty sure that there is one. By settled I mean in a career in which I was enjoying and making a reasonable about of money to keep me in the stupid little things I obsess about for about a month only to change it to something else just as useful the next (as an after note such obsessions have included shoes, boots, duvet sets, nail varnishes, books – which I still have and will never get rid of – brown items of clothing, jeans, perfume, handbags, you get the picture) And the simple fact is I am so clearly not settled. Not even a little bit. I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, trusting that I do grow up that is.

My significant other, my husband, is the exact reverse; he has always known what he wanted to do as a career and is happily in it. Bully for him, I suppose he’ll want another medal for that achievement. He is just as alien to me as I am to him. I can’t for one moment believe that he has never ever thought of jumping ship (well jumping helicopter I suppose since he’s aircrew in the army) and of being something else. I of course have changed jobs loads of times, what can I say I’m not fickle I just have a short attention span and need to be challenged in a role. The point is I feel more than a little like when Mother Nature was giving out careers or ideas for careers I decided to stay at the Lego table and thought I’d make it up by queuing up twice for sarcasm instead. I feel a great deal like a disappointment, like people are looking at me with wonder and asking themselves what I’m going to do next. Call me paranoid if you want but I really am beginning to think some of them have brought sandwiches along and a comfy blanket so that they get dinner and a show when watching me for my next move. That’s hardly fair so you’ll forgive me my pained and disappointed expression.

The depressing and stressful thing is I know time is ticking, that’s not my biological clock by the way because I insist there are no eggs in my basket – I won’t say never, because I’m more than a little afraid of tempting fate, I did say that about getting married and we can all see how that worked out for me. I want to be in my dream job, I want to happy to get up in the morning and saunter off to wherever that might be and I want to be doing that NOW. I want to have to look in my diary to see if I’m free when people invite me places rather than just being able to say off the top of my head without consulting a single thing (not even the tumble weed in the corner) ‘the 15th? Yeah sure that works for me’ It’s not much to want you’ll agree and I’d even give up all the little obsessive things – not the books that’s a deal breaker - I like to purchase if it meant having my dream job. Well, okay I’ll compromise, I’d settle for knowing what job would suit me and make me happy if it meant being on the way to it rather than holding out for my dream job.
What do I like doing? Lots of things really but creative things mostly. I like hand painting flower pots for my garden, I like making cards to send to people, I like baking – I basically like anything that involves making a bit of a mess. I like getting into heated discussions in which people challenge my opinions (constructively) and make me to justify them, usually about books I’m reading and my interpretation. I like entertaining people with stories of the stupid things I’ve said and done. I like writing, although I’ve been told my style or voice is an acquired taste (I wouldn’t want to be anything different because that means I’m unique, special) What I’ve learnt through attempting to complete my Masters though is that just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you are any good at it, or that it will be easy – surprise! – and I’ve learnt that I’m no good at academia. Well, that is to say that it is a monumental struggle for me to articulate myself in an acceptable academic fashion. Communicating orally isn’t a problem for me – a nice person once told me I talk in pictures which I decided was a compliment, feel free to agree with me here – I’m blunt and to the point but articulate my opinion in way that doesn’t fail to be understood. When it comes to writing though it’s a different story, a horrible, plodding, dark tale of struggle and obstacles to be overcome and hardship and failure. Oh alright that might be on the melodramatic side, but it really isn’t that far from the truth, really. There is no hiding from the fact I am not in any way, shape or form, good at it.

So, academia is off the table for me, there really is only so much humiliation I can put myself through when handing in essays etc that my fragile pride can take. Once again I find myself back on the path of self discovery, searching for a career and something that I might be good enough at to make me happy and earn me some money. Any ideas? I’m open to suggestion.

Trash Time

I’ve been in a dark place for quite a while now, struggling to come to terms with a number of personal issues – in fact if I had to pick one word to sum up the last 18 months of my life that didn’t involve profaning it would be just that STRUGGLING – and I haven’t for a long time laughed from the heart. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve done a great deal of hiding within myself and only pretending to be present with others, laughing, nodding, uttering the seemingly right responses in the right place, but I haven’t really been present. It’s all been an act. I hadn’t realised what a consummate actress I was.

Last Friday I was in a relatively good mood; I could in my mind see light at the end of the tunnel with my dissertation. I had spent all of the week working incredibly hard on writing my last chapter on Henry James to my dissertation. I had gone to bed in the wee hours getting up again before it was light to continue working on it. Finally when I thought I had said all I could say I sent it to my supervisor already turning my attention to editing the previous chapters. You see the idea was to refresh myself of the key points of the arguments in them to help me structure my conclusion and drew them together. I was feeling a great deal lighter, eagerly looking forward to and anticipating handing it in today, if not tomorrow... I guess the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I experienced upon seeing my supervisor’s name in my inbox should have forewarned me. Hum jury is still out on that one.

He didn’t directly say it was a pile of crap but I read in between the lines and the tone... and well... I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing my heart out. I was totally crushed. It wasn’t what he said – to be honest I agree perfectly and without a doubt with what he did say – it was that my goal post had been moved. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted to throw the towel in and just give in; I took it as yet another sign that quite clearly I don’t possess the intelligence for a Masters. I was totally and utterly distraught, turning over and over in my mind all the hours I had put in and how hard I’d worked to articulate my ideas – badly it would seem if it needed (and still does need) to be re-written. I felt like yet again the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I had landed unceremoniously on my backside. I kept asking myself why I was bothering to do the academic equivalent of banging my head up against the brick wall. Oh yeah that will be my stubbornness rearing it’s oh so attractive head again (well it would be attractive if it had kept ramming itself against a wall wouldn’t it?) I felt humiliated to think of what my supervisor must have been thinking reading what I had sent him, imagining him to be asking the heavens what he had done in his life time to deserve drawing the short straw of having to supervise me.

I did what any emotional woman does – reached for the phone and called a friend. I’m not sure she managed to understand the first 10 or so minutes of our conversation through me sobbing incoherently down the phone at her. I had full crying dramatics going on; the snotty nose, the high pitched wailing, the starting in the middle rather than explaining from the beginning, you name it I had it. She was fantastic, calmed me down, reasoned with me and talked me into still going to visit like we had planned.

Friday night turned into the craziest night I’ve had in 5 years. I haven’t had that much fun, let off that much steam or been as light hearted and free from my dark place in...Well, let it suffice to say in too long. And strangely enough I can remember it all without cringing. Just thinking about it now still makes me smile and my friend, my best friend did that for me. She picked me off the ground, let me cry on her shoulder, hugged me until my sobbing and wailing had subsided to muffled and dripping snuffling, helped me fix my make up and took me out for the evening. When I say she took me out for the evening I don’t just mean to drink and dance – she took me out of me for the evening – for those 9 hours she helped me be another person.

Friends who will do that for you without thought to what is going on in their lives, physically or emotionally, don’t come along too often. I have to admit I have some weird commitment issues so I tend to be a bit of a drifter – you never know how long I’m going to be around or if I’m going to be back any time soon – at least I used to be like that until I met this friend. She has picked me up and dusted me off more times in the last couple of years than I can say, and for that I’m grateful because without her I seriously doubt I would have been able to retain my stubborn streak and carried on.

I guess what I’m trying to say – I feel like my way of articulating myself of late is the equivalent of a caveman clubbing people over the head, yes that unsophisticated – is friends without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation the most undervalued precious item you can ever hope to possess. My friend, my best friend is one of these precious items and I only hope I can be as good to her as she has been to me. My last thing to say is simply thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being there for me – you know who you are – thank you again.

Thank You For The Music

A person's taste in music is an incredibly subjective thing. What moves one person to tears to finally find the lyrics to articulate a feeling, does without a doubt move another to change the radio station.

Last night I went to an ABBA Thank You For The Music concert with my older sister. Most people I have mentioned this to have looked at me strangely. Judging by their expressions I assume this to be for two reasons: 1) why would you, they are beyond cheesy and incredibly bad and 2) why would you readily admit to something like that? I admit to something like that for a number of reasons.

Almost two years ago my best and closest friend was going through an intensely difficult and hard time. Despite talking as often as we could via every medium to hand I lived miles away and so couldn’t physically be there for her. I couldn’t hug her, or make her something nice to eat, or get a DVD to distract her with, or just show her how much I cared. I hated it. I hated knowing what she was going through and felt helpless that I couldn’t be there in person to support her. I did what I perceived to be the next best thing; I sent her a hug in a bag. I thought of all the things that made me smile or gave me reason to smile and I wrapped them up and sent them to her in a goodie bag. They weren’t expensive things, just some chocolate, a new bottle of perfume, a purple necklace I knew she would love, a face pack to pamper herself with and a CD. A ABBA Gold CD to be precise. You see many people dismiss this group as Euro Trash, as a band that shouldn’t be allowed out of the 70s or out of a themed club where you hire a costume and dance ridiculously. But I beg to differ.

I used to share a room with my older sister when we were growing up, and being the youngest I had absolutely no say in what music me listened to. So, the blame for my somewhat dubious taste in music lies firmly at her feet (being the youngest does at times have its advantages). She introduced me to ABBA. I have to admit other than singing along loudly and normally tunelessly or dancing in a hired costume at one of those aforementioned themed clubs, I hadn’t given my taste in music that much thought. That is until last night.

A short while ago we had a pretty serious falling, serious enough for me to still be feeling the repercussions and also to be acutely aware of it whenever we spent time together. Yesterday, through the medium of ABBA I began to repair my relationship with my older sister. As I stood in the middle of Hyde Park dancing (badly and singing even worse) I laid to rest much of my hurt and anger and much of the bad feelings I had been carrying around. I had never noticed before how many of the lyrics to songs I had previously dismissed choked me, how they helped ease the wounds inside and as always, made me smile. Smiling isn’t something I have done much of lately, well, actually for quite some time, but yesterday I did and it was with my sister at my side.

Last night as I made my way home I thought about it all; my husband, my mum, my sister, our falling out, my friend and her difficult times. I thought about my journey over the last two years and how far I had come. I thought how much I had achieved even if it didn’t (and it still mostly doesn’t) feel like I have achieved a great deal. And it occurred to me who would have thought when I sent that CD to my friend to ease her suffering and to give her something to smile about (ABBA does if nothing else make most of us smile) it would do the same for me. My intention had been to make her feel better, to give her a reason and something to make her smile. When she needed a hug, or felt overwhelmed and like she was drowning, I wanted her to reach for ABBA and for it to be and do all the things I couldn’t be there to give her. I wanted it to be her security, her hope and her comfort. I wanted in a nutshell, for it to be me. Last night during the concert and on the way home it was all of those things for me.

So, as cheesy as it sounds I really do Thank ABBA for the music. It might not be to your taste but next time you have a friend in need try singing Chiquitita to her, listen to the words and see if they aren’t entirely fitting. Look to see if she doesn’t smile too, maybe even laugh. When you are out with your friends on a night out, if Dancing Queen comes on, look to their faces and you’ll see they are smiling. Stupidly and perhaps more than a little drunkenly, but smiling none-the-less. If you ever find yourself in the midst of a relationship break up listen to the words of One of Us, I bet it will do more than just annoy you. Go on, give a shot, what have you got to lose?

Dissertation

When something is breaking you at what point do you throw in the towel? Should that even be an option?

I've just spent the better part of an hour pounding my fists against a punch bag in order to vent some anger and frustration. My knuckles are slightly blue and slightly swollen, and I wore gloves. What's got me in this mood?... My dissertation, yup got it one, there was no possibility it was going to be anything else.

I have it on good authority that doing a Masters is not meant to be easy. I accept that, but, there's always a but with me, I'm not sure it is meant to be THIS hard. I'll backtrack and elaborate. During my undergraduate I had one or two lecturers who made the comment I was good at academia, stupidly my vanity and pride believed them. So, two years on here I am struggling monumentally through writing 20,000 words.

What's 20,000 words right? We must, on an average day, say so much more than that in idle chit chat, in asking questions, to ourselves - come on admit it you talk to yourself too - just saying hello to people we meet. So, how hard can it be to write 20,000 words intelligently on a subject you've got a great interest in? Evidently the hardest thing I've ever had to do because struggling doesn't begin to describe what I'm going through.

The problem, I think, is that I've lost my voice. I've lost my confidence in myself and my capabilities. I have - in a nut shell - lost myself. Writing academically has always been a challenge for me, something I haven't found easy but have just chipped doggedly away at until I somehow reach the end. It isn't a determination thing but a stubbornness thing, trust me there is a difference. But, with this dissertation there doesn't seem to be an end. It doesn't matter how hard I try or how hard I work it doesn't feel good enough or to be making a difference. And I am so tired of trying. I am so frustrated with the futility of it all.

I don't, not for one moment, expect this to be easy. Nothing worth achieving is every easy, of this I am aware. And, knowing myself the way that I do, I won't be giving up any time soon until it is done. Why? Because I don't give in. That isn't to say I have an aversion to quitting. Not at all. There are times when it is simply better to admit perhaps you aren't on the right path and something just isn't meant to be, and gracefully stop. I know this. I'm just stubborn. Once I have set myself in a direction or on a path nothing moves me from it. See, stubbornness not determination. The thing is, I wouldn't mind this trait in myself if the sense of achievement I got at the end was proportionate to my stubbornness. But it never is. I don't feel a sense of achievement any more. So, if I don't feel this, if I don't feel pride in myself, or relief at the end - why am I doing it? For what purpose?

That said, I guess now is the time to get back on with writing it - so wish me luck because right now I feel like I need a great deal more than luck.

Time Out

My husband and I moved into our current house nearly a year ago, being that he is in the army we are renting. My pet hate, or least one of them, is people who are lazy and only do half a job, the kind of people who cut corners rather than having a sense of pride in what they do and giving it all that they have. Unfortunately it would seem the majority of the those work for the people we rent our property from. Lucky me.

We had a number of bushes outside our front room window, they were so overgrown we couldn't open the windows and absolutely no light came into the room. So, on the day we signed for the house we asked if they could be chopped down and removed. Yeah right. Half a job and watcher of half a job turned up, hacked the bushes down to a stump and then promptly left. Oh did I forget to mention the bushes were so overgrown they had killed all the grass around them? No, well they did. So, mutilating them left nothing behind apart from said stumps and brown lumpy and bumpy earth, which no matter how much grass seed I put down and turn over refuses to look anything other than ugly. Thanks guys. No really, thanks. Every couple of weeks I go outside and do monumental battle with these stubs because they just refuse to die and despite my attempts, they can't be dug up. They manage to sprout new branches and grow wonderfully but can they be dug up or killed off? Not likely. Believe me I have tried. Oh yes, a whole lot of blood, tears of frustration and blisters have gone into trying to get them out of the ground. It's not over yet, I am nothing if I am not determined to make the outside of our house look semi decent and feel like a home.

That said, I have now moved on to the back garden. I'm not fickle I just divert my attention to another problem until I am ready to go back to one that had previously defeated me, and when I do it's with the intention of winning.

So today, instead of working on my dissertation because I can't seem to say the things that I need to say the way that I need to say them (I have to tick those appropriate boxes after all) I did battle with the garden. On the right hand side of our patio our landlord was kind enough, remind me to thank him, to plant a rose bush, two evergreen thingys and two other unknown trees. Please keep in mind this little side panel to our patio is about twelve inches wide and three foot long. You can see where I am going with this can't you. After months of desperately trying to 'manage' these plants, trees etc I finally gave in ... I took my husband's mini saw, our friend's gardening fork and cut down the trees and dug up one of the evergreen thingys. And I feel suitably smug with myself, even if my back is killing me, I was brutally attacked by snails, yes brutally attacked, got covered in mud and rained on.

The thing is yes I am absolutely fuming that there are people out there who are lazy and pathetic enough to think it is okay to get by on doing just the minimum, to do half a job because it means they don't have to exert themselves and can get home five minutes earlier. How can they live like that? How do they sleep at night? I mean not only can they hardly be tired, they haven't exerted themselves or worked hard enough for that, but how can not feel their conscience nagging them? I might ask them the next time I have the pleasure of watching them do half a job, that should give them something to think about before turning the light out at night.

Complaining, or ranting aside, am I pleased with my efforts? Yes I am. I do feel like I have a sense of having done something productive, but the best thing is I DID IT. No one helped me, no one was there to tell me I was doing it wrong or I should have done it another way instead, or I should have left it alone because I was wasting my time, or that I've made it look worse. Of course there is every possibility that I have done all of those things: made it look worse, done it wrong etc but I don't care because I did it by myself. It might be something small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things but to me it is an achievement. I think there are times when we are too hard on ourselves, others too, but in particular, ourselves. Rather than congratulating ourselves when we achieve something and feeling a sense of pride in what we have done, we dismiss it and move right on to the next thing on our list. Like a fine wine or a tantalising piece of cake I think moments of achievement should be savoured, should be allowed to be enjoyed and luxuriated in. We should all slow down occasionally, take a deep breath and just pause for a moment, however short, to look at what we’ve achieved. When we measure ourselves we shouldn’t look at our far we still have to go, we should take care to see who far we have come, how much progress we have made and be proud.

Introducing Lincoln

My neighbour two doors down is lucky enough to have the kind of job that takes her different places frequently, unfortunately as does her husband. Having taken over the care of Lincoln or Linc for short, a 2 year old Labrador from her mum, he was too much for her to handle and assumed the role the dominate one, they are forced to put him into kennels on a regular basis. Enter me, who has spent the better part of 8 months trying to convince her husband a dog would be a good addition to our family, he thinks I would teach it bad habits. The injustice. After much debating we managed to convince them it would be better all round if we, as in my husband and I, looked after Linc for them while they were away. I'm am entirely sure my husband has agreed on the premise it will serve to teach me the lesson of how much of a restriction they are, personally I think his reluctance is more do with not wanting to share my affection. Well I would wouldn't I? I'm not going to readily agree to teaching a dog bad habits am I? At least not when anyone can hear at any rate.

Any way, getting back to Linc. We had a wonderful pet dog, Mutt (no laughing at the name we were nothing if original in our family when it came to naming pets: our cat was called Kitty), when I was growing up. He might not have been the brightest star in the night sky but he was everything you could want in a pet: loving, affectionate, entertaining, always pleased to see you, great listener and an all round great dog. We said goodbye to him over 10 years ago and I still have a picture of him, groovy carpet included, in my filo fax. To this day I am unable to look at him without being filled with a multitude of memories and becoming tearful. When we used to take him to the park, we had to spell the word because he would go nuts if we said it out loud, he would beg for scrapes of bread from the old couples feeding the ducks (so shameful). If that didn't win him a crust or two he'd simple snatch it away before the ducks could get there and then run as fast as he could away from their angry beaks. Did I forget to mention he was a coward? I prefer to gloss over that part.

So, taking care of Linc has been both painful for the memories he induced and full of laughter. Watching him shake his squeaky drill toy all over the garden, more often than not hitting himself with it, getting his foot trapped in the strap of his sling-ball and listening to sounds of him sleeping has been one hell of an experience. I will confess to having a really bad night's sleep last night, I kept waking up worrying about Linc: what if he needed to go to the toilet? Did he have enough water in his bowl? Was that the sound of him being sick? Was he okay? I won't admit this to hubby but when I took the large decorative pillows off the bed, which I do every night because hubby simply gets in around them, pretty impressive trick really, I thought about Linc laying on them. At first I was none too pleased, I'm also the one that removes the covers and has to wash said decorative pillows, but, then I thought of him laying on the hard floor. I left them on the floor and purposely didn't put them out of reach. During the night, when hubby was asleep and I woke to check on Linc I felt better seeing him slumped up against the big pillow, his head on the smaller one drooling. I know I shouldn't have left them there in the first place, it was a given that Linc would make himself comfortable, but ... what can I say Mutt had his own duvet so what's the problem with a few pillows? That sounds worse than it actually is, Mutt was not in the least pampered or spoilt I mean we didn't buy him jumpers and blankets to keep warm in during Winter, or cute outfits to for Summer, the worst he had to suffer was me putting a pair of my knickers on his head a bonnet when I was little (his ears poked out the holes for my legs perfectly). The duvet had belonged to one of us kids, when we graduated to a double bed in our teenage years we no longer had a use for it and Mutt was getting old. We used to leave it on the top landing over the hot water pipes and next to the radiator but moved it downstairs eventually, Mutt had by this point got quite old and getting up and down the stairs was difficult (he had problems with his back legs)so we thought his old bones could do with a little padding.

Looking after Linc has reminded me, especially in relation to how hard the last two years have been and how I have been let down, just how much pets give back in exchange for a little bit of food and if a dog, the odd walk. I think Linc has started to help me unlock places within myself that I have kept secure and closed and for that I am thankful as much as I am afraid. With any luck it is journey we can continue together if he gives hubby and I a good report when his real family comes home.

Tired as I am I have made myself do things I wouldn't have done for myself, like leaving the house instead of working at my lap top all day. I got up early, well earlier than I have done in long time, to walk him because he needs me to do that. I take time out from working just to play with him in the garden for 10 or so minutes instead of just surfing the net. I make sure there is shade for him in the garden when it is hot, okay so that bit is maybe going too far because he could just go in the kitchen to cool off, but I do it any way.

So for anyone who has suffered disappointment or has trust issues I absolutely recommend a pet, they can't heal all wounds but they certainly help the road to recovery and I'm going to be more than a little sad when we have to give him back tomorrow lunch time.

Charlotte Debono

On 21st April 2008 we buried my nan, my mother's mother. A difficult day was made all the harder by the things we discovered about her, or more to the point discovered how much we didn't know about her.

My nan was a strange, eclectic lady with a heavy french accent who always smelt of a comforting mixture of cigarette smoke and fabric softener. She was the kind of woman who loved freely, the harder the time you had experienced the more love she lavished on you, but as is often the sad nature of these things she left herself open to being taken advantage of, so perhaps she loved a little too freely.

I remember her funeral being a very emotionally raw day for myself, I'd got married not two days before and was in the midst of a family falling out. Regardless of all the raw turbulent emotions I was feeling that day, not least the hurt knowing my own mother had not been fully reconciled with her own mother at the time of her death, I was stunned at how much of my grandmother's life was shadowed by the unknown. I knew nothing of her childhood, nothing of her sister; was she older or younger, did they fight like I was with mine? What kind of things did she like to do? Where did she spend her childhood? In what country? What was it like? What was her mother, my great grandmother like? What was her father, my great grandfather like? What was my grandfather like? What made her join the nunnery? What made her leave? What made her choose my grandfather as her husband? What was their relationship like? When did they divorce? Why did they divorce? Where did he go after the divorce? Why didn't any one know and why didn't any one talk about it or ask questions?

Now nearly two years on I find myself thinking about her a great deal. Missing her and hating the fact I let me own resentment of family politics get in the way of building a true grandmother/granddaughter relationship. Often, when I least expect it, I can smell her. Smell the scent of cigarette smoke and softener that is my memory of her even though she had given up smoking ten or so years before she died.

Lately because I have been struggling to find out who I am, why I do the things that I do, feel the way that I do, react the way that I do I find my thoughts drifting back to Charlotte. I wonder if I am like her, if I love in the same unrestrained and all-giving manner that she did. I wonder if am as secretive as her when it comes to past hurts. I wonder why and what made her fall out with my mother. I wonder a great deal about these things and find the gaps frustrating but more sad than anything else. I wonder if in the name of self-preservation we go through life only revealing what we choose to reveal, hiding that small spark that is at the centre of our being that we may in times of need reach down and find it there without anyone else knowing of its existence.

Pests

I'm not particularly green-fingered, that is I am usually better at killing things than I am growing them but I still try and I do have my success stories however few... tomatoes, Christmas Cactus, and my money plant. That about sums it up really.

I have this vision of having a garden like you see on the adverts, you know the ones where the grass is neat and green and luscious. Mine is lumpy, brown in places and bald in others. Where the flowers all stand proudly to attention displaying their blooms like medals of honour, the colours vibrant and eye-catching. My hand-painted pots are certainly eye-catching, they look like next door’s toddler has been inspired and handed a paint brush, the flowers and plants...bedraggled, riddled with holes and looking incredibly sorry for themselves. I like my pots though.

Next door’s garden is one such garden. Landscaped, well groomed, well tended, well established and picturesque. I shield the eyes of my poor little plants so they don’t know how the other half live.

My problem is the resident slugs and snails in my garden. It would seem that while my flowers and plants look less than desirable to me they are to the slugs and snails. Gggggrrrr.

Finally unable to stand my endeavours being completely destroyed in a fit of rage I stormed into the kitchen and used my entire salt pot on the ones stupid enough not to have disappeared when I had glared at them 30 seconds before. I’m ashamed to say that I felt pleasure watching them suffer, after all how dare they eat my tentative efforts to make my small patch of this planet pleasing to look at. I think I might have trumpeted triumphantly. I might have. Okay I did. I whooped around the patio laughing gleefully as I whisked away my pots and removed them to another part of the garden. Let it not be said Mother Nature doesn’t have a sense of humour; you should have seen the mess those slimy repellent creatures left behind on said patio...so disgusting. Needless to say I was much more subdued when cleaning later.

I still say that I won that particular battle, the proof is in the fact they haven’t come back. Mind you, the damage has been done to my now pitiful plants. But it doesn’t matter because I've moved on, I saw a bag of 45 tulip bulbs the other day.... TULIPS HERE I COME!!

Lost in Nevernever Land

Today is not a good day. I feel tearful and disconnected from everything. I have to hand in my dissertation in about a month and I've no plans for after that date. My life as I know is essentially going to come to an end... Does it scare me? Yes and no. Yes because I am well aware there are people looking at me expectantly, I should of course by my age have figured out what I'm going to be when I grow up, so obviously I should know what my next step is. That bit scares me. That and actually telling people I don't have a clue, sure I have a list as long as you like of what I don't want to do/be etc but what do I want to do? I don't know, worse I don't even know what I can do, what I'm good at or who to ask what I can do. Huh that is a great deal to NOT know when studying for a Masters as an apparent mature student. The irony.

To be entirely honest I am not that stressed about not having this figured out for myself, or least I wouldn't feel so much like a disappointment if the significant people in my life didn't keep pointing out that I need to have this figured out. I know that, I really do. I feel like by not knowing and not having a plan I am letting people down, disappointing them. I can feel their frustration and simmering anger hiding beneath the surface of their calmness, I can see them swallowing it because they don't want to upset me whilst at the same time telling me these are things I should have thought about ages ago. Of course they are right; I should have thought about these things ages ago, like when picking my GCSEs or A Levels. Clearly I've not thought about this stuff enough.

Perhaps my procrastination is about avoiding adult responsibility and wherever possible I will just do nothing in the vain hope 'something' will happen or be decided for me. Perhaps I'm attempting to make myself a permanent resident of Nevernever Land. I'm sure there are some that would agree, to a certain extent I do myself. How can I not when there is so much evidence in its favour?

Soul Searching

Before I get back on with my dissertation I feel I need to talk about this for a while...

The passed two years have been the toughest I've ever experienced in my life, my world was completely destroyed and I am still struggling to make sense of it all. I am still struggling to find some kind of peace and understanding. I feel like after all that has happened I am standing completely dazed and somewhat numb surveying the wreckage of what is left of not only my life as I knew it but also me. I no longer know or trust who I am. I am a fairly independent person, I've always taken care of myself and coped with things by myself. I don't find it particularly easy to open up or share my concerns, usually I don't have to because I am more than capable of sorting them out myself.

Between uprooting my life for the man I love because I wanted and needed to be with him more than anything else in the world, falling out with my mum and my elder sister, moving house, attempting to study a Masters, losing two grandparents and failing my driving test 3 times I feel more than a little battered. I don't just feel like the wind has been knocked out of me I feel like my entire world has been destroyed and I am left surveying the devastation left. I feel hurt, vulnerable, exposed, unsure and like I am never going to be the same person again. Nothing is the same any more, and I need things to be the same because I feel so lost and confused. I need familiarity, I need some kind of security and I don't feel that I have any.

I would never have made the decision to get married and cause unbelievable friction with my family if I hadn't been completely in love and sure of what I was doing. But now, after everything that has happened...I don't have that any more. Instead of seeking my husband out when I need to be comforted or need to talk I retreat into myself. I've become this snappy and grumpy and stressed person that lashes out verbally for no apparent reason.

I'm not stupid enough to believe that there can ever be a going back, be it a place or a feeling, no matter how much it is desired it really isn't possible. What I would like however is to regain some of my confidence, not just in myself but in all the things that I did before and now feel like I've taken for granted in the passed. I wish I could open up to people, to be honest about how I feel and stop pushing people away. Do I do this because I'm afraid of needing someone and them not being there for me? I really don't know despite the age old saying of 'people rarely ask questions that they don't already know the answer to'

I find it sad that I feel unable or willing to connect with people, especially with people that I have always gone to for support before. Perhaps it is just going to take time, and for the moment I am still securing the hatches and preparing to be assaulted again by something else. I don't know. I do know that I have a great deal of unanswered questions that do little to make me feel better or to inspire confidence. I want to be able to curl up in my husband's arms, close my eyes and feel like it is the safest place to be in the world, like it doesn't matter what happens I will always have him like I used to. What really upsets me is knowing that I don't feel like this now and not knowing why or when I started to feel like this.

I guess that is enough thinking about all this for one day and I should get on with writing my dissertation.

Venting

Being that there are times that I find I need to vent or rant, whichever way you want to look at it, I thought I would create a place just for that. Create a space where I can hammer away at the keys on my laptop in a designated place that won't spill over into my other... the right word escapes me right now so I'm just going to go with 'stuff'

Unusually I find that I don't have anything to rant about today... but, it's only early and I'm sure I won't be disappointed.

nothing ventured

Once again I seem to find myself in the kind of place where someone else is judging me without really knowing me or my capabilities, the injustice of that is awe inspiring. It really is.

Is it my problem with authority that makes me question who has the right to weigh and measure someone and find them lacking? Or is the fact that I don't think it is anyone's place to do that? Who died and made them judge and jury?

I'll start at the beginning, why fight tradition. I've been studying for a Masters in English Literature for the passed year and to say it has been somewhat of an uphill struggle is an understatement of monumental proportions. Trust me on this one it has been far from a Friday night out on the beer. Understandably as with life I've had a number of 'personal' issues to cope with along the way, after all this life is no Disney. Remind me to take that up with old Walt, not happy about being lied to there. May be this is me making excuses but my grades haven't been my best, I've let 'personal' stuff dominate my focus and my pride being what it is I haven't been forthcoming in asking for help or admitting to them. They're my problems and I'm not a big fan of sharing.

So, contemplating a PhD going back to my Creative Writing (I've missed it this year in conforming to ticking the boxes of requirement in academic essays) I went to see the department secretary... It went well. Everybody likes to hear their marks haven't been encouraging or particularly strong (reading between the lines not sure you'd be offered a place). Thanks for the vote of confidence. My expression must have said a thousand words, either which way it was sufficient in making her backtrack to add that she's in no way the quotable authority. Keep back peddling lovely.

Any way, I feel quite crushed at the moment despite knowing my grades haven't been particularly good. It is one thing to know something but is entirely different hearing someone else voice it in the harsh light of day. What can I say I'm better at communicating in person, when it comes to putting it on the page something gets lost in the translation - my intelligence it would seem - and things don't come out as they should. It infuriates me, worse it makes me sarcastic.

What do I want? I'd like and I'm sure I can blame this one on Disney too, boy are we going to have one hell of a debate when I catch up with him, to be seen. Truly seen, to have someone look beyond the fact that perhaps I'm not the best at writing essays but it doesn't mean I should be written off. Isn't there anyone out there who can see beyond the clumsy and at times awkward style and see 'work in progress' see that I might be average now but with a little bit of time and attention I could be great? Evidently not. Okay I admit I'm opinionated, sarcastic and disobedient at the best of times - I wont mention what I can be at the worst of times I'm attempting to persuade of my finer qualities - but I prefer to think of it as being independent and spirited with a dry sense of humour. Feel free to agree with me here. Entertaining traits if not good. I just don't want one trouble fueled and intense year to be the thing that is stamped upon me and that I'm known for. Surely the sarcasm should count for something?

I'm not sure I should even bother to apply now, never mind I should more to the point I'm not sure I want to. What's the point? Why set yourself up to be told you're not good enough? I'm a sadistic person most of the time it's true but... well I do have my pride and I'd like it relatively in one piece too.

Food for thought I suppose... better get back to conforming to academic modes of expression and ticking those oh so important boxes of acceptance.

Questions for you...

...what do you do if you have the monkey on your back and he doesn't seem to be finding someone else to bother any time soon?

Why is it that it is always those that you love the most that manage to hurt you the most?

Why is it the one thing that you are looking for is the one thing that you'll never find or get?

Didn't Allanis Morrisette (excuse the guessed spelling not particularly in the mood for correctness at the moment) write a song about such things?

Any way moving on... I don't understand why when you need people they let you down and in such a spectacular manner that you're left reeling. Left a burnt out husk of a person with a gaping wound that just won't heal. It doesn't matter how many tears you shed over it, or how much time passes the level of pain and the degree of hurt just doesn't lessen or go away. It's always there, like that proverbial bad penny or the white elephant in the room that you deliberately fail to acknowledge.

As the tone may well testify I'm in the angry stage (crying stage is getting a tad tedious and boring now, besides that a red and flaky nose isn't particularly attractive on me). A heads up on what stage follows this would be good, so I'll leave you with that to ponder.

Guilty Secret

One Night Stand

Dumped. But I'd kept my dignity and not let him see me cry. I’d made out that I’d agreed we should break up, it was a way of keeping a shred of dignity and pride. There was more pride than anything else, if I think about it. What I did after not only leaves a lot to be desired but has no dignity or pride in it. I’d like to say that I was on the rebound, not thinking, drunk and stoned. On a generous day I nod my head sagely to being all of those things, well maybe not stoned, but still, there is no excuse for what I did and I can’t say that I am proud of it either. It is funny though, if you think about it...

What did I do? I had a one night stand. Not really note worthy in this day and age and with my generation, but for me absolutely one hundred percent one of my guilty secrets. Oh it isn’t the deed itself that I feel guilty about, good God no. That, in itself is a non-entity. I guess if I’m going to make a full confession and do it properly, I’d best start at the beginning. Oh, well here we go...

I was nineteen, or twenty, my exact age isn’t important and to be perfectly honest I can't remember. The point is I was young enough to be excused the mistake and old enough to have known better (I sound just like my mother). Let’s call him Ben because I have to protect people and myself here, and Ben is as good a name as any. Ben was my on-off boyfriend of nearly two years. We met at college in Philosophy; me twirling my hair in the sunlight for the best effect, you understand (never underestimate the vanity of a teenager, well anyone for that matter really). He was opposite me, perfecting that bored look of feigned disinterest, the way they do when trying to impress. I can’t say that I'd noticed his efforts at the time; I was preoccupied with thinking about scoring at lunch time. That and I fancied his mate next to him. What can I say... teenage hormones at their best. I knew he was interested in me but I didn't give it a second thought, well what could I do about it? Listening to myself this sounds like a terrible teen flick. Oh well in for a penny in for a pound.

Any way, we went out for drinks together, got stoned together, I led him on and then bottled out before I got out of my depth or had to commit to any act. I don't think I like the teenage me much at the moment. Eventually we did get together, in our second year and just before he left to join the army. For a while the sex, drink and drugs suited us perfectly. Like most relationships where passion is fuelled by substances it all went wrong - but I’d fallen in love, hopelessly in love. Idiot.

What had started as a little ego boost for me turned into a nightmare. This guy did all the usual things that break your heart; he stood me up, he kept secrets from me, he kept me waiting while he was out getting pissed with his mates, he paraded me around like I was some trophy to show off when he felt like it and I’m pretty sure there are a whole lot more other things I let the skinny wretch get away with. Not at all pleased with myself. Not even a little bit. He even had the cheek to come back from being away and not tell me he was back and then expect me to drop everything to be with him, as if him being there was all that mattered. As if. And I was the stupid imbecilic creature that let him do it. Ggrrr. Not in any way, shape, or form impressed.

So, it ended in tears and they were mostly mine but, like I'd said, I'd cried alone and didn’t show Ben just how much my world had tumbled down around me. It’s a self preservation thing that, I still do it now. I was all over the place after he dumped me the shit, but like the Murphy’s I’m not bitter. But like an elephant I never forget either. Hell hath no fury and all at.

A couple of months later I bumped into Steven. He was another ex, someone I had also seen while at college, although only for a few months. At college he hadn’t struck me as having much personality; he was too eager to please and too agreeable. In short boring. What teenager wants to go out with a boy who has perfected the answer ‘yes’ and doesn’t know his own mind? God you couldn’t get any more dull. At the time of seeing Steven I was sixteen, studying for my A Levels and finding myself; I wanted someone with a little more spice. Steven’s drinking and weed smoking just wasn’t spicy enough for me; everyone was doing it. I needed more. I needed the element of danger and he didn’t come with it.

Within a few weeks of seeing him my feelings had changed and I spent most of the time crouched down behind parked cars getting my friends to lie for me; it was amazing how little everyone seemed to see of them then. Truly amazing; amusing, too, if you think about it. How they kept a straight face and lied whilst I sat at their feet smoking a cigarette I have no idea. Huh, and not one drama student among us. I suppose, being largely vacant from smoking the weed helped. Eventually I told him the clichéd words hat it wasn’t him, it was me and he deserved someone better, and I thought of more like a brother now. So original, you’ll agree, but if it works who am I to complain?

Any way, a few months after the Ben business (the exact details are hazy, that’ll be the weed then) Steven and I bumped into each other again and we went for a drink. It was somewhere in Paddington, I think, not that he exact details or location matter much. While we sat there I got to thinking about us, as in Steven and me and how we’d never actually had sex. His conversation must have been riveting. You see, I’d never bothered before because I’d always assumed he wasn’t going to be worth the time or effort. But sitting there it occurred to me that I should bother, just to find out and to make sure that I hadn’t missed out on anything.

We went back to his place to drink some more and get stoned; he still lived with his mum – no surprise that. Looking around the flat in St. John’s Wood, I could tell my mum would love me to start seeing him again – his mum was an antiques dealer. There would have been a great deal of ecstatic sighs and hands run lovingly over polished surfaces had she been there. Mind you, if she had I wouldn’t have done what I did. Amusing that.

He gear was crap, the vodka was cheap, and his mother saw right through me, calling me petite Aphrodite. I’ve been called worse. The event? To say it was tiresome is an understatement. The guy was as boring in bed as he was elsewhere in life, worse really, because he wasn’t as eager to please in that department and it was certainly over before I’d even got started. No real surprise there, then. So not wanting to waste any more time than I already had and certainly not wanting to do the cuddle thing after, well there wasn’t an after for me, so why bother? I got him to give me a fiver and I got a cab home. And, I had no intention of paying the money back since I hadn’t got anything else out of the evening. Guess what, I never called after.

What am I ashamed of? It’s not that I had a one night stand. As I said before, that’s hardly worth mentioning in this day and age, what with depravity and debauchery for breakfast for most. It’s the way that I treated him. It’s the fact I slept with him just to make sure he was crap as I’d always assumed and to make sure I really hadn’t missed out on anything. Oh, and the money thing, that was cheap. I should have held out for at least a tenner. May be then I would have got all the way home instead of only to Kings Cross where I had to take the night bus. I could say something about the appropriateness of where my fiver got me to... but I can’t keep a straight face when I do.

Getting back to shame part, it’s the carelessness in it all that I’m ashamed of; my mum didn’t raise me to be like that or to be that type of girl. If I saw him again would I feel the need to apologise or make redress? Probably not. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember, so what difference would it make? Besides, I like having things like this on my conscience, makes me feel interesting. It’s one of those vanity things.

Problem

If you've heard your neighbours having an argument in the early hours, don't know them at all but have heard 'things' about the husband, do you knock the next day to see if the wife is okay?

When I heard her scream it didn't sound fearful, or frustrated, rather kind of lacking in emotion if I think about it. When he shouted 'What do you want from me?' I didn't hear her response and the truth of it is I didn't want to either. In fact I would have much preferred not to have been woken and privy to it at all, not because I don't want to get involved (I don't but that isn't the point) and not because no one wants to be woken at that time (which I also didn't), but more to do with it being an entirely personal exchange. Of course the question of how personal can an exchange had at the top of you lungs be does begged to be answered but... I feel completely uncomfortable about it all.

I spent years in London living next door to a man who regularly beat his wife and shouted abuse at her, and I didn't get involved. When the letters from the police of a disturbance reported came to us by mistaken I posted them through the right door and that was that. No involvement, no thoughts, no feelings, no nightmares after, it just simply wasn't any of my business or my place to get involved.

Today feeling tired and with my imagination filling in the blanks I feel like I should just knock and make sure all is good, but I'm reluctant to get involved. Arguments between a husband and wife, be them just clearing the air or something more really are in the private domain. Would I appreciate someone having overheard me in a heated debate jumping to conclusions? Would I want someone knocking on my door and poking around in things that didn't concern them? Absolutely not!

Still...