No Eggs in my Basket...?

For a long time I've felt that I was different, not special, just different. For my entire life - the whole of the 32 years that I've been alive, but predominantly since I became aware of myself and of the world and my position in it - I've felt like everyone was going right and I was going left.

Often throughout my teenage years and my adulthood I have stood in a crowded room and felt isolated. I've felt that I somehow stand encased in a bubble, the sounds of laughter and merriment not quite penetrating the gossamer walls to touch me on the inside. At times it bothered me and at others it didn't. Mostly I didn't want to be considered normal because normal is only average and who wants to be average when you can be different? But there have been other times when I've been going through something challenging and I could have done with the knowledge and support of someone who was going through the same thing as me to help me - as a person who finds it incredibly difficult to talk about her feelings - to open up.

Even here in our home I feel different, yet it is the one place I thought I might actually fit in - surrounded by women I perceived to be in the same situation as me. If the sideway glances cast in my direction are anything to go on I'm considered odd. Why? We do not have children, we have no plans to have any children and we do not have a dog, nor do we have any plans to get one of those either. The other wives look at me with a mixture of horror (like I am Medusa) and pity (like I am deficient in some way). Yes my tone has taken on a slightly terse note recently as I repeatedly fend off the questions as why we don't have children and don't particularly want any. I really wasn't aware that being a woman meant I MUST have them, obviously I've been deluding myself. Yes it did irk me to be repeatedly told 'Oh you're young, you'll change your mind' I find it patronising and dismissive - why do other women who happen to have children believe this experience has somehow endowed them with knowing not only what is good for me but also my own mind better than myself? Evidently when Mother Nature was giving the tid bit of telepathy out I didn't bother to queque up for it.

I suppose if you hear something often enough you start to believe it. A small part of me nodded my head in the direction of 'Ok the general rule of thumb is that yes Natasha you will at some point wake up and decide you want to be a mother. You're biological clock (it is assumed) will kick in and you'll feel like it is something that you MUST do (if other women's telepathy is anything to go on). Afterall you do have a womb and ovaries etc so it must be a foregone conclusion. If general opinion is that you're going to one day have children there must be something in it, surely you're not that different'. Finally I realised that I didn't much care for their implied superiority and telepathic skills - there wasn't any eggs in my basket until I was ready and only IF I was ready for there to be and no amount of knowing smiles thrown in my direction with heads nodded sagely was going to change that. And so the constant quesitons stopped irking me and I only smiled wider when they looked at me like my curls really were the heads of snakes.

Then yesterday my snowglobe world was shaken up again...I have PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome).

Sibling Rivalry?

I read an article today that struck a chord. It was like the author had crawled inside my head and pulled out my perception of the relationship I have with my older sister – by 5 years – T.

Like all sisters we have fought and squabbled throughout our childhood and into adulthood, I’m reliably informed that it’s what sisters do.

I too like the author have only ever wanted the kind of relationship with T where I could feel secure in turning to her for advice, for a sympathetic ear, for support and the kind of bond I believed I was missing out on. That isn’t to say I don’t for one moment know without a doubt that should a moment ever arrive in which I really needed T she would be there for me. The difference is I know that such support would come at a cost and with her usual barbed comments of being a drama queen, of the mess I’m in being just typical of me, what did I think was going to happen – well you see where I am going with this.

To be entirely honest T is a bully, and I can’t say that I like her much as a person. At times I only love her because she’s my sister and so ...I HAVE to. That however, doesn’t negate the knowledge that she wouldn’t be her if she wasn’t a bully, if she didn’t put me down, belittle me, ritually humiliate me, tell me how to live my life, or generally bulldoze her way into my life. Contrary to my sister’s popular belief I am not stupid.

Perhaps it is ridiculous of me to dread spending any amount of time with her for fear of not knowing whether I am going to be in her good books or her bad ones. After all I’m an adult so I should feel confident in myself and my successes. Yet somehow a few hours in T’s company has me more on edge and doubting myself than anything or anyone else has the power to.

I’ve often talked to our mum about her treatment of me. I’ve confessed that no one can hurt me the way that T does and admitted I often feel like she hates me, but that I’ve no idea what it is that I’ve done to deserve it. Is she jealous? T is an intelligent, successful graphic designer with a doting husband who adores her, a fabulous house that reflects her classic taste and a flair for creativity that can’t be matched – what have I got that she could possible want? At present I am a rather lost housewife floundering around with mathematics in the vain hope I can pass and get a grade C so that I can progress onto a teach training course – something I doubt that I’ll be successful or good at and am therefore unsure if I should try to achieve it – knowing this won’t be my final career choice because I’m well... fickle and indecisive.

The long and short of it is that I’m fearful T will push me too far one day and like the author of the article I’ll snap and cut her out of my life. I’ve done it before for 4 months when she last really upset me, I only relented at mum’s urging. It is always me who is the peace maker in our arguments and always at mum’s urging.

So, having read this article I can and do completely sympathise with the author. I hear hurt in her voice and also see the hurt child that she still is inside. As comforting as it is to know I’m not the only one who has a turbulent relationship with my sibling, it also makes me think I should stay away from Disney and books like Little Women. T might be a selfish, opinionated and bully but she’s my sister above and beyond all else. Her less desirable traits I can choose to ignore (however hard this may be), the fact she’s my sister I can’t, which I why I am thankful every day of my life that I have Trish - the sister of my heart – in my life. She is everything and more that I could want in a sister but what we have is in some ways more special because we aren’t related by blood, our love and respect for each other is one of choice not because we HAVE to.

In case you’re interested here’s the article http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1289366

Writing is righting

I’ve been thinking a great deal about things recently – the passed two years, myself, my family, relationships, the future – just to name a few and trying to work out my place in them all. I might be a coward but I do take on some formidable things to batter myself against...so that would make me stupid too then.

Mostly I’ve been thinking about the healing process and the different way people come to terms with things that have hurt, been traumatic and made them vulnerable. Undeniably what works for one is not necessarily the recipe for success for another. I can go out and beat the crap out of the punch bag in the garage or pound the pavement jogging and they do little to make me feel better or like I’ve vented any emotion. They do a damn sight less in helping me to understand what I’m going through or my reaction to it as well. For my husband however, they are a part of how he deals with everything.

A university lecturer once told me he didn’t believe in people writing for therapeutic reasons, he didn’t place any faith in the notion it was cathartic or beneficial and quite frankly thought it all a load of crap. He believed people write because they ARE writers. The dreamer in me wants desperately to believe him – wants to believe that I write about all the painful things in me and that I’m going through because I AM A WRITER and it is simply what I do regardless of the motivation behind it.

Yet, there is this voice at the back of my head that argues “Natasha you are quite clearly not a talker, you can’t draw or paint to save your life, you can’t sing (lovely what you do shouldn’t in all fairness be called singing, if it was, that would be an insult to professional singers) nor are you athletic – have you seen yourself running? I’ll leave it that. So, the process of elimination reveals you have to do something to release the emotions inside you and to help you along the way to healing, and after all the things that you clearly aren’t or can’t do...only writing is left. Therefore, that is what you do.”

I don’t know whether to listen to it or not because for me writing isn’t just about healing, it’s about escapism (in my stories I can have the cold resolute devil may care attitude and the slim athletic size 10 figure I’d like to have in reality), its about exploring relationships and human nature. I even think in stories and scenes – I once walked into Sainburys and while waiting for my husband by the entrance I watched one of the staff self-consciously dancing before a display selling the new DVD release of Slum Dog. You could tell that while she really didn’t want to be there and hated absolutely every minute of it she had made a special effort with her hair and makeup to look as good as she could. She wasn’t a bad mover either. In my head I wrote a story about how a senior female member of the store management didn’t like her and therefore had purposely picked her to stand there and dance as means of ritually humiliating her. In my story one of the security guards who spend all day over in that corner watching the monitor for thieves etc finally notices her and asks her out on a date. Obviously it’s the same security guard the dastardly female management member has fancied all along, thus justice is served. I know, I know I should get out of my own head more often (not in the drunk way of course although...) Oh, I should also stop watching so much Disney. But my inability to socialise and to stop watching cartons isn’t the point – the fact I think and imagine in stories is. Everything before me that I see, hear, smell, touch, feel, experience has the potential to be a story and somehow becomes a scene in one in my head.

I however won’t take the plunge to write that novel that I’ve had in my head for more years than I can remember and even have the first three chapters of and full synopsis of. I publicly post my inner demons for all and sundry to poke around and judge me on but I won’t write a story. Why does one thing, the most painful, come so naturally yet the other ‘fun’ thing I find myself unable to let flow?

I can’t answer that but what I do know is that without going through this process of writing about myself, my thoughts, my emotions and giving them voice – in short the process of righting myself – I wouldn’t have discovered that this mode of expression does come naturally.

So, to follow on from that is the next step in righting myself writing?

Another letter to L x

Dear Monster,

After our slightly heated words yesterday I am sad and withdrawn. Yesterday and last night I had so many things running through my head and today...numb emptiness spattered with helpings of guilt and panic.

Even now knowing I should say something, try to communicate with you and stop bottling things up inside - I can’t. The words won’t come and I don’t know where to begin. It isn’t about not feeling comfortable having these kinds of conversations, at least not completely. It has more to do with the fact if I tell you what’s going in my head, what I’m afraid of and how I feel then I can’t hide from them. Talking about them means I’ll have to face them and I don’t want to – I don’t feel ready to. I don’t have confidence in myself that I can stand up to what’s heading our way and not only meet the challenge head on but also conquer it. An entirely alien concept to you I’m aware. So, yes I am dragging my feet, putting things off and hiding from them, pretending they don’t exist and waiting for the day when I feel confident.

But there is more to it than that (isn’t there always?) I could utter the excuse that I am doing the things I do for you, and trying to push myself to fit them in around you and the army but they would only be part of the truth. I do feel the pressure to fit myself in around you and the army its true, just as its true that I also find it maddeningly arrogant of the army to expect me to do it. Contrary to its age old belief it isn’t a wife’s job to tow the line and do whatever she can to fit herself in around the soldier and the army’s plans for him. Why do you think so many military marriages end in divorce? What is it? ‘Queen and Country first and wives and family a close second’ Part of the answer lies in that statement.

I cried yesterday and today not only because your words stung but because I feel guilty about my cowardly behaviour. I’m afraid that because I won’t ‘get over myself’ as you so aptly phrased it that I am now holding you back. I feel guilty because I know that as a direct result of me dragging my feet and not having the gumption to do things timings are drastically out. Arguably, I could say the delay with completing my Masters didn’t allow me to be in the position of starting Maths, but that then raises the question of what the delay was for the Masters? And the answer is – me – I couldn’t get myself into the right head and heart space to work on it as I should. Why not? As much as you dislike hearing this as an excuse it’s because of what happened between mum and I and Terry and I surrounding our wedding. I know you believe I should be over this by now and that you can’t see why it is such a major thing for me - what do you want me to say in response to that? It is what it is, it hurts because it hurts and it your inability to comprehend or see it doesn’t change that one bit. It’s my reality. Stop trying to see it and understand it and just accept it.

I know I should have talked to you about all of this – the Maths, the PGCE – but I couldn’t. I knew I needed to a long time ago but my mouth - just like now - wouldn’t open and the words wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t say them. I couldn’t bring myself to raise the topic and every time you did I became emotional, defensive and you’d let it drop. Just like yesterday. I don’t know what else to say other than I’m sorry. I know this mess is of my own making and I understand how angry and frustrated you are with me for getting us into this situation in the first place - I saw it yesterday in your face and I also saw you rein in it so as to stop yourself from venting your anger at me and thus hurting me. I take that as a sign of how much you love me.

I have to go now I have Maths homework to do – something to do with circles to be precise – and I’m all talked out right now.

I love you Monster.

Love Bear x

Renaissance

In an effort to 'find myself' again after a destabilising period in which I felt like my life had experienced the snow globe effect – turned upside down and shaken vigorously – I am opening myself up to trying new things. Instead of procrastinating (I can pretty much think myself out of doing just about anything) I’ve been taking the plunge and saying ‘Sure why not, I’ll give it a go’ without thinking about it.

The fact is I’ve always been cautious by nature. I’m reserved, solemn and solitary and always have been. Even as a child I could just as easily play by myself as I could with others. Admittedly I did often prefer to play by myself – and in my wardrobe - because that meant I didn’t have to be teased, tormented and mocked by my sister. So, yes this new found spontaneous side of me does feel like it is going against nature, my nature to be precise, which surely and aptly explains my bruises and wounded pride.

Let me backtrack 5 months. For my 32nd birthday my husband (bless him) decided I needed a new and expensive mountain bike, not wanted but yes needed. Before I tell you why this was such a bad idea let me explain his reasoning; in his mind because I thought the bike really was too expensive it wouldn’t be the type of present I would just accept as simply a gift and just because he loves me. In addition to that point being that it was my birthday any present he got me would obviously HAVE to be an expensive one, so he completely dismissed my request for book vouchers, or any vouchers of any kind for any shop. Apparently they weren’t a suitable gift. God forbid I should be given a present for my birthday that I would a) like, b) appreciate, c) take pleasure in and d) have actually asked for – just who’s birthday was it?! So I got a mountain bike nearly three months before my birthday that sat in the garage until the actual day of my birthday because I wasn’t allowed to have it before then – I could look at it but I wasn’t allowed to ride it – because it wasn’t my birthday yet.

Before you dismiss this as being a complete Princess I will first admit when it comes to my birthday I admit I am guilty as charged. My birthday falls at an inconvenient time of year, which means people are often strapped for cash, knackered from working their butts off, inundated with family members descending upon them or having to spend hours in the car descending on family themselves and planning for another big event that happens two days later. My argument is that it’s my birthday, the one day of the year that I would like to be about me and doing the things that I enjoy and make me feel good.

But I digress, the real reason I didn’t want a bike for my birthday is that I am entirely lacking in grace and my co-ordination is far from the best. I am enthusiastic and do give things my best shot, which thinking about it is more than likely the reason I get cocky and over confident and end up having an accident. Hence the reason I attended a wedding this weekend black, blue, purple, green and yellow and covered in scraped elbows and shins. Oh you guessed it - hubby decided two weeks before the wedding that we should take my new bike out for a spin in the forest and some how I managed to fall off it going ‘up’ a mud hill. Yes UP a mud hill, not down a mud hill. Don’t. Ask. It hurt like you wouldn’t believe. I really did sit in the dirt whimpering and sniffling loudly as I desperately tried to catch my breath and breath through the pain at the same time. Oh and try not cry too while also trying to ignore the fact I had a mouthful of mud. You can imagine how bad the bruising was if even after two weeks I was still looking like a rainbow. Either that or an advertisement for United Colours of Benetton.

Not being shy or anywhere near ready to give up this new found embracing of spontaneity (read hurting myself and denting my fragile pride) I’ve embarked upon a ten week course of yoga-dance. Yeah I’m not too sure what it is either, my first lesson only served as a reminder of how unfit, inflexible and overweight I am.

That said I’m not ready to give up yet and who knows if this – new streak of determination – continues I might have the confidence to give writing that novel I’ve had in my head for years a go.