At the moment all I seem to be doing is waiting.
I’m waiting to hear from the talking therapy my GP referred me to a few weeks ago.
I’m waiting for my (ex) other half to start talking to me again.
I’m waiting for my life to change, not sure into what.
After our row last week my now ex hasn’t acnowledged my presence in the house in any way.
The first morning after I made two cups of coffee like I always do, but he ignored it and made himself another one.
The full cup sat there on the kitchen table for hours, as a painful physical statement of “I want to forget all about you”.
I threw it away in the end.
It’s small things like this that really get to me, reminders of something that has been lost.
Reminds me of when you first get together with someone, the little gestures and things that are sweet, surprising and delightful.
Someone wiping a breadcrum from your face, slicing you some fruit, or holding the umbrella for you.
They cheer you up and make you feel special.
Like a cup of coffee in the morning.
First I was going to call this post “the World’s End”, but decided not to – nothing has really ended in that way, and it might have come across a tad overdramatic. An era in my life has ended for sure, but it never was my whole world. Perhaps it should have been.
My partner and I just split up couple of days ago. What makes this very unfortunate situation is that we have to share this house for the next 6 months, and we are not talking to each other.
Not in a menacing sulky- kind of way, just like the house was occupied by melancholy ghosts who were just barely aware of each other.
Our cheerful toddler runs amok like he always does, thankfully blissfully unaware of what is going on, with a big grin on his face and pretending to be a dinosaur.
Me and his dad laugh from separate sides of the livingroom, but we don’t share the laughter.
I feel the worst for him, even though he is too young to understand I’m already worrying how he will feel when dad is not living in the house anymore.
I honestly didn’t expect things to end up like this, even though we have had a rocky relationship since our boy was born.On hindsight I think I had a touch of post-natal depression, which to my other half is just a thing you can ‘snap out of’.
And me not being able to snap out of anything has irritated him beyond belief and it all erupted in most spectacular way this past weekend when horrible things were said and done, and bridges ended up being burned for good.
Absolutely breathtaking illustrations.
Ever since I was little, writing a diary was my way of organising my thoughts. The early diaries are full of stickers and doodles, the reasoning and logic of a ten year-old being charming and incredibly shallow at the same time.
I remember writing on it, sitting by my big wooden desk with a wobbly shelf attached to it, a green placemat covering the scratches I made to the table surface with my black refillable pencil.
When I grew older, diaries travelled with me, all the way up until about 10 years ago when I moved to London.
For some reason writing in English came more naturally for me after a while, but I was not able to write as much as I used to do.
This was odd, since writing was a way of letting off steam and finding out if things that bothered me really were that big of a deal. But, I ceased to write and I am now wondering if that has contributed to my head slowly tangling into a mess.
Now writing this is a different step altogether, since I am writing to (an imaginary) audience, with a potential reader maybe one day passing by.
This does make writing this text a much more self-aware process, and rather than just being a stream of thought I do edit it a bit.
Even though I didn’t intend it to be like that at all.
I never read my old diaries, or if I do it does overwhelm me slightly, like revisiting the old problems or situations I were in back then.
It almost feels like once you put your pen down and close the cover over the thoughts they are gone, and sorted, like a conversation.
It happens and once done it evaporates into air and is not attainable any more.
So, I don’t think this will ever replace the diary I am hoping I will start writing again.
- The Diary Habit (artofmanliness.com)
I woke up one morning to find that I had slept on my right arm, which had in turn fallen asleep. I took hold of it, shook it about in order to wake it up. Then I let go. It fell straight down and punched me on the nose, making me laugh. My arm was not a part of me and had a mind of its own.
This monday I had a panic attack at home, thankfully my little man was snoozing away on his nap. All of a sudden I couldn’t swallow and my throat felt like it was closing up and I thought I wouldn’t soon be able to breathe.
It was quite obvious what this was, so I managed to calm down very quickly, but my heart pounded for a good while afterwards.
Similar feeling to the time when I fainted in a party, the horrible helplessness of not being in control of yourself.
It seems that every time I come back to the same root problem, the fear of losing control. I never thought of myself as a control freak, just someone who has got a very clear idea how things should be done.
This might be one of the reasons behind this state of mind I am in now, something as mundane as sharing a living space with another person and trying to fit their ways of living around your own is stressing me out.
I am not finding this easy, on the contrary it is getting harder and harder to adjust to other people as years go by. Almost like somehow I am not myself until everyone else is away and the present moment belongs to me only.
This raises the question is it the real you what you are on the inside, or how others perceive you?
At which point my head starts to hurt and if I was the kind of person who shares photos of cute cats this would be the moment. I chose a vintage slot machine instead.
The doc didn’t ring. Went to the surgery to pickup prescription and query about the call that didn’t materialise. Not much luck, was just told to ring again tomorrow. Now, a bit peeved about this – but won’t go into a rant about the state of the NHS. I still got faith.
Interesting how internal things trouble me far more than external, I cannot affect them so I just let them be. Maybe it is an inbuilt obsession, trying to organise and control everything, thus tying myself more and more into a knot.
I am so tired that I see double. Partly not being able to sleep per se, and partly thanks to an overexcited toddler who relives daily adventures in his dreams and wakes up for a drink and a chat.
I ended up sleeping on the nursery floor again, with a teddy as a pillow. It is surprisingly comfy, all things considered. I heard the church bell ring six times, and the young man happily babbling away in his bed.
They are magical moments those moments in the nursery at night, even though my eyes flicker with tiredness and dreams creep up in the corners of my eyes. It is cosy, small and warm in there, and all the troubles are lightyears away.
- A Victorian monologue/narrative poem (huddmusichallarchive.wordpress.com)
My mum lost all her hair because of cancer treatment she was going through. She looked like a tiny little pixie, vulnerable and fragile.
But she also looked very beautiful without her hair, there was something strangely feminine and timeless in the way she looked.
I felt bad saying it to her over and over again, fearing she might take it as a plain attempt to cheer her up rather than being the truth.
She denied it of course, called herself Gollum and ran past mirrors without a glance.
She is well again, has gained confidence and her hair has grown back, in a sweet mixture of grey and white.
My GP’s assistant phoned today, told me that I have got anemia and the doc will call later. She must have forgotten, since she never did. Nevermind, I will make a pestering call tomorrow.
Nowadays I can call anyone just like that, when I was younger calling people was something that almost reduced me to tears, for some reason it felt like an almost impossible task. Of course I did phone people, but there were always few strong heartbeats just before the phone was picked up in the other end.
Even more interestingly, this article mentions that phone-related anxiety in its list of signs for introverted people. I always thought it was just me being silly:
Not sure how reliable newspaper diagnosis are, but it is a bit of fun I suppose, and that bit about the phones really caught my eye. I always thought that perhaps it is the lack of eye contact with the person I was speaking to that made me so unsure about it all: when was my turn to speak, when a silence is too long and whether the other person is joking or not. Like mr. Bell must have felt like: