I've been reluctant to write about my life recently, which is mainly because I've been reluctant to think about it. This blog tends to be a place where I am emotionally honest and I haven't really been that recently. Friends have asked me how I've been and I've replied that I'm fine or that I'm coping because typically, when they've asked me, I have been. But when I've had my dark moments, I haven't felt able to do anything or say anything to reach out. I have rediscovered my inability to ask for help. All I can think about is not being a burden on other people. I hate showing my vulnerability, which begs the question, why am I writing about it now? I don't know, actually. I will readily admit to being something of an emotional mess.
My Dad died. This is the strangest and most horrible fact of my life. It's simultaneously real and unreal. I can't believe it happened but can't forget it: The howling gale in his hospital room, feeling his pulse stop, hearing his final breath. I miss him so much but any way that I have of explaining it makes it sound so mundane. I miss his voice, his face, miss kissing him on his forehead and ambushing him with hugs, I miss talking to him about acting and about life, miss him being in the audience, especially his laugh. I miss running my life through the filter of his love, expectance and critique. I miss the version of myself that he saw; a fearless, honest, extraordinary woman.
But life goes on. Sometimes relentlessly, sometimes joyfully. There have been bad days and good days, occasionally they have been the same day. I continue to be the same person I was but have changed beyond recognition - nothing makes sense in quite the way that it did before.
Friday, August 06, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Dirge Without Music
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Edna St Vincent Millay
Monday, May 24, 2010
I'm fine.
A phrase which is fast becoming a reflex response to anything that anyone asks me. Sometimes I totally mean it, sometimes it's just easier to say than "oh dear God, what the fuck is happening?" before running away and crying.
I keep getting lost in my own head. It's like being underwater - colour and sound and touch are still there but they're slower and make less impact. Every so often, a look or a note of concern will pick me up with the current and I'll be swept along in the sea of it but I'm trying not to let this happen. It isn't about me.
So, for now, I'm fine. Sometimes I'm lying, sometimes I'm not.
I keep getting lost in my own head. It's like being underwater - colour and sound and touch are still there but they're slower and make less impact. Every so often, a look or a note of concern will pick me up with the current and I'll be swept along in the sea of it but I'm trying not to let this happen. It isn't about me.
So, for now, I'm fine. Sometimes I'm lying, sometimes I'm not.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
I am a rubbish heroine
For a while I was thinking that I'd act as some kind of heroine in a chicklit book for you. I thought that I'd describe my antics in the wacky world of dating and flirtation, including my misadventures, and oh, the laughs we'd have. Unfortunately I have come to the conclusion, yet again, that I am a rubbish heroine. Have I spoken to Max (also known, in some circles, as photocopier man)? Yes, obviously, we work at the same place. Have I had any meaningful conversation beyond work-related things? No. Of course not. To be honest I'm surprised that anyone expects me to have initiated such a thing. I just spoke to him on the phone. He dictated an email - what saucy fun, eh? Did I flirt? Did I say anything of interest? No. Apart from "oh crap, I missed that. Can you go back a bit?" He comes in, fails to notice me, flirts with Sophie (damn her eyes), leaves. And that's kind of it.
And let's not forget the fact that I am atrocious at posting even. Even on facebook, I am so disinterested in writing about myself that there is barely anything going on on my profile page. This is how rubbish I am. I am boring myself.
The thing is, I have lots going on, I'm just disinclined to write about it. I think, as last year, I've been inhabiting an onstage persona too firmly. Elizabeth Proctor would find the status updates and soul-sharing all too invasive, I feel. There's also the fact that she was a Puritan in 1692 and would, therefore, be more than a little confused by the whole technology thing. On the plus side, since playing both Anna and Elizabeth, my general posture and way of holding myself has improved. So I'm a bit mentally messed up but I walk straighter. Oh, and the reviewer called me "strikingly pre-Raphaelite". As with every description of me that has to do with the way I look, I take it with a pinch of salt. I am only too ready to accept that my acting was good but I struggle with people complimenting my looks. I just assume they're blind or being nice and move on. I say "move on" but that's only if you don't count the number of times I returned to the review to check that's what it actually said. I am so needy.
Anyways, stuff is moving on apace as always. Some good, some bad. Unfortunately none of it to do with either Max or a career but I trust that I'll work it all out eventually. Ish.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
On holding and being held
I don't consider myself a particularly tactile person. I'm always a bit nervous of what a hug says and what it means and what I'm opening myself up to when I open my arms. I don't read other people very well and I never really know what is being said by a hug. My natural wariness steps in and I hold myself back, never sure whether a hug is welcome or appropriate. I find it so hard to truly relax around people that I can't just accept or give hugs randomly.
The truth is that I am an extremely tactile person who ends up limiting her need for physical contact to just three people: I envelop my Mum; hang from my Dad's shoulders; cling to my Big Sis. There is no way that they will ever construe my need for physical contact as anything other than innocent and affectionate.
Of course, it isn't just affection that motivates me. Touch is necessary to my mental wellbeing. The crazy day that I describe in my previous post (which developed into a full-blown crazy week) is something that comes from a need for sensation. I get so bored and so frustrated that I start reconfiguring everything as a physical experience: I feel the need to cling/touch/throw/hit/climb/push. And most of all I feel the need to be suppressed. To be clamped down until I've calmed down.
But it's a difficult thing to ask of people. Sometimes I just wish for a hug machine because being suppressed is pretty much all I need and then you don't have the tricky having-to-ask-people-to-hold-you-until-the-craziness-goes-away problem.
The problem remains that I both want and need human contact (for a start, there must be a certain amount of peril involved in using a mechanical hug; you wouldn't want to get too squished, for example). But I can't rely purely on friends and family to provide that. I guess that this, like so much else at the moment, leads back tediously to the fact that I am lonely.
The truth is that I am an extremely tactile person who ends up limiting her need for physical contact to just three people: I envelop my Mum; hang from my Dad's shoulders; cling to my Big Sis. There is no way that they will ever construe my need for physical contact as anything other than innocent and affectionate.
Of course, it isn't just affection that motivates me. Touch is necessary to my mental wellbeing. The crazy day that I describe in my previous post (which developed into a full-blown crazy week) is something that comes from a need for sensation. I get so bored and so frustrated that I start reconfiguring everything as a physical experience: I feel the need to cling/touch/throw/hit/climb/push. And most of all I feel the need to be suppressed. To be clamped down until I've calmed down.
But it's a difficult thing to ask of people. Sometimes I just wish for a hug machine because being suppressed is pretty much all I need and then you don't have the tricky having-to-ask-people-to-hold-you-until-the-craziness-goes-away problem.
The problem remains that I both want and need human contact (for a start, there must be a certain amount of peril involved in using a mechanical hug; you wouldn't want to get too squished, for example). But I can't rely purely on friends and family to provide that. I guess that this, like so much else at the moment, leads back tediously to the fact that I am lonely.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Crazy Day
I am feeling insane. Like, properly barking. I keep having this feeling like I want to scream and my mouth kind of is in this state of scream-readiness and I'm not entirely sure how I'm managing to not do it. I'm having kind of a violent reaction to everything; I want to throw things about or hurl myself against walls or bearhug everyone I see. I'm expecting it to subside but I've been feeling like this for hours now. So far I've only taken my frustration out on some plastic cups which I've hurled across the office. I've also yelled a bit. This hasn't worked.
I want to dance. I want to jump around on the furniture. I want to climb into the ceiling. I want to sing songs very loudly. I want to run around the building and laugh in people's faces. I want to cry. I want to run up and down the metal stairs and make them clang. I want to be sick. I want to be held until I stop needing to be crazy any more.
I want to dance. I want to jump around on the furniture. I want to climb into the ceiling. I want to sing songs very loudly. I want to run around the building and laugh in people's faces. I want to cry. I want to run up and down the metal stairs and make them clang. I want to be sick. I want to be held until I stop needing to be crazy any more.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
"So talk to him"
You’ll be glad to know that my resolutions have, so far, come to naught. I’ve got excuses, oh yes! We’ve all got excuses. But mine are a bit rubbish in context. It’s a little bit like the time I asked why my sister hadn’t charged her mobile and she started to list all of the reasons why she hadn’t: She got married, went on honeymoon, someone died, she was on her period, ya da, ya da, ya da. All good excuses but not so much in context. And that’s what I’m like at the moment. Apparently, my move has stymied several things including why I haven’t spoken to the nice man at work and why I have not significantly cut down on my cheese intake. This is bollocks. I haven’t spoken to the nice man at work because I’m a coward and I’m still eating cheese because it’s easy and I’m lazy.
Incidentally, I’ve kind of given up with the nicknames recently because it is a faff and, let’s face it, I don’t really have that many readers and as I’m assuming the majority of them know who I am anyway the anonymity thing seemed more than a little pointless. However, as a way of protecting my dignity and providing a shorthand to “cute/nice guy I like at work”, he does need a nickname. I am concerned that this will add an air of import to what is, after all, very likely to turn into nothing but this is turning into something of a series so I may as well make it easier on myself. So from here on in he shall be known as Max*.
The odds have been raised. I confessed in an email to Finch that I have, as yet, failed to talk to Max since stating the intention to do so on here almost a month ago. At that point I was given the ultimatum of talking to him by tomorrow (Wednesday 10th March 2010) or Finchy will not talk to me for the first month that we live together (if we ever find anywhere to live, she wails). At which point I expressed my terror at the possibility of talking to him and got this as a response:
“Just talk to him you massive gayer. You're brilliant. He will see this and then kiss your face with this noise "Mmmmmmmmmmmwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhh. Mmmmmmmmwwaaaaaahhhhh." And then say something like "Wowzers in my trousers, you are one hootchy kootchy mama!" before his eyebrows wiggle up and down suggestively. Don't you want that? Of course you do. So talk to him”
I do live to be called a hootchy kootchy mama, it’s true, but “so talk to him” is a command devastating in its simplicity. What the frick do I say and how do I create a situation within which I say it? So far, our conversations have consisted of me butting in:
Max (to Sophie): When’s the end of term?
Sophie: July, I think
Me: No, it’s June
Or of me talking to someone else in a bid to sound interesting/funny/clever but probably sounding a little bit manic and like I have multiple-personalities instead. I know, how can he resist? And the other day, I got a little bit distracted and maintained eye contact for a bit too long. He has really nice eyes. At this point, you’re all a little worried for me, aren’t you? It’s just, we work in different ends of the same building, doing different jobs and my job does not overlap with his so he never needs to talk to me about work stuff. When he’s in his office, there is absolutely no reason for me to go there or to see him and he’s rarely in there anyway because he has an actual fun job where he isn’t tied to a computer all day. And there’s no real socialising between academics and admin. Not because it’s forbidden or anything, it just doesn’t happen. Unfortunately for me. I am just stuck and getting to the point where I am going to have to ask for help. And maybe an extension from Finchy otherwise it is going to be a very quiet month.
*No real reason. Other than it isn’t his name. Unless it’s a double bluff.
Incidentally, I’ve kind of given up with the nicknames recently because it is a faff and, let’s face it, I don’t really have that many readers and as I’m assuming the majority of them know who I am anyway the anonymity thing seemed more than a little pointless. However, as a way of protecting my dignity and providing a shorthand to “cute/nice guy I like at work”, he does need a nickname. I am concerned that this will add an air of import to what is, after all, very likely to turn into nothing but this is turning into something of a series so I may as well make it easier on myself. So from here on in he shall be known as Max*.
The odds have been raised. I confessed in an email to Finch that I have, as yet, failed to talk to Max since stating the intention to do so on here almost a month ago. At that point I was given the ultimatum of talking to him by tomorrow (Wednesday 10th March 2010) or Finchy will not talk to me for the first month that we live together (if we ever find anywhere to live, she wails). At which point I expressed my terror at the possibility of talking to him and got this as a response:
“Just talk to him you massive gayer. You're brilliant. He will see this and then kiss your face with this noise "Mmmmmmmmmmmwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhh. Mmmmmmmmwwaaaaaahhhhh." And then say something like "Wowzers in my trousers, you are one hootchy kootchy mama!" before his eyebrows wiggle up and down suggestively. Don't you want that? Of course you do. So talk to him”
I do live to be called a hootchy kootchy mama, it’s true, but “so talk to him” is a command devastating in its simplicity. What the frick do I say and how do I create a situation within which I say it? So far, our conversations have consisted of me butting in:
Max (to Sophie): When’s the end of term?
Sophie: July, I think
Me: No, it’s June
Or of me talking to someone else in a bid to sound interesting/funny/clever but probably sounding a little bit manic and like I have multiple-personalities instead. I know, how can he resist? And the other day, I got a little bit distracted and maintained eye contact for a bit too long. He has really nice eyes. At this point, you’re all a little worried for me, aren’t you? It’s just, we work in different ends of the same building, doing different jobs and my job does not overlap with his so he never needs to talk to me about work stuff. When he’s in his office, there is absolutely no reason for me to go there or to see him and he’s rarely in there anyway because he has an actual fun job where he isn’t tied to a computer all day. And there’s no real socialising between academics and admin. Not because it’s forbidden or anything, it just doesn’t happen. Unfortunately for me. I am just stuck and getting to the point where I am going to have to ask for help. And maybe an extension from Finchy otherwise it is going to be a very quiet month.
*No real reason. Other than it isn’t his name. Unless it’s a double bluff.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Moving
Oh good grief. I never want to move again. Unfortunately this is inevitable as my parents, and Margaret who lives next door, will probably want their garage back at some point. I have so much stuff. I have thrown away so much stuff. And taken an awful lot to charity shops. How does it all accumulate? I am far too good at clinging on to things, thinking they're vitally important. I put it down to Father Dougal-like inability to remember things without a physical clue:
Father Ted: Ah, Sister Assumpta!
Sister Assumpta: Hello Father!
Father Ted: Dougal, Dougal, do you remember Sister Assumpta?
Father Dougal: Er, no.
Father Ted: She was here last year! And then we stayed with her in the convent, back in Kildare. Do you remember it? Ah, you do! And then you were hit by the car when you went down to the shops for the paper. You must remember all that? And then you won a hundred pounds with your lottery card? Ah, you must remember it, Dougal! [Dougal shakes his head]
Sister Assumpta: And weren't you accidentally arrested for shoplifting? I remember we had to go down to the police station to get you!... And the police station went on fire? And you had to be rescued by helicopter?
Father Ted: Do you remember? You can't remember any of that? The helicopter! When you fell out of the helicopter! Over the zoo! Do you remember the tigers? [Dougal shakes his head some more] You don't remember? You were wearing your blue jumper.
Father Dougal: Ah, Sister Assumpta!
Despite my extraordinary memory for actors, lines and plots, I fail to remember actual information about my own life so I have had numerous, marginally less surreal conversations with my Mum or my sister when they try to remind me of stuff that has happened in the past and I eventually link it to an insignificant detail. I think, like Dougal, I must spend an awful lot of time just staring into space.
Father Ted: Ah, Sister Assumpta!
Sister Assumpta: Hello Father!
Father Ted: Dougal, Dougal, do you remember Sister Assumpta?
Father Dougal: Er, no.
Father Ted: She was here last year! And then we stayed with her in the convent, back in Kildare. Do you remember it? Ah, you do! And then you were hit by the car when you went down to the shops for the paper. You must remember all that? And then you won a hundred pounds with your lottery card? Ah, you must remember it, Dougal! [Dougal shakes his head]
Sister Assumpta: And weren't you accidentally arrested for shoplifting? I remember we had to go down to the police station to get you!... And the police station went on fire? And you had to be rescued by helicopter?
Father Ted: Do you remember? You can't remember any of that? The helicopter! When you fell out of the helicopter! Over the zoo! Do you remember the tigers? [Dougal shakes his head some more] You don't remember? You were wearing your blue jumper.
Father Dougal: Ah, Sister Assumpta!
Despite my extraordinary memory for actors, lines and plots, I fail to remember actual information about my own life so I have had numerous, marginally less surreal conversations with my Mum or my sister when they try to remind me of stuff that has happened in the past and I eventually link it to an insignificant detail. I think, like Dougal, I must spend an awful lot of time just staring into space.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine's Day
For all that we can all be cynical about today as a day to celebrate - it's all about the card companies/chocolate manufacturers/florists, ya da ya da - the fact of the matter is that this is still a day to celebrate. You may choose not to dive in to the over-hyped side of it and just not buy anything in order not to give those pesky financially-minded bastards any of your well-earned cash. But, honestly, I kind of think that it's a good thing that there is a day on which we celebrate romantic love. We can mark it how we choose. But don't shout about it if you went to M&S for an "Eat in for £20", at least not if Kathryn knows where you live.
I'm marking it, currently, by sitting on the sofa in my PJs. I don't have anything particularly pressing to be doing (except getting in the shower but it's okay, Lorraine's out and the cats don't seem too offended so I'm good for the minute) so I took a moment to read a Guardian guide to Love and Relationships that my Mum gave me as a response to my last post about how I'm struggling to be pro-active in terms of love and such-like. I'm a bit embarrassed to say how brilliant it is. It also means that I'm considering therapy a little bit. I do have real problems with being too afraid to do anything for fear of embarrassment. For all that I really like myself, there are things in my life that I just can't do because I'm too scared to do them. And these are the things, love, a career, planning ahead, that I'm really going to have to face up to before I'm too old and I wonder where my life went.
I've thought about therapy before. It's been mentioned as a way to get me to address certain things that I can't deal with by myself. I don't have a stigma about it and actually really respect people for going to therapy. The reason I've avoided it is because I'm scared (that word again) to lose myself. So much of who I am is defined by these little idiosyncrasies and patches of crazy that if I were to sort them out, I wouldn't be me any more. Again, this goes back to what I was talking about before, that I think people only like me because they think I'm interesting and unusual and that if they find out that I'm just a very normal and boring person hiding behind a twitching mass of imperfections nobody will like me any more.
I'm marking St Valentine's Day today by making some resolutions. I know that there are things about me that I kind of want to make better before diving headlong into a relationship. But that doesn't mean that I should wait endlessly for me to make my life better before I even start to look. So, my plan is to just be more open to possibilities. And maybe engage that guy I like in a conversation about something other than photocopying and post-its.
I'm marking it, currently, by sitting on the sofa in my PJs. I don't have anything particularly pressing to be doing (except getting in the shower but it's okay, Lorraine's out and the cats don't seem too offended so I'm good for the minute) so I took a moment to read a Guardian guide to Love and Relationships that my Mum gave me as a response to my last post about how I'm struggling to be pro-active in terms of love and such-like. I'm a bit embarrassed to say how brilliant it is. It also means that I'm considering therapy a little bit. I do have real problems with being too afraid to do anything for fear of embarrassment. For all that I really like myself, there are things in my life that I just can't do because I'm too scared to do them. And these are the things, love, a career, planning ahead, that I'm really going to have to face up to before I'm too old and I wonder where my life went.
I've thought about therapy before. It's been mentioned as a way to get me to address certain things that I can't deal with by myself. I don't have a stigma about it and actually really respect people for going to therapy. The reason I've avoided it is because I'm scared (that word again) to lose myself. So much of who I am is defined by these little idiosyncrasies and patches of crazy that if I were to sort them out, I wouldn't be me any more. Again, this goes back to what I was talking about before, that I think people only like me because they think I'm interesting and unusual and that if they find out that I'm just a very normal and boring person hiding behind a twitching mass of imperfections nobody will like me any more.
I'm marking St Valentine's Day today by making some resolutions. I know that there are things about me that I kind of want to make better before diving headlong into a relationship. But that doesn't mean that I should wait endlessly for me to make my life better before I even start to look. So, my plan is to just be more open to possibilities. And maybe engage that guy I like in a conversation about something other than photocopying and post-its.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Struggling
I've got my single head on again. I hate this. It's my frame of mind that weighs up single men that I meet and starts wondering whether they'll do, whether they're someone I could meet, have a connection with, be someone of potential interest. Despite logical head saying "you're not ready, it won't work", there's still a part of me that wants something. I think it's the part of me that really feels the loneliness. I set up a dating website profile again before Christmas. I deleted it after Christmas. I'm in constant war with myself.
It's difficult to explain. Part of it is being choosy, part of it is lack of confidence. I don't want just anyone. I don't think that anyone I would want would actually want me. My life has been full of crushes on people who were unattainable, not because they were actually unattainable but because I didn't feel I was good enough.
There's a man at work I actually quite like. He's cute, he's funny, he's interesting. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm an idiot. And there's also this whole thing whereby I am only a version of myself at work. I tend to separate myself - work me, home me, family me. I am different with different people, in different places. I think I do it not because I am interesting but to maintain the myth that I'm interesting. Then if people think I'm weird, or boring, or don't like me as much as they like other people then I can think to myself, "oh, it's okay, they don't know the real me".
So I hide. Especially at work. And I think of myself like a female Clark Kent, hiding my superself behind my glasses. I think of my talent like validation. It's okay that I'm socially awkward because I can sing. It's okay that I build walls between myself and other people because I can act.
But it isn't okay. Not in the long-term. My personality ends up compartmentalised to the point where I don't know where I begin and end any more. The reason I'm boring on dates is because I shut off all of the bits that I think will alienate people but those are probably the best bits of me. The part that feels the need to run because the wind picks up, the part that laughs too hard and too loud, the part that mimics the way other people talk and move (does anyone else obsessively try to copy Cheryl Cole when the L'Oreal advert comes on? I just can't get "worth" right), the part that is annoyingly curious and wants to ask questions all the time, the part that obsesses over crap TV, the part that wants to sit quietly and listen, the part that wants to argue for the sake of it, the part that starts crying when passionate about something even if it's just a moment of perfect contentment.
Over Christmas I spent a lot of time with my parents who never expect me to be anything other than myself. They are used to the whirlwinds and eddies of my temper and tolerate my sudden passions and enthusiasms with amusement and collusion. It was so restful to not have any walls up at all and, as I double-checked with my Mum on Sunday, they like me despite, and because of, my faults. It made me realise how much of the time I am guarded and hold myself back, not just on dates but in real life as well.
I don't really have a conclusion, which infuriates me as I have been writing this, on and off, for several days and I would prefer to have some sort of shape for the sake of tidiness. I guess I need a tidier mental life in order for that to happen.
It's difficult to explain. Part of it is being choosy, part of it is lack of confidence. I don't want just anyone. I don't think that anyone I would want would actually want me. My life has been full of crushes on people who were unattainable, not because they were actually unattainable but because I didn't feel I was good enough.
There's a man at work I actually quite like. He's cute, he's funny, he's interesting. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm an idiot. And there's also this whole thing whereby I am only a version of myself at work. I tend to separate myself - work me, home me, family me. I am different with different people, in different places. I think I do it not because I am interesting but to maintain the myth that I'm interesting. Then if people think I'm weird, or boring, or don't like me as much as they like other people then I can think to myself, "oh, it's okay, they don't know the real me".
So I hide. Especially at work. And I think of myself like a female Clark Kent, hiding my superself behind my glasses. I think of my talent like validation. It's okay that I'm socially awkward because I can sing. It's okay that I build walls between myself and other people because I can act.
But it isn't okay. Not in the long-term. My personality ends up compartmentalised to the point where I don't know where I begin and end any more. The reason I'm boring on dates is because I shut off all of the bits that I think will alienate people but those are probably the best bits of me. The part that feels the need to run because the wind picks up, the part that laughs too hard and too loud, the part that mimics the way other people talk and move (does anyone else obsessively try to copy Cheryl Cole when the L'Oreal advert comes on? I just can't get "worth" right), the part that is annoyingly curious and wants to ask questions all the time, the part that obsesses over crap TV, the part that wants to sit quietly and listen, the part that wants to argue for the sake of it, the part that starts crying when passionate about something even if it's just a moment of perfect contentment.
Over Christmas I spent a lot of time with my parents who never expect me to be anything other than myself. They are used to the whirlwinds and eddies of my temper and tolerate my sudden passions and enthusiasms with amusement and collusion. It was so restful to not have any walls up at all and, as I double-checked with my Mum on Sunday, they like me despite, and because of, my faults. It made me realise how much of the time I am guarded and hold myself back, not just on dates but in real life as well.
I don't really have a conclusion, which infuriates me as I have been writing this, on and off, for several days and I would prefer to have some sort of shape for the sake of tidiness. I guess I need a tidier mental life in order for that to happen.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Night Walk
I suffer from periodic restlessness. An itch in my feet. A need to follow the path until it leads back to my front door again. I try to curb it by walking as much as possible at acceptable times. This often works and I don’t stray too far. My own natural laziness contributes too – “don’t go”, it coos, “it’s warm here, play a game, watch a DVD, read a book” – and I find myself seduced into staying. But sometimes there is nothing I can do but grab my coat, pull on a stout pair of boots and stride into the wind.
Tonight, I had something to think about and needed space in which to think it. The confines of the flat were pressing in on me and I needed to get out. I hadn’t even realised it had started snowing. No sooner had I stepped outside than I was transported, forgetting what was brewing inside my stupid head. It was so beautiful. Feathers of snow were falling, gatherings of flakes. I walked for two hours, finally coming back when Re: Stacks had come around again for the third time, my hat was soaked through and my forehead was starting to ache. I had walked in a circular fashion, starting at an empty park and then arriving back at it after following some kids on their way to a snowball fight. The only time I refused to go the way I wanted to was at the gates of a graveyard, I stopped myself when a car turned down the road towards me. I just walked. I paused occasionally; under streetlights so I could watch the patterns in the air, to place my gloved hands in mounds of snow, not to break it up, just to get some sense of the feel of it, to distinguish the shapes beneath the snow and remember what they were before. I felt the hurry and annoyance of the people around me; wrapped-up people tired by the effort of walking home, car drivers agitated at being forced to go no faster than really slowly, passengers on the train urging it on and would-be passengers at the station urging it to stop. I didn’t have anywhere to be and I felt the luxury of being able to just enjoy it. Tomorrow it will be something else – maybe a threat, probably a hassle – but tonight it was special. I walked through it, part of it, vicariously experiencing the joy of someone else’s well-aimed snowball. I threw my arms out for balance as I teetered and laughed as I fell. I recognised my own, solitary, footsteps as I crossed my own path. I lay down in the park and made a snow angel.
As I returned home, I realised that my decision was made. I had turned my thoughts over and over as I walked, not knowing how to arrive at a conclusion or whether I even should. But at some point, between stepping off one bridge and arriving at another, my mind made itself up. I lose myself when I walk at night, only to return feeling like I'm filling my own outlines again.
Tonight, I had something to think about and needed space in which to think it. The confines of the flat were pressing in on me and I needed to get out. I hadn’t even realised it had started snowing. No sooner had I stepped outside than I was transported, forgetting what was brewing inside my stupid head. It was so beautiful. Feathers of snow were falling, gatherings of flakes. I walked for two hours, finally coming back when Re: Stacks had come around again for the third time, my hat was soaked through and my forehead was starting to ache. I had walked in a circular fashion, starting at an empty park and then arriving back at it after following some kids on their way to a snowball fight. The only time I refused to go the way I wanted to was at the gates of a graveyard, I stopped myself when a car turned down the road towards me. I just walked. I paused occasionally; under streetlights so I could watch the patterns in the air, to place my gloved hands in mounds of snow, not to break it up, just to get some sense of the feel of it, to distinguish the shapes beneath the snow and remember what they were before. I felt the hurry and annoyance of the people around me; wrapped-up people tired by the effort of walking home, car drivers agitated at being forced to go no faster than really slowly, passengers on the train urging it on and would-be passengers at the station urging it to stop. I didn’t have anywhere to be and I felt the luxury of being able to just enjoy it. Tomorrow it will be something else – maybe a threat, probably a hassle – but tonight it was special. I walked through it, part of it, vicariously experiencing the joy of someone else’s well-aimed snowball. I threw my arms out for balance as I teetered and laughed as I fell. I recognised my own, solitary, footsteps as I crossed my own path. I lay down in the park and made a snow angel.
As I returned home, I realised that my decision was made. I had turned my thoughts over and over as I walked, not knowing how to arrive at a conclusion or whether I even should. But at some point, between stepping off one bridge and arriving at another, my mind made itself up. I lose myself when I walk at night, only to return feeling like I'm filling my own outlines again.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Hackneyed Post About Resolutions
On the basis that it has been several weeks since I last posted, I feel that it is time to do another one. And because my brain has been temporarily stunted by the consumption of far too much food and drink I am choosing to post about New Year's resolutions. Bear with me (or not. I am certainly not forcing you to read this. I definitely do not have, say, a sniper's rifle aimed at the back of your head whilst I am observing your reading habits through the view thingie. Ignore that dot of red light, honest). Anyways, here we go:
1) Do more stuff. This looks a bit stupid when written down and it's difficult to explain as I haven't really thought about how to do this without money. I just want to go on more adventures and have experiences. I think the thing I regret about my twenties is that I was far too easily content not doing that much. I'm finding it easier as I get older to care less about comfort and I want to carry on doing stuff because it's fun or interesting. This is another positive thing about being single - I don't have to get someone's permission or argue for what I want or drag anyone along with me unwillingly.
2) Eat less cheese and run more. I've lost about two stone this year and am very, very happy with the amount of weight I've lost. I would really like to lose some more but hate dieting. Therefore, instead of instilling any kind of complicated diet regime I'm going to go back to eating what I like in moderation, listening to my body and trying to limit the amount of cheese I eat. I really bloody love cheese and it tends to be my shortcut when I'm tired and can't be bothered to cook. This is a bad thing. On the plus side, I found out how much I really like running this year and, as a result, would like to get better at it. I'm also planning to do more dancing, mainly because I'm scarily uncoordinated and it helps a little bit.
It is so weird being at the end of a decade, isn't it? I just had lunch with Kathryn and we were talking about the way our lives had changed in that time. My life has changed a lot and probably in small, indiscernible ways that I could never have predicted or even understood ten years ago. I spent so much time in my teens thinking about my future and trying to get some sense, through books and films, of what this future would be like. I thought I'd know how I would react to any number of things that I've been confronted with over the last ten years and it's never been the case. I am far less melodramatic and excitable in real life than I am inside my head. I am fairly sure that the books I've read would have been really dull had the heroine, after being cheated on five weeks before her wedding, coped with it primarily by sleeping a lot - the summer of 2007 is still something of a confusing, hazy blur in my memory. Interestingly, I spend almost no time at all thinking about the future beyond the next week or so now. It feels like a waste. There is absolutely no point in my thinking about it because I can't predict it. I've never been that bothered about fitting in and will not die unfulfilled without marriage or children or property to my name. Which is good because it means I won't waste my time searching for those things or settling for something less than I deserve in order to get them. I would prefer to be surprised than disappointed, I think.
So, there you go. My aim for the year is to do more stuff and my aim for the decade is to be surprised. Never let it be said that I set unrealistic goals for myself.
1) Do more stuff. This looks a bit stupid when written down and it's difficult to explain as I haven't really thought about how to do this without money. I just want to go on more adventures and have experiences. I think the thing I regret about my twenties is that I was far too easily content not doing that much. I'm finding it easier as I get older to care less about comfort and I want to carry on doing stuff because it's fun or interesting. This is another positive thing about being single - I don't have to get someone's permission or argue for what I want or drag anyone along with me unwillingly.
2) Eat less cheese and run more. I've lost about two stone this year and am very, very happy with the amount of weight I've lost. I would really like to lose some more but hate dieting. Therefore, instead of instilling any kind of complicated diet regime I'm going to go back to eating what I like in moderation, listening to my body and trying to limit the amount of cheese I eat. I really bloody love cheese and it tends to be my shortcut when I'm tired and can't be bothered to cook. This is a bad thing. On the plus side, I found out how much I really like running this year and, as a result, would like to get better at it. I'm also planning to do more dancing, mainly because I'm scarily uncoordinated and it helps a little bit.
It is so weird being at the end of a decade, isn't it? I just had lunch with Kathryn and we were talking about the way our lives had changed in that time. My life has changed a lot and probably in small, indiscernible ways that I could never have predicted or even understood ten years ago. I spent so much time in my teens thinking about my future and trying to get some sense, through books and films, of what this future would be like. I thought I'd know how I would react to any number of things that I've been confronted with over the last ten years and it's never been the case. I am far less melodramatic and excitable in real life than I am inside my head. I am fairly sure that the books I've read would have been really dull had the heroine, after being cheated on five weeks before her wedding, coped with it primarily by sleeping a lot - the summer of 2007 is still something of a confusing, hazy blur in my memory. Interestingly, I spend almost no time at all thinking about the future beyond the next week or so now. It feels like a waste. There is absolutely no point in my thinking about it because I can't predict it. I've never been that bothered about fitting in and will not die unfulfilled without marriage or children or property to my name. Which is good because it means I won't waste my time searching for those things or settling for something less than I deserve in order to get them. I would prefer to be surprised than disappointed, I think.
So, there you go. My aim for the year is to do more stuff and my aim for the decade is to be surprised. Never let it be said that I set unrealistic goals for myself.
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