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.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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.
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