Savage Pink

Typical Thursday.

Okay mental diarrhea time. Don't quite know what to do with all this stuff so it has to come out. Woke up this AM, around 9am when I finally got my ass out of bed. First half decent night's sleep I've had in about six nights. By that I mean more than 4 hours of shut-eye. Still don't manage to get out of the house until 10:45, what with the distractions of email, Jerry Springer UK (my opinion? sterilise them all) and cleaning out the cat's poo box etc.

While I am doing all this stuff I find myself thinking about -C- a lot. In fact, I find myself thinking about -C- a lot, a lot. If you know what I mean. Why? What am I thinking? Well of course it's not possible to transcribe the non-lateral, non-logic processes of the female mind (cough), but the best I can do to explain is to say it runs the gamut of what you might expect : everything from sex to moving in together and living happily ever after. The first shouldn't surprise me, or you, but the latter... well, I mean, WHAT THE FUCK? Where, exactly, is that shit coming from? Lest you, or I forget, I am resolutely and happily single and I am not looking to get involved with anyone. Obviously this is news to my somewhat rebellious brain. What's more, I have of course been subjected to the third degree by my friends every time I so much as mention a man I might be interested in, or had coffee with, or passed on the street. So of course there have been lengthy deliberations on -C-, and I have even cheerfully entered into the spirit of the debate, but always concluded that he is not right for me in a 'relationship' sense. Sooooo.... why is my brain persisting with this think think thinking about him all the time?  Does this mean that my rebellious brain is trying to tell me that I actually do want some kind of committed relationship? And why is the rebel brain making me think about -C- in this way, when previous lengthy, drawn-out, drunken group debate has rejected him as "partner material"? Flipping heck.

Well the only conclusion that I can logically come to is that, recently, -C- has been more, err, attentive?  Interested?  Kind? Flirtatious? Or something along those lines anyway, and that I am actually that fucking pathetic and needy underneath it all, that when someone, anyone*, shows me the slightest bit of affection or interest, my pathetic rebellious brain starts to go all goopy and idiotic and starts imagining that the possibility exists for someone like me to find real love and companionship in the modern world. And well, that conclusion doesn't make me like myself very much, no sireee.  (*And I don't mean to say that -C- is just anyone in a negative way... because I clearly am very fond of him. And my rebellious brain even more so.)

Then on the bus into work I run into -N-, a lovely chap on whom I had quite a schoolgirl crush on for awhile. It went absolutely NO WHERE, other than a drink or two and a brief frisson of flirting. And me breaking into a sweat of stupidity every time I spoke to him in person. So he's moving out of the UK, new life in another country, exotic foreign girlfriend of course... but the point being that (a) I still broke into the same sweat and (b) once we parted ways, me on the train this way, him that... I sat there beating myself up (and a bit of tourettic swearing at myself to try and stop the mental thrashing) about ever even being interested in -N- in the first place... how could I possibly have been so stupid to think that he might reciprocate...why did I act like such a sweaty idiot, why did I do (x) when I should have done (y) and why am I such an idiot?

Why am I such an idiot?  This, really, is the big question that needs addressing. All of the above, every last word of it, every feeling or emotion it represents, all the self-doubt, every bit of it, is just simply adolescent bullshit, isn't it? I mean I am a grown woman. No, make that an OLD grown woman. Logically, without the interference of actual real-life situations, I know exactly what I want. I've had plenty of bad and good experiences in life and I've learned a lot, about myself and about the world at large. But somehow, that damn rebellious brain just takes over and the apple cart of logic gets overturned. And the result is... yep, mental diarrhea.   Kill me now, please.

Ephiphanies, Realisations, Wisdom

Epiphanies, Realisations, Wisdom

Yeah.  So I was standing there watching Sole at the Spitz, feeling generally shitty and sorry for myself, and I kind of came to a conclusion.

Reality check - it's probably a temporary conclusion, one borne of a fleeting jolt of self importance and ... self preservation .... that will fade in a few hours, like they do.  But maybe not.  Maybe one day, something will stick.

So I was feeling (as I have already said... see stalling already) that I was feeling down and sorry for myself.  More about that later.  Much much more.  This is a blog after all.   I was thinking that part of my despair lie in the fact that I don't have anyone to talk to - to share my burden, if you will.  To speak the unspeakable thoughts that are in my brain to. To admit defeat to.  To show the real me to.

Probably because I am a Taurus and and only child (well okay only until the age of 18 at which point I was delivered a half sister whom I love more than myself) and because of the nature of that and who I have become over the years... I have a massive skin of bravado, a huge illusion that I create, a fantastical wall of identity and front that I can't afford to discard lest something awful and terrible happen to me... or one of those that I love so dearly who has come to count on me/consider me in the manner in which I have allowed them to believe I exist.

~deep breath.  am i still making sense?  did i ever make sense?

Well, anyway, the conclusion was roughly that I need to try to be more honest about things... if not to others at least to myself, because maybe it is about time I stopped pushing it all in and tried to actually have an external conversation about stuff, with myself.

So this is the genius part - obviously no one is reading this blog thing of mine, for a start I haven't kept up with it and beside I'm not a working prostitute in London like Belle du Jour who had, oh, literally dozens of readers before turning Pro... I mean, publishing her memoirs.  On real paper, like.

Thing being that THEORETICALLY anyone can read this.  I am indeed publishing a blog, putting it out there in the ether and yes therefore it's a purge of sorts.  I'm hoping that a few people will occasionally make disparaging comments like "shut the fuck up you moany bitch you think you got it bad well my arm just fell off". 

Do you see what I'm doing here... being clever, avoiding the topic.

Okay so I am going to skirt this one a bit but I'm gonna throw a few points out there just to test my waters and get this ball rolling and GET ON WITH IT.

So... I have this thing called a prolactinoma.  It's a tumour / growth in my pituitary gland and it means I'm producing excess amounts of a chemical called prolactin and that my hormones are all fucked up.  It's not cancerous and apparently if I take my meds like a good girl, it will either control itself or even possibly shrivel up and die.  Well then, SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU MOANING BITCH.  Right?  Yeah well I'm not even warmed up yet.

The big issue is that this prolactinoma is causing all kids of fabulous side effects and that is the thing that is causing me the "issues".  The most exciting development is that I have terminal acne - okay yeah SHUT UP YOU MOANING... etc. but sorry.  I never had problem skin. And this isn't just a few spots.  It's like I am the Elephant Face woman.  I don't get spots/pimples in the conventional sense - I get big boil-like lumps underneath my skin.  Only on my face, of course.  These bumps are roughly the size of a pea, or a pinto bean.  Which sounds small but try sticking a bunch of them under the top layer of your skin and see how big they suddenly become.

I don't consider myself a particularly vain person, because I've never been considered particularly beautiful / attractive / desirable / etc... whatever those words are.  I mean I know I'm not ugly, that I'm reasonably attractive (and yes I judge myself by who I get to fuck me (c) Frightwig) but I've never really made much out of what I had or considered it my biggest asset.  I have pretty much always been overweight.  So.. yeah I don't think I'm a priss about it.

But of course as you get older these things become more important, more apparent, and when your looks start to go you start to notice the attention you are missing.

My job means that I have to but up a lot of Front.  I have to lead.  I have to manage 10 employees.  I need to inspire confidence in my colleagues.  I work with a bunch of musicians and artists and I need to maintain their confidence.  I have to be Big Bad Me at least 10 hours a day.  And this big ugly lumpy face of mine is making that extremely difficult, because I am mortified by my appearance and that means my confidence is non-existent.

Okay.  I'm stopping there.  This is a big step.  No need to purge my entire soul in one sitting.