The Aftermath...

For Those of You who have been following along at home...

Wednesday Night...

I picked Hubby up from work and drove him down the Motorcycle Shop to get his fork-oil and coil-thingy that he needs to fix his Piece of Shit. After twenty minutes sitting in the car I drop him at the Pub; he tells me he'll only be staying for an hour or so.

He asks if I did the grocery shopping today on my day off; and I start to explain the Banana Fiasco that saw Me dashing from the supermarket back to littlest Son's school with a mere thirty dollars worth of groceries(I had barely started) but he cuts me off mid-sentence that it doesn't matter and that he'll order pizza's for dinner from the new Pizziera up the road and once he's ordered them I can drive down and collect them both.

So far so good?

I hadn't actually been planning on taking Him either Too or Fro from the pub this afternoon; but I figure it's an escape from both shopping And cooking tonight- so I accept. It gets close to six; he orders the pizza. Little Son and I drive down to collect them and we get icecreams for the kids for after they've eaten. We're hardly a familial picture of Bliss though; I know I've got a lot of shit on My mind but I wanted to let the majority slide for the evening; at least while we have little Son in tow...

So we eat pizza. It's good. On the thick side but not too crusty. The phone rings and it's Twink; asking Hubby back down to the pub. He accepts on the proviso that I drive him there and He gets his own way home. He's happy with that.

An hour later Twink rings and asks Me if it's okay if I drive him home when I pick Hubby up. I wasn't going to pick him up at all, I explain. My days of pandering are all but over. But then, Twink has done me favours before; just last week he picked me up from Jen Jen's after a big night and returned me to My car..

So I say Yes.

Big Mistake.

An hour later Hubby rings and informs- no, Tells- Me that Twink is going to ring up shortly and in no way am I to offer him a ride. He can wait until Hubby is ready to be driven. There's no way Hubby is having Anybody rely on his Bitch for a lift; Buffoon shouldn't be expected to drop everything and drive everybody home just because Twink is ready, willing or able.

Twink calls.

I drive him home...

Rationalising that it's been half an hour since Hubby called and He Did say that he would be ready to come home within half an hour. Twink's apologetic; his I-don't-mean-to-cause-shit speech at the ready. All I'm doing is offering a Mate a lift home and he always has to make it into something more. Why I don't know.

Maybe because he knows the Shit it will cause?

On the way back from dropping Twink home I stop at the pub and call Hubby from out the front on my mobile.

"Ready?"

"Nup." Said in a smarmy voice. "I just got myself another beer. I thought I TOLD YOU not to take Twink home until I was ready. You don't listen, do You?"

Well; no. I don't. Because I'm a free person who doesn't need to be Told. Won't be Told. And I can drive a drunk friend home when I've been sitting at home for an hour waiting for their call so that I can go to sleep whenever the fuck I feel like it. Twink's done it for Me.

Have You, Hubby?

Call me later then, I tell him. If you're not ready yet- that's fine,too. And when I get home I do something Stupid. I send him a text.

"Who's playing games now?"

This; because he had a go at me the other day for not acting responsibily. And because it's only Tuesday and he's the one who's drunk and been on the piss for hours while I've been at home doing the homework and dinner and bath and bedtime for the kids. After all the shit he slayed Me with last time about being a hopeless Mother...

I'd been at home People. It was only Tuesday.

Another hour passed. Fido and Miss Fancy Pants drove Hubby home. I'd warned Fido not to send him home to Me in such a bad mood but in Fido's defence even He couldn't have predicted what was to follow...

He stalked me from room to room; my pleas to talk about this shit Tommorrow falling upon deaf ears. At one stage I went downstairs to hang the wet washing out only to hear him say from the verandah above- "Where you gone,Slut?". He's angry I drove Twink home. Angry I didn't put him first. Angry I didn't listen.

Eldest Son woke up first; followed closely by little Son.

The rest; I'd rather not go into...

Suffice to say he spat venom my way; Again. Said how much he wishes he wasn't with Me anymore. Why would Someone Like Him want to be with Someone Like Me. You've heard it all before. I told him "We aren't together. We just have to keep the peace until tax-time and then we can sort out the money and get You some transport to work and a rental bond on a place for Me."

He kicked Me out onto the couch for the night. And I truly thought that was It...

So I wrote the following letter;

"Please read this, Hubby...

I haven't done this for fifteen years for Nothing. I love you, Hubby and I'm sorry if you don't feel that I do. If it's over then I hope we can be mates again one day- at least for the kids if nothing else.

I don't know if this can be fixed but I know I don't want to be without You. You are the most important person in my life- besides the kids; and this is killing them. If it's over then we have to make it work on some level for their sakes.

Maybe we just need to be separated for a while- I'll go to my Mother's for a month if you think that might help. Or give counselling another go? I don't know what else we can do; we've let it go too far for anything else to work.

I'll ring Government Agency tomorrow and tell them we've broken up if that's what has to happen today- but I hope you're willing to give it one more try.

I hope you love Me enough to try. Please. I don't wanna fight with you.

Love Always, Buffoon."

Then I went to sleep. In the morning I was woken by Hubby; sitting next to Me on the couch where I'd slept for the last three nights.

He kissed me softly on the lips. Said sorry.

And here I am...

Still.

Forgotten Facts...

It was All Because You and Twinkle Toes rang up and got Me off the couch on Saturday night to go to a barbecue at Fido's house...

I was happy staying at home watching the television with Little Son- nursing away my latest drugover. I hadn't slept much the night before; Ecstasy does that to you, you know. But it was You who had let me off my chain in the first place; coming home after a six hour stint at the pub Yourself to mind Little Son for Me while I went out with Mac and Jen Jen. You knew what I would do if I had the opportunity. You knew- because that's what You would do, too, given half the chance. You did it two nights before, Yourself.

Remember?

I'm not entirely to blame. We've both been taking too many drugs and drinking too much for way too many years. I'm not the only one with a problem, either- though I realise it's a difficult thing to admit to the first time that you do. I've struggled with these addictions of Mine for years and know it's no easy thing to 'fess up to Yourself- of All People; because it's easier to stay the same than admit to having wasted your Life in the relentless pursuit of the next wasting.

I thought that was the way in which to get you to open Yourself up to Me. I suck your cock so much better when I'm drunk or high. Like it's the Real Me who shows no inhibitions- the Me who isn't ashamed of wanting to ask to be fucked hard like the true Inner-slut in Me craves. Like that hot, big-titted redhead from Bad Wives 2...

So I thought we were on the same page for a change...

Don't you remember the conversation with Fido that we had? In which we discussed Little Son going to sleep in his daughter's bedroom for a few hours so that I wouldn't have to drive home so soon? When he said that would be More Than Okay and Alright I took what I took. And an hour or so later-just as the full effect of the acid I had dropped was beginning to take it's hold-was when You decided that it was time to take Little Son home to bed.

The fact is that Neither of us should Ever be high while our child is around. It shouldn't be a way of Life for him. And I shouldn't be expected to jump into our car and drive him home when I am heavily under the influence of them. Understood? He was fine to to bed and I would have waited until I was sober enough to drive. All he needed was someone to lay down with him for ten minutes until he fell asleep. I should have done it Myself. I should have known You'd have a phobia against sleeping in pink and purple painted bedroom...

That was the Catalyst, my Friends- for what followed...

So little Son wouldn't lay down. He wanted to stay up and play X-Box. You came out to where I was sitting with Jen Jen and made out that Everybody was ready for home-time. Jen Jen was 'suffering the flu'. Miss Fancy Pants had to get up early for a karate seminar. Everybody wanted to go and it was Me who was holding them up. Apparently. I look at the beer I just cracked; it's not that late and We'd already made arrangements to stay longer after all. And now he wants me to drive. Immediately. Now. It's not far to Jen Jen's house. Only two hundred metres and at the end of the street. I grab little Son's bag of stuff, his pillow and Wiggles blanket and go to get little Son. I've got the shits at You for guilting Me into driving when I've only just gotten off my head on acid. I'm angry that because you can't sleep in a purple and pink bedroom that creeps you out You make me do this.

I walk into the kitchen- you're telling Miss Fancy Pants something with a genuine look of "Give me sympathy" on your face. I see his eyes fall on mine and his expression changes to one that gives away the fact he was just bitching subtly about Me.

Talking about Me?

Yes he sneers. Angry now; especially when I make comment that it is because of his dislike of the pink and purple bedroom. A fact he'd admitted to earlier in the evening.

No he says. This is what He has to go through Every Time he takes me anywhere. This is because I don't know how to tell when the Party is Over. This is because I have a Problem. What is it; he asks Me- yelling at Me even though I'm now holding our five year old Son in my arms; little Son's yelling at Us both to Stop and crying that He doesn't want to go anywhere.

I put him down and he goes with Jen Jen- but not before seeing his Father make a shove towards Me and grab at my throat; lightly enough not to leave bruises but strong enough to shock Me. He's telling me something like Get your act together Bitch and I yell at him to get Fucked and that he's not coming anywhere with us. By now he's sitting on the front porch with Twinkle Toes-who was apparently telling him that it wasn't so cool for him to lay his hands on Me like that-still with the same venomous look in his eyes. I don't know if it's actual hate or just rage...

What makes him so angry with Me? Could it have been the trip he took himself? Drinking for six or seven hours straight? Not wanting to sleep in a purple and pink bedroom? Could it have been Fido's ultra-annoying childhood friend who's visiting tonight- the one who's been picking arguments and fist fights with everybody all evening? Could it be that he didn't want to upset Miss Fancy Pant's karate plans for the next day because he has a massive crush on her and wants to fuck her?

Truth be told it might All be my fault. My fault for always being the first to arrive at the party and the last one to leave. My fault that I have no self-restraint when I drink and won't allow anyone to tell Me when I've had enough. But doesn't it make me funnier when I'm stoned? Aren't I the hilarious kind generous friend You'd like to have in Your circle? Don't get the wrong impression about my group of Mates- they are all hard-working fast-living fun-loving and deep-thinking group of Individuals and Couples I've ever known. Perhaps I shouldn't Out them; but the majority socially take drugs and drink to excess on the weekends, too. Our lives are one continual party and that's the way we like it; we even joke we should pay weekend board to each other because none of us like to go home.

The party has to end...

I drove the short distance to Jen Jen's; the fight seemed to keep me sober and I arrived without incident. Luckily. We are just getting into bed when the phone rings. It's Twinkle Toes. They're coming up to get Hubby's cigarettes- which I've inadvertently taken when I'd packed up little Son's belongings. I go to bed; taking the cigarettes with Me- thinking Fuck You; you don't get to come over only to get a cigarette. I want a fucking apology this time. I send him a text; telling him he's piss-poor excuse of a man for laying his hands on Me when he knows full well that I couldn't fight my way out of a wet paper bag. He might not have actually hit me but he threatened to; with fist drawn back and chest pumping and eyes full of mad hate directed at my Being. Who I am; all I represent...

And then I go to bed. Little Son wakes me up and Jen Jen makes him a Vegemite sandwich for breakfast. She tells me that after I went to bed they came and left- cigarette-less; and stayed the night at Twink's place( who also wouldn't have driven so soon if my Hubby hadn't killed the party)- adding that there was no way she was going to offer The Prick (my Hubby) one of her's- especially after his little 'unnecessary outburst'. She's not even taking sides; and while I was grateful to her for letting me stay over I knew she was pissed off being placed in the middle of our argument. I don't blame her; all of our Friends have witnessed it at one time or another, though perhaps this incident was one of the worst She's seen.

I drove home about ten the next morning. Hubby wasn't back from Twink's so I set about putting on a load of laundry and doing the washing up while I waited for the inevitable. The gate squeaking signalled his return. He came in and asked for a cigarette.

I pulled my hand back; holding the cigarettes out of his reach. Got anything to say, I ask him. Like sorry for grabbing me by the throat last night- or for making me drive when I'm over the limit and on acid? We're yelling at each other and Little Son comes in as his Father rushes me off my feet by the throat, slamming me into the kitchen bench- holding me there with his fist pulled back and trembling. Just Itching to Do It. Don't You Fucking Hit Me I tell him- my body seemingly offering No resistance; save a feeble flick of the cigarette packet aimed at his face. It misses but he lets me go and grabs the packet before storming out to the back veranda; yelling abuse, tormenting me that he Doesn't Like Me Anymore and to Get The Fuck Out.

I am- I tell him. Just grabbing a wet school uniform for little Son so he can go to school. Don't ever touch me again- I tell him; grabbing my purse and the packet of smokes. I don't even have shoes on. It's eleven am...

AT the bottle shop I buy a six pack. I know my Mother is only going to rag Me out for drinking but like I told her later What did she expect Me to do after my Husband had just kicked me and my kids out of our house? Lucky really, I explained, that I hadn't bought a four litre cask of crap like I really wanted to do. Then My crap wouldn't have bothered me even half as much.

Why do you stay, Buffoon, she later asked me; in Effect- why do you like the Life you have-and I had no answer. But I do know that the drinking and the drugs aren't the Real Problem- they are just a visible symptom of Whatever it is that I am suffering from. But I'm getting ahead of Myself...

So I'm drinking my beer on the front veranda of my childhood home- playing Snap with little Son. Hubby has noticed I've taken the smokes as I fled and calls Me up. Smokes he paid for but didn't buy at the shop himself(due to his very real Shopping-phobia; just recently I sent him into a shop to buy a doughnut for our little Son and he came back empty handed saying he just couldn't handle the crowd)but none-the-less His because He earns the money around here. And bring back my money Bitch. All $32.85 of it. Because it's mine. And then Fuck Off again. So I did. I was even sorta calm as I delivered them into the mailbox; where I presume he retrieved them from as soon as I drove off.

Back to the veranda and beer...

I sat there an hour constructing a text message; trying to put across my side of the story; how we had discussed with Fido staying longer at the party. That regardless of how much it 'pissed him off' it wasn't His right to grab my throat and menacingly threaten to hit me- especially in front of little Son. Even if he didn't hit me it felt like He Could have. And I know that he finds this a reasonable way of expressing his anger when things don't go the way he likes it. When he feels like he has lost control of what I am, or Aren't doing. If it's not up to his expectations then he can treat me in any manner he wants. Even if it makes me scared of him...

He rings back- yelling more abuse at me and telling me he's not interested in reading or hearing about my bullshit excuses anymore because he's heard me do it all before; justify my actions when I am just one fucked up person- and then hangs up in my ear before I can say hardly a word. This is why I have to write you a text message, Hubby; even if only to get the chance to voice a single thought without it being cut down and ignored. To be Ignored;to be Unheard by the one I love- that is emotional torture. It's mental abuse.

That-and more- I wrote in the next text...

And He called back. Again. All he hears is More Bullshit from Me. I'm only escaping the truth of Myself in my delusions; he doesn't care to hear it. It isn't His problem.

Well, No. I'm Not.

His problem is that he has never apologised for a thing in his life. He has never Once felt sorry for hurting Me all those times; verbally, mentally, emotionally and physically.

So followed a sleepless night on the top bunk in my Parent's spare room. My old room. The computer room now. I must have woken up thirty times wedged up against the wall; little Son's foot square in my back. I don't know if I slept badly because of the distinct lack of space or because I'd had no bed-time bong...

Next morning I woke and took little Son with Me as I went home to make up his lunch-box for school. He didn't want to get out of the car and wasn't keen to go inside but was happy enough to play in the yard with Chopper until I'd done what had to be done. Then we left again; my intention wasn't to start another fight in front of our Son today. He'd seen enough in the past few days- and had thought up his own solution for the problem; "Just call the police Mum and they can take Daddy away to the Jail". Why would the police do that? "Because Daddy's a Dickhead Mummy". That's why.

So I took little Son and dropped him off at school with a kiss; came home and showered(remember I hadn't showered in three days or changed my clothes in as long)and walked down the back where Hubby was working on his motorbike. It's sat in shed, broken, for the last six months and I've been driving him to work everyday. I guess he's working on it now so that he doesn't have to rely on Me to get him there each day.

Are You ready to talk yet? I ask him. No; Not really- is the response. I'm sick of having the same conversation each and every time we go out anywhere. That You're not ready to go home. It's a broken record Buffoon, and I'm sick of the shit. So do You want me to pack our bags, then I ask? I don't give a fuck really, You say. I'm doing what I want to do from now on. I've got this shit(pointing at broken motorbike)that I want to get done today. You do whatever the fuck you like.

I turned on my heel without another word. Grabbed my phone, wallet and car-keys and drove to my friend's CC's house. She was sitting on her veranda with Bubby and her two Sisters. Her Hubby, Norty,on a rostered day off, offers me a bong almost as soon as I walk through the door. So I have two- and then explain to CC the situation I've just left...

CC is the sort of person who can Really get into another person's head. She's a Virgo like Me; empathetic loyal and emotional. She listens whilst making me a fresh corned-beef sandwich and we both lament there are no pickles; and after she has given advice and tried to assure Me that This episode will end the same way as it always has, with Me and Hubby remaining together, I leave to confront Him again in a discussion about Exactly What Is Happening Here With Our Domestic Situation; should I be packing our bags for a more permanent stay at my Mother's, perhaps or are we going to try and work through this One Last Time? Norty and CC have offered to put me and the kids up for a few nights until we get it sorted but if it were a permanent end to the relationship then our permanent residence for at least the next six months would be at my Mother's and Father's. And just quietly; this scenario scares the absolute bejesus out of Me.

It's about 2 when I get home. I'm not surprised that He's not here- and if I know Him at all; he's at the pub with Twink. It's nearly three when my phone rings. Will You and little Son and eldest Son be home tonight I'm cooking hamburgers and want to know how many tomatoes I need to buy at the shop? The shop? He's actually going Into a shop And buying something? Unbelievable!

I call CC, who informs Me I've left my wallet under her couch*- and tell her we won't need to stay at her house at this stage, thanks for the offer anyway, but he's asked if we'll be here for hamburgers for tea tonight. This is His way, she says, of saying sorry and that he wants me back home but just doesn't know any other way of saying it. I'm dubious about that. I think it's more to do with the fact his motorbike is still not going and he'll need someone to drive him to work in the morning...

And lets face it- I need him, too. For the moment at least. If keeping the Peace for a few months means I can stay in this house on my own terms until I find somewhere else to live then I will keep the Peace. If it means staying home on the weekends so I can save up the money needed to move out then that's what I'll do. If I have to work weekends then I'll do that too- in fact I told my Boss yesterday that I am now available every weekend if needed- when I'd only been If I can hang out here until Tax Time then we would get enough money to get himself some transport to get to work and enough for me to move out without having to beg money from somewhere else. Because whilst I love her I couldn't bear to live at my Mother's again. I need my Own space.

But if You think I will stay in this house- or in the bed we've shared for the past fifteen years-without an apology or some sort of admission of wrong then You are the deluded one, Hubby. I'll do extra shifts. I won't go to the pub or spend money on drugs. If I have to I'll sell my antique Bottle pictures that my Grandmother gave Me. I'll get the money together for a bond on my own place. Above all; I'll leave on my own terms, thanks- this is my home, too. A place where I deserved to feel safe and loved.

It's about Time I was honest with Myself...

So I will make the necessary changes in my Life.

No more games Hubby. I promise.

If actions speak louder than words then I'll show You All. And Hubby doesn't even have to know.

I'll make the changes for Somebody important...

Me.




(* NB When I returned to get my wallet I took up a bottle of pickles for CC and Norty for the leftover corned beef.

Because that's the sort of person I am...)

Mayday...

Right now I am hanging out for an apology that will never come...

I really thought We'd been getting on better lately. Reached a better understanding of the other. Or why else would you have told me the other week that you loved the same things about Me that everybody else does? Why would I be able to forgive the horrible things you said Last Time if it weren't for the fact that I can move on from them? I never Forget though. The hurt has gone on for far too long...

So I decided May Day was going to be the day I started moving on with my Life. Do things for Myself that promoted rather than hindered my progress. I decided not to drink or smoke pot From Now Until Further Notice- meaning that I was having a break from drugs/achohol rather than abstaining from it Forever- I'm not even Close to being ready for that kind of committment; but when I finished work one of the Girl's suggested we have a quick beer down the corner and have a flutter on the Pokies; and then there was a message from Jen Jen on my phone asking if I wanted to go halves in some green.

So, So Long, Good Intentions.

After a few rounds with the Girl's I dropped round to Twink's where I met Jen Jen. We had a few more rounds at our Local Pub and then I dropped Jen Jen home while I went to collect little Son from school. I was five minutes late so used the lame-o excuse I was late finishing work. I hope Miss H didn't smell the alchohol on my breath.

I bought a six pack for when I got home; I'd already busted my May First Resolution. And with a sappy-bag full of mull I was now set up for a fine evening. Lucky I hadn't told anybody about those Intentions of mine, hey? I so hate disappointing people...

This morning I woke, drove Hubby to work, got stoned and realised that I had no banana for little Son's morning tea at school. A quick trip down the shop later had this rectified and I dropped him at school and proceeded on to the Shopping Centre to do the weekly grocery shopping. Crisis averted; or so I thought.

I'm in the Fruit Section, looking at bananas, silently congratulating Myself that I had bought enough to last the rest of the school week- when it hits Me. The bananas I'd already bought weren't safely in little Son's lunch box at all- but were still sitting on the front seat of the car because I'd been too stoned and/or pre-occupied to remember to put them in. It just serves to highlight how much I need to change my Life. It's going down the gurgler.

It's May Day alright.

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

Below is from an email my pen-friend The Hot Scot sent me this morning. It's message really struck a chord with how I've been feeling the last few days...

"As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

Don't be afraid that your life will end,
be afraid that it will never begin."

Apparently if I send it on to all of my Friends then a Miracle will happen Tonight.

We shall see.

Been Here Done This All Before...

The following is an entry from my personal diary- dated the First of November, Two Thousand and One...

It just about sums up how I feel today. How Time stands still.

Been Here. Done This. All Before.

" I know what Hubby's priorities Aren't.

Us.

As of now I give him my blessing to meet someone else. Maybe then He'll move out and leave us alone. Why do I even care about him- let alone love him- when he's so pathetic? He must think he's either shit-hot or that I'm a complete fuck-wit. He has no respect for Me and totally disregards my feelings. He has not listened to Me in years; no wonder I'm an alcoholic. I'm not pissed at the moment but Christ I'd like to be.

He's pissed the bed for the thousandth time- and now he's asleep on the couch in the nude. I've put the wet sheet on him to make him feel at home. It's not even the act of pissing the bed again that makes me wish he was gone; it's knowing that this is how it's always going to be as long as were together. He's the biological father of two kids and a Father to neither. I think sometimes he's only doing the best he can but it's like he's not even trying, actually. He couldn't care less. I don't believe him when he says he cares anymore. He can't. He's incapable of caring about us because he doesn't even care for anything-he's admitted it to me before that he doesn't care about anything- so that has to include me and the kids and his family and friends and everything else in his life. He doesn't even care about himself; but he's a lot higher on the list than anything else.

It's always what He wants.

He says women want everything- which isn't a surprise if they get Nothing.

I'm trying my hardest- I really am. Even if it doesn't look like it sometimes. I try and do the right thing for everyone. I won't even finish uni until I've tried to fix this broken household. Eldest Son's the only one with any hope left and how long will that last unless I take him out of this shit? How can I subject a baby to it?

I won't even let Hubby touch the baby if he comes home drunk and stoned like he does. I can't stay here; I shouldn't I know. It's fucking me up. I'm not strong enough to leave him; just like I wasn't strong enough to leave my Bastard Ex. That was the only nice thing He ever did for me- leaving when he did. Hell; I wish I'd never met That Bastard...

This isn't as bad as that scenario; at least I love Hubby. Why is another question.

I really must be some sort of bottomless pit of emotions that needs to be nurtured. There's Nobody for somebody like Me. No one could ever fill me up enough. I've heard Dr. Phil talk about people like Me on Oprah...

And I know I'm supposed to learn to somehow fill Myself up but I don't think I'm capable. I have too many bad opinions of Myself for me to compliment or comfort myself; too many insecurities. I just really need someone to look after me for a change- I'm not as strong as people think. In fact I'm really quite weak. Maybe I should just check myself into Local Mental Hospital or somewhere like that.

Is it possible to have a nervous breakdown for Years?

If so- it would take even longer to cure it; given that( for example) if you're sick for a week- it generally takes two more to get over it completely. That's probably why the Doctor thought I should be on anti-depressants for two years- so I would have properly gotten over my depression.

But No.I felt better so I stopped taking the medication. I admire people who know better; who don't think that what they are going through is a figment of their imagination...

I want to know if Hubby regrets me having these pregnancy's. Is that why he can't touch it- as if doing so would contradict his reality? Is that why he's so aloof to me lately- or even, in fact, going as far back as when Eldest Son was born? Psychologically he doesn't want to admit he Hates his responsibilities as he sees that I've made them. Us.

It's not being scared. It's being hateful and resentful for letting Themselves get in that predicament They're in in the first place. I want to know the answer to this question that I fear to ask for already knowing the answer.

That's fucked up Thinking. But there you go.

Opus."

(NB Just re-reading that makes me feel physically ill...)

I Am...

"Who'd want to fuck someone who looks like a twelve year old boy?"

This was the latest attack from my Hubby- said with malice and intended to wound my already fragile self-esteem. This from somebody I love. From somebody who hates Me.

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to your bullshit".

This because he doesn't understand Me and has never tried to. This because he'd rather make me out to be unbalanced and mentally fucked up than listen to another perspective on our fucked up co-existence. This because he doesn't think I'm worth the bother.

I am.

Nine Things...

Stole this blog entry idea from Miss Understood's blogfriend, Blessed, while I was tooling about on the computer tonight...


For each numbered question, list that many things as your answer.
For example, 1 thing for #1, 2 things for #2, 3 things for #3, and so on!

1. thing you have done this morning.

*Went to work


2. things you plan to do this weekend.


*Going to a BBQ at my friend Jen Jen's house
*Drink copious amounts of alcohol.


3. things you wish you had.
*will power
*a mortgage
*a Beagle


4. celebrity men you think are handsome.
*John Barrowmen (actor in new Series Dr Who)
*The guy who plays Mike Delfino in Desperate Housewives
*Robbie Williams
*Rob Thomas

5. celebrity women you find attractive.
*Gwen Stefani
*Pink
*Beyonce
*Patricia Arquette
*Britney Murphy

6. Foods you love you don't eat often
*Vindaloo
*Salt and Pepper Pork
*Cheesecake
*Omelettes
*Canneloni
*Banana Cake

7. ways you would spend $1 million.
*New house
*New car
*Holiday to the UK
*Buy a racehorse
*Shopping Spree
*Donate to charity
*Give some to the fam

8. personality traits you think are important.

*compassion towards others
*honesty
*good sense of humour
*to be kind
*loyalty
*able to keep an open mind
*tact
*humility


9. People's Blogs you regularly read...

*Miss Understood
*Enchantress
*Comic Mummy
*Mr Husbland
*Gempires
*TaraD
*AlexSuze
*China Blue
*BananaHole

Care to do your own?

My Dorkiest Story Revisited...

Thanks to Miss Understood- for giving me the idea for this post. I may even enter the Dorkiest Story Ever Competition Myself! If you'd like the link try this one- or at least Google it if my first attempt at linking fails.

So here is an earlier post from my blog in which I longwindedly explain my dorkiest ever moment; it was then called The Story Of The Bogey Hole Cutter.

So Enjoy...

Eye.

My third class teacher once told me that I should never begin a story with the word 'eye'. It's a funny word when you say it in your mind, though, isn't it? Like 'sleep'. I'm saying this now because this is how things are for me; and sometimes I'll have to write things with a pen first before I can type them. So things might get a little confusing at times.

I'm telling you now so you know that this is how my story will be told- from the inside out. There are no real character's except for Me. It's nobody's story but mine. To completely confuse you I will add and delete paragraphs as I go, so just try and imagine that I am speaking to you if that will help. Don't be too worried; I'm not from a cult and I don't want to convert you to my way of thinking- I personally wouldn't like to be a clone- and even though I am an ugly witch on the inside, sometimes, basically I think I'm pretty harmless.

These are conversations of my mind, if you like, or trains of thought, and how I live my Life every day. You may have already noticed that there are often more than two meanings to everything I wonder. Eventually that might bother the shit out of you- but try and take the time to figure the words out. I like to remember things that other people don't find memorable too, so if you're the kind of person who hates that kind of thing then I suggest you stop listening right now.

I'm not sure yet if anyone will ever get to read this. For one thing, it will probably become more like therapy the more I get into it; which isn't necessarily a bad thing- for Me anyway- and at least I'm warning you now. For another, I am on a bit of a manic high at the minute, but when that ends I will probably go back to being my unmotivated self and this story will never get written. And I don't want you to hate me for being self-indulgent or insecure either. I can't help the way that I think anymore than I can rewire my brain; which could by all accounts be sitting in a lab in a vat somewhere.

Also; this isn't something I have chosen for Myself. More than likely I need professional help. Believe me- I've tried to get it but not one professional I've seen has yet been able to say what is so wrong about me. It isn't funny being depressed, paranoid and crazy, but it can be something you can learn to live with; even when those who are around you can't. I think I could stop putting the chemicals in- but where's the fun in that? There isn't. So if I'm drunk or stoned for a few hours a day I must deserve to be, right? Why shouldn't I have a few good hours out of an otherwise crappy day?

There. That's enough of an explanation. I hope you understand and are still here. I'll call this first story School Daze. Almost everything is true. It should be relatively painless. Read what I say out loud if it helps and in reverse when you can- it won't make any less sense; and good luck...if you're confused then imagine how I feel.

School doesn't seem like ages ago at all when I think about it. It was about the time that people really started to notice that I was a bit strange sometimes. I've always been a thinker; I like to know the meaning behind things and if I can't find out I'll make one up. Which is how, I suppose, I ended up with the Bogey-Hole Cutter.

I should explain, firstly, that my Grandmother lived in a haunted house at the time but has since moved to a lovely little unit near the shops with only half the number of steps to climb. Apparently when you are eighty, even if you are still fairly fit, this is a fairly important consideration. But the big old house had an old sea-captain named Ernie living there once, and, after he died, he lived in the manhole near Grandmother's bedroom. At night, when the wind came whistling up from the sea with the crash and salty mist of ocean spray, sometimes Ernie would come and make the pictures on the walls move. Or at least I think he did. That house played tricks on your mind.

A lot of my nightmares have been played out here. Every room has got it's own story but my favourite place is on the Landing. You've got three choices of steps to take; choose left and you are with the other kids. Choose right and you can eavesdrop on the adult's conversations at the end of the long corridor, and when we choose going downstairs we love siding down the wooden banister all the way to the bottom. Apparently the Landing is where the Uncle once pulled a gun on the Cousin too, but I liked it so much because there was this set of eight pictures on the wall that I could really relate to for some reason- even then.

It was a story about a family who at first lived the good life, but once they were introduced to the Bottle their lives' went up the shit; and the father ends up murdering the mother, and then he gets sent off to a lunatic asylum- all because of the Bottle. It's almost funny; but that seems to be how my own life is turning out- just like in those pictures. I just haven't been murdered yet and the baby hasn't died from starvation. I got my hands on them again recently. They are mine now, for the time being at least they live in my cupboard. As soon as I'm not being lazy I'm going to paint the walls and hang them in the hallway of my house where they now belong. Perhaps. Or maybe I'll end up having to sell them to pay for my rotten teeth; caused by my own ritualistic experiences with the bottle. Ironic huh? I was fascinated by those pictures when I was younger but how could I have known that those pictures would end up resembling my own life?

One thing I hated about my Grandmother's house was turning off the lights in the downstairs hallway at night; you'd pull the string at the bottom of the stairs and then have to bolt all the way to the top of the flight with the wind and I don't know what else chasing you, your heart bursting, until you reached the safety of the big brass bed that sagged in the middle and could dive under the musty patchwork quilt- trying hard to force the visions of Stephen King's pale vampires firmly from your mind. But when you finally do stick your head out to breathe you see at once that the Pink Lady and the Blue Boy are out dancing again. Her skirt is being blown softly in the breeze; you can see the ripples of fabric billowing-even the bow beneath her floppy hat is moving gently with the breeze. She is at once beautiful and scary. I don't like to look at the Blue Boy as much- he generally only wavers for a moment or so, and anyway he's pretty creepy. I, for one, was not upset to learn he got so moth-eaten in the end that he had to be thrown out. All around Us are silhouettes of something. And then there are the black dark nights when you can't see anything at all, and they are somehow worse.

But in the mornings there is the antique telephone to play with and we play secretaries and make prank phone calls. You see, we weren't totally naughty children- I even think Grandmother was fond of us once upon a time. Sometimes we even did normal things. But there was this one time we said in a prank to a vet that our Chihuahua was unconcious in the driveway after having mated with a Great Dane. We didn't even have a dog at the time. I don't suppose that's funny to you- but we still laugh about it sometimes.

We are nosy little beasts as well; a trait we have picked up from every other female in our line, and rummage through desks looking for more exciting things than recipes and receipts. Diaries are a good find but finding a Will is even better, as are personal letters. They have information that can be stored and retrieved when it's necessary. At any one time in our family there is at least one person who is holding a major grudge against someone else. We've all had a few turns at it. No-one's perfect. It's funny, though, that while they are not speaking it seems like everyone else talks about no one and nothing else. At least for the first year. It's not that hard to see why. Everyone needs to have some ammunition when they are under attack, and should gather ammunition in times of 'peace'- so if you can't hide the evidence it should be destroyed, in my opinion.

And it is only my opinion. Some people would have you think that there is nothing wrong with how I am but lots of other so-called normal people have often commented on how warped my life seems to them. The truth is that I don't know how to be any different than what I am. I can't help being circular either, so I deny it and pass it on to my children like it was passed on to me. Some people never learn that the only way to lie really well is to tell most of the truth in the first place-then it's just a case of remembering what details you omitted and, if I'm going to be completely truthful, I do that quite a lot. I fake the facts. But I never forget what really happens either, and the Real story is always the more interesting story of the two anyway, wouldn't you say? My family, more so the older members, have the annoying habit of trying very hard to forget the truth- and then they alter history to suit themselves and that's the version they end up believing. Of course they don't see it this way, but that's just a part of the Disease.

In truth; we didn't spend a lot of time staying over at our Grandmother's house, but I can still remember walking down past the Fort and dangling my legs from the the wafer-thin sandstone cliff tops I perched on- how or why it didn't snap off like a sand-biscuit and get me dashed on the rocks below I'll never know- while watching the hang-gliders sail through the air above. You can see the waterhole from atop the cliff, a swirling mass of froth and foam, and the swimmers- who brave not the icy water or choppy sea but the green kelp that is creeping with crabs and other biting things; things you have to tread on if you want to get into the water. It doesn't help when your Sister's and Cousin are reminding you of this every step of the way, either, and it's dangerously slippery to boot.

At this time the waterhole, known as the Bogey-Hole, holds deep significance for me as my class was learning about it in Social Science, as part of the curriculum for the First Fleet and Settlement, and I am fascinated that the Convicts had been made to dig this hole out of rock as a bath for the Governor. How could they have done it when the water was rushing in on them every second, for instance, and what tools could they have used to dig the rocks out with, deeply enough to form such a deep pool?

I begin to imagine this tool- it would have to be hand-held, with a serrated edge and would probably resemble what Grandmother has in her desk drawer near the antique telephone. I steal it before going home-which takes a bit of effort I might add- and for my homework that night proudly draw this object in my workbook. On the following Monday I arrive at school with my secret and gleefully show my teacher the Bogey-Hole Cutter, which I explain is now my Grandfather's knife that he found near his house up on the Hill when he was building his new garage.

To cut a short story even shorter, I wish I could have seen my own face when the teacher explained that it was not the real Bogey-Hole Cutter at all- but just a very old cheese knife. I still have it too. Well, I can hardly take it back now can I? It's been mine for twenty-four years!

I suppose the most embarrassing part of this story is that I still insisted it was a Bogey-Hole Cutter and got up in front of the entire class and told them all about it. I'm sure that some of them even believed me.

And having said that, it won't come as a surprise, will it, when I tell you that I've been doing and saying stupid things all my life.