My love 5

Today was perfect, and you are perfect, and it amazes me how you don’t stop surprising me and overwhelming me and you have prowess that makes my head spin so I can’t speak or stand, all I can do is look at you and hope you kiss me again, and I quiver, and hope you can tell how I feel. One day I’ll learn how to tell you. For now, please know, you can make me feel so fresh, so nervous and happy, as if we’re only just touching each other for the first time, and that’s special. I felt things today, reminders and realisations, all struck me dumb. You’re tall, so tall and you humble me with your shoulders leaning in and your hands holding my hips up to yours, standing over me making me feel meek and precious and fragile, I am completely yours when you stand so close to me like that, I feel nothing else in the world but your attention.
The way you hold me makes me melt. You give me warmth. I’m crazy about you.

“Do you wanna try lying down?”

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Over and Under

After a big paddy over a big overreaction, leading to a great show for the oldies on a coach, and a surprise cancellation of a tattoo, my love and I walked hand in hand back up an overcrowded street into the town where we had wasted yet another day.

Another tantrum, another proof of my underwhelming sense of self-esteem and lack of understanding for my man and my relationship. I keep finding myself breaking down over little things and giving our problems much better press than they deserve. After all, you should have to pay for a ticket and a heftily overpriced box of popcorn to see someone bare that much in the street. It shouldn’t come to you without you asking first. Bypassers, I apologise, and I demand that you give back all those images that you caught out of the corner of your politically-correct public-place eyes.

Having watched Control, I was actually impressed by how much control Ian Curtis seemed to have of himself. He was passionate, creative, productive, and grabbed opportunities. He was decisive.

The biggest decision I made this weekend was the song I will do my first striptease to as soon as I have a long enough break from my overwhelmed little heart and the bruises and cuts that turn up after a week at work like forgotten unfortunate school friends on social networking sites. That was, until I got over myself and realised that I got it good. I got it bad for my man, he’s got it bad for me, and we got each other whenever we need. Sure he’s a drive away but that’s do-able, and after all the shit we put each other through in public and private, we can still make each other laugh, and set the record straight from there. And that’s another thing I’m grateful for. He may not like it, but he isn’t afraid to argue in public anymore. And I feel so lucky to have that openness because ‘behind closed doors’ is a phrase banned from my hypothetical house-with-dog-and-kids-when-I-grow-up. I am proud of all that I am and I want no one to ignore any part of me before accepting or rejecting me. I like my flaws and my qualities equally, and I like airing my dirty laundry. I almost wish for nosey fifties-feminist neighbours to spy on me and whisper behind snapped-shut curtains.

I need to swear and talk about sex and people I don’t like. I refuse to get over my boyfriend. I am under him, and over myself. My grandchildren will call me Bunny, or Wrinkles by his persuasion, and I will never be over the hill. I will be the kind of adult as in ‘Adult Shop’ and ‘Adult Themes’, but I will never be a grown up.

Oh, and uh, this is the song:

My love 4

Hey darling,

This one’s not for you. Before I tell you that, as it turns out, there are some things I do need to write to you but never give to you; there are things I do need to get off my chest that I can’t really share with you, I want you to trust that it doesn’t mean I love you any less, or trust you any less, or that we might have problems. We really don’t. Nothing about how you are with me could make me stop loving you, unless you did it first, and even then, it would take me a very long time to reach that point, after getting over it. I don’t even think we ever really get over anything.

This isn’t a disclaimer. You know all this anyway, and it’s what makes us both so happy.

You always say… how you’re a mess, an idiot and you’re asking me if I’ve never stopped and thought, “What the hell am I doing with him?” DON’T SAY THINGS YOU DON’T WANT TO HAPPEN. Don’t put things into reality that make you unhappy in your head. I had never really thought about it in the way you put it; looking at you as a stranger, looking at you from my past self, thinking how different we are and how we could never really fit together in a long-term situation. I hadn’t.

That’s not to say I’ve changed my mind. Please realise you mean everything to me right now, and I still strive to be the best I can for you, or at least I wish to be, I could say I strived if I knew what I was supposed to do. I’m not used to relationships. I haven’t had many. You’re advanced on me in that respect.

It just opened up that perspective you get when you stand back from a painting you’ve been working on for a while; you see it as new, separate, you detach. Hearing that word makes me feel sad, I don’t want to detach from you, and I hope that’s not what I mean at all. I don’t mean to put the fear of God into you by saying all this, and that’s why I won’t give this letter to you, but what I’m saying is that everything’s so fragile. I feel I have to recognise that so as not to skip along in an absolute daydream; or else all my emotional learning curves in the past may have been for nothing.

I guess you’ll want to know what I saw when I stepped back. Well, I saw this – you might be right. You might be a hopeless drunk, something to put up with. At times. You might be young and wild and in a completely different place in your life to me. You might change. You might not. You might grow out of me. I might be kidding myself.

Anyway, know this: Fragile as we may be, different as we are, I love you with all my heart and if things this unusual can work out well, then I pray we have all it takes because it would fulfil such a yearning in my heart for knowing that romance exists, and that there is something meaningful in loving relationships to hold onto. I need to know they work out. I think my parents have a lot to answer for.

Please stick with me. Don’t get scared. I will do whatever it takes.

Waiting for a Dream

Talking to a friend about dreams and nightmares tonight got me thinking about a blog entry that I wrote recently on paper and then lost. I am usually a computer geek and ignore the old faithful method, but this was an experience I needed to communicate, even if it was to the universe in general, via a little note. Like every normal human being who goes through traumatic or stressful events, I had to get up and go to work the next day, and didn’t have time to talk about it. So here it is.

12:30am – I get home after an eleven hour shift and discover three missed calls from my Nearly Father and can’t get through to him. I call my boyfriend, Nearly Father has called him just to find out where I am. They knew my hours. I call N.F.: “Don’t worry, we’re only about four miles away now, we’ll walk.” My first words were “Do you want a lift?” But I’m pretty sure these were ignored, or not heard. I am asked to put the kettle on.

1am – Five cups of tea sit luke warm in front of me, mine nearly gone. The Nearly Parents and friends come in drunk and happy. I think it would be rude to go to bed, even though I’m up early. I stay to meet the friends and do small talk for a while. Man friend is urged to serenade me, and obeys with ‘Amoré’, holding my face to his and getting me up to dance round the kitchen. I am mortified – the amount of hormones, attacks, tea and little sleep I have gone through this week mean that my face is absolutely buzzing with nervous energy, and I can’t even keep my polite smile still. I was never good with meeting new people.

2:30am – I excuse myself, laughing off N.F.’s warning about Man friend’s night wanderings and enduring a few jokes about my laziness/messines. Nearly Mother comes up to whisper her assurance that, no, he really does sleepwalk, and I am to barricade myself in. Suffering from a severe bladder infection at the time, this was not my idea of fun. I woefully slide whatever I can find that is heavy but still moves into place, perform my daily ablutions, and ‘settle’.

3am – Attempt #1. I hear the door of the guest room open, the bathroom light and fan are noisily launched into action, and I lie awake waiting for my call of duty. Duly bathroom door opens, footsteps pause. I get up and go to sit on the chair in the pile against my door. A few tense seconds later, the door handle moves down slowly, brushing my arm. I wait. It releases. Footsteps fade away.

3:30am – Following a panic attack and a vain attempt to call all the numbers in my phone that I thought might be awake, I have a twenty-minute sob to my boyfriend who has finally plugged his in. A sob was all I could manage, so I hung up. I needed the bathroom pretty urgently; I was going roughly every five minutes that day, down from a constant shift the previous night, bleeding and praying that I would get just ten minutes’ sleep. No such luck. The bathroom door suddenly shuts again, without even warning footsteps this time. I wait in agony for the longest ten minutes of my life. I feel guilty for feeling like I want to get out of the house and the situation, because I know that will hurt my boyfriend. I feel completely trapped.

3:40am – Attempt #2. Somehow in the time Man friend makes it from the bathroom to my door this time I achieve a state of isolated sleep paralysis. Note though, I am not asleep. He knocks three soft times. I try to say ‘No, go away,’ but all I can manage are long, desperate moans. I feel like my mouth is sewn shut. I then realise I haven’t uttered a sound. I can’t move a single part of my body. Man friend eventually goes back to bed.

Over the rest of the night I got a few more visits, and no more sleep. Just hallucinatory horrors. I was up the next day at 8:30am to go back to work, after a few minutes of uncomfortable small talk with the Friends, who I’d prayed wouldn’t be up yet. I hate having to announce myself and I almost felt like I should have been hosting, offering them breakfast, but I didn’t have time for that. I just made the quickest getaway possible, and got in my car with my hair still wet and a toasted croissant hanging out of my mouth.

I marvel that we go the day to day right after some of the things we conjure up. Is it all the scary movies and accidental glimpses of the nasty stuff on the news that we don’t remember until they come up in some other form? Or are we just sick enough to make this stuff up? I’d like to think that dreams have some meaning, whether simple and blatant or more Freudian, although I’d have to join the former bandwagon, but right now they are just haunting me. Last night’s images that I remember: Driving, racing other cars at night on a motorway, joining some kind of race from a junction, then running through an open landscape in the light, flying off some kind of edge like you do in snowboarding computer games, and landing in a valley racing against a bear, running away from the bear? The bear overtakes me, reaches this dead end and changes into another animal before becoming a person dressed like Michael Myers from Halloween. He attacks this little girl friend I am with. Suddenly the landscape is icy and I flip him into this pool. We think he is gone. Surprise surprise, he comes back to life and is strangling the little girl. The last thing I saw when I woke up was this: I had my arms in the pool, one hand over his mouth, one pinching his nose. He was pulling at my arms, and he was very strong. I looked down at the face and it was another little girl, with long dark hair weaving round my arms in the icy water.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

My love 3

And I’m absolutely hooked. I use this pen when I think I’ll have a lot to write. I’m absolutely caught on you and it scares the hell out of me. What if you miss Laura? What if you decide I’m boring? I can barely think about stuff like that right now because I’m so happy with the time we have together. I’m so into you. Your eyes when I tell you things like that I’m not smoking for a week. Your perfectly crafted scruffy-cute hair. Your proper hugs. Your abundant affection and concern for me, the fact that you lay hugs and kisses on me generously and let me know I’m loved. No matter what you think, you have beautiful manners and your wits about you, and you’ve clearly been brought up rightly to treat people in the best way possible. You might well hate or disbelieve it, but for all your swearing and ‘bitterness’, your people skills are truly impeccable. I like that you have a favourite book, and that you care whether I like it or not. I love the way you walk. I just do. It makes me want to be yours. I am so caught. I love you, and I will be the best I can be for you. I want to disband all my insecurities and let loose with you, because you’ve made me see just how rewarding that can be. Love you.

Overwhelmed and hungry

Once upon a socially-defunct teenager with her second-timer broken heart and a fresh start driven by unfortunate school friends, one went to her first live gig at a school hall in Monmouth. She heard her first punk, smelled her first dreadlocks in her face, did her first skank. Band member brothers Lorenzo and Fabio set in motion the whir in her mind for the next seven-years-and-counting dedicated solely to head-hunting potential baby names.

Like all nights with that particular college friend, who I would realise years later was just as unfortunate as all the bully-friends whose wings I’d chosen to be taken under before, we came home to disaster, tantrums and a lot of awkward waiting.

Hannah had her qualities. She was an amazing artist. She had a very creative way of thinking and conversing, and was good at the usual small talk as well as ignoring it and being far more interesting. She had a way of making you feel uncool, while somehow appreciated. I guess like so many men in my life she was someone I was holding out to impress, and to earn her respect.

Fun time with Hannah of course had its side effects. After another night of trying to be fun in her eyes, i.e. not myboringself; dancing like a freak, not giving a shit about speed limits and black eyes and people’s feelings, she, Holly and I traipsed home to her parents’ house after lights out. We were still living under our folks’ regulations and  watchful eyes and guilt trips. We were still being influenced. Formed as personalities. I was always more of an observer than a contributer.

All the doors were locked and the windows shut. I began to regret putting my social life before my constant desire to be home with my computer. Not a first. I hated awkward situations, the cold, unplanned events. We were stuck in the dark in winter in the middle of England, with the fear of annoying the parents whether we got into the house or not, and the dread of spending a night anywhere but inside, where cosy girly sleepovers happen.

Hannah went off on her usual soliloquy of hate and self-righteousness, developing the ongoing story of how she was better than everyone else and had to do everything for herself because everyone was useless apart from her and it was lucky she was so clever, etc. Holly and I waited, shivered. A window latch tripped.

Unfortunately, tonight’s rant went on a bit. A while. God knows how it got to here but while we were ignoring the usual drama, Hannah took a massive pair of office scissors from nowhere and I watched her back as she dragged them slowly and thoroughly across her wrists. I don’t remember seeing any damage on her skin at all. I really couldn’t tell you whether that’s because there wasn’t any, or I just didn’t want to look. I certainly don’t remember any blood.

All Holly and I could do was kneel down and pick up every last bead so that Hannah could repair the bracelet. Melodramatic yes. Eye opener yes. Some things I am glad to have escaped and left in my past, without making a definitive, one-stop effort to write someone off completely. I may let old relationships die hard, but I think it is best to keep your heart open for as long as you have some feeling there. She is still on my Facebook account, but we don’t talk.

I am stunned sometimes by the amount of things and people in the world that I want to really experience in my life, get the most out of, but that I don’t have time for. That’s just the way things are. No matter how many websites you sign up to, you can’t make time for everything. You have to make choices sometimes. But I remain hungry for more.

Yet no, Facebook, I do not think I need to reconnect with my ex-boyfriend of three summers ago who changed his mind about me after a short but massive crush. His inbox can wait for my message a little longer. But thanks for thinking of me.

Stop. Real time.

Reading a newly advertised workmate’s blog, I realise another silent wish of mine has been granted by the universe. Seemingly every day someone else admits to me that they are or have been on some form of medication for a mental or hormonal condition. So many of my friends have suffered through depression, anxiety and other mental strife completely without my knowledge. It makes me wonder whether I am a bad friend for not knowing and doing something about it, and I also question whether I am really going through the same troubles and just being more vocal about it, or if I am just a big crybaby. After all, I am still in control of my life in many ways that you lose when you go down that road; I care about my appearance and personal hygiene, I am still producing creative work that I am proud of, I am still honest and confident enough to tell everyone everything that’s on my mind, ever, which serves me well enough. God help me if that ever leaves me.

Another friend at work draws amazing pictures, another makes independent films, another sings at weddings. All amazing, talented people who I wish I had more ‘us’ time with. Time when nothing is expected of us, when we can laze around cloud-gazing and putting the world to rights, sharing life. I wouldn’t have a clue about all these hidden interests if they weren’t online, or we didn’t have the odd moment of such utter boredom on a quiet day that we got the chance to talk like real people for a change. Goodbye to ticking boxes and small talk. Give us more real time.