man time

Thanks to some old friend of the partners, he’s been off watching rugby today. I could almost smell the testosterone seeping from his pores as he left this morning with his beersies packed in the chilly bin and a comfy chair to sit in during the 40 minute each way, game lol.

Couldn’t think of anything more boring … except maybe dinner with the in-laws …

But this is long over-due for the partner. He’s been in need of ‘man-time’ for ages; I’m hoping he’ll return a bit less of cunt than he has been for the past few weeks.

Not sure why or how … I don’t really understand men very well. But he gets this irksome thing happening, where he just looks like he wants to wrestle someone to the ground and roll around in the mud with them. I’m never keen.

Whatever it is … it seems to be quenched with his man friends, beersies and Rugby arrrghhh lol.

Hallelujah 😉

Mid-life crisis or Man PMS?

I think the partner is having pre-menstrual cramps at the moment … and whoever said men don’t have a menstruation cycle have never lived with a man for longer than a few months … they do … and its way worse than ours … JS.

Either that or he’s having one of those mid-life crises.

Every pay day is pretty much the same. Shopping, bills … hissy fit cos theres not enough money and another matching hissy fit cos no-ones appreciating what it is to do the ‘right thing’.

Does it help that I usually chip in at this point with:

“At least you have a payday … 

“Would you like an award or some kind of mar degrade to celebrate the things women have been doing without a penny or so much as a fucking thank you card … for eons?

“You could always Not pay the power, rent, food …

“Maybe you should get another one of those bank loans you’re so fond of and go and buy some more crap you don’t use and pay back that bank loan over 3 years, with interest, just so you can have a little extra now and be paying back extra weekly for 3 years; thusly depleting your weekly income … 

Hmmm. They never seem to go down very well.

But I am over it. And have been for awhile. And since I’m trying to manage myself and my shit, I do not have much time for self righteous grizzling.

You see. A. I don’t have an income. B. I don’t have any bills either, thanks to the job loss and bankruptcy. C. Oh, thanks to pts fucking (d). D. I paid everything, and I mean everything, for fucking years. E. I paid for everything for fucking years and paid for my daughter. F. That was my fucking job. G. There are no thank yous for that shit. It’s called being a fucking human, doing human fucking responsible shit.

So, yeah. Not much time or patience for the other shit.

Interestingly enough … we had a little convo last night about the ‘it’ll happen when it happens’ marriage – nearly 4 years in the making or waiting. He has a tendency to espouse that I am trying to tie him down … or what ever that concept is when you’re in your 40s.

It’s then, that I remind him:

A. You proposed to Me, not the other way round.

B. Actually, I couldn’t give a shit … Marriage is something You said You believe in. I don’t. But I agreed to it because I love you.

Apparently these are unwelcome truths also.

Do I care about getting married? Nope.

What is it I care about then?

Not being fucking lured into a false sense of security. Not being fucking lied too. Not being held hostage to something I never promised.

So … I wonder if We are drawing to a close.

It’s possible.

It might be a sad thing. It might be a necessary thing.

Not sure really.

Watch this space.

Image

366 reasons to smile ~ +101.

+101. My Nan used to say something similar to this … with a certain amount of disdain though lol 😉

there once was: a probs defs, part figity #5 responding #7

oh

and we were ‘blending families’.

what a crock.

well at the time it was a crock.

trying to take care of my girl and part time his.

his by his rules. mine by mine. that part we never got blended.

entree … the next big ass barney.

taught to be outspoken, she asks: did you take my money?

the reaction: chairs thrown, insults thrown, me thrown, her thrown.

pou-pou called … again.

and in amongst it all, my girl had tried to protect me.

her protecting me.

‘how the fuck did i get here’

‘and how the fuck did i let her be here with me’

we split.

we went to court.

we lost.

have i ever said our DV laws are a crock of shit?

they are.

we were the criminals. we were the ones harassed.

we gave up in the end.

angry, i retreated.

and yes, this was the demise of self. the shadow to cast all shadows.

the medication. the land dizzy days. the long sleepless-er nights.

the job. gone.

the income. gone.

the driving. gone.

the outings. gone.

all gone.

and me.

gone.

there once was: a probs defs, pt #four responding #7

i didn’t go with the pou-pou that night. i should have.

what would i have said-ith though?

what i said to the doctor; days later; when my vision was still blurry?

‘i hit my head’

no.

when i was returned home, that lady; the mother of -saw the welt on the back of my head. but she said nothing. told me her son was ‘high spirited’. loud. what had i done?

i retreated. curled up into a little ball and wailed on the floor. for a day. or maybe 2. i can’t remember now.

‘how did i get here’ resounding in my ears. and those that i did tell; friends; they also looked like ‘how did you get there’

but i was there.

and from here, or there, it was almost written in stone.

i knew the outcome. but hoped for a different one. a different story.

‘you were being nasty

‘you were flirting with them

‘you drank too much

‘you, you, you ….’

maybe?

as i uncoiled though, enough reasoning to know …

‘i can’t do this; not like this … it’s not my way.’

all i got was a cuddle.

and the was suffice enough to make it all ok.

apparently.

i started my new job. that i’d worked so hard to get. sacrificed so much time and tears to get.

i can do this.

and i did.

i did the fuck out of it.

i moved fast. i was concise and precise.

i learnt. and i concurred.

a year later, i had ticked all the boxes and moved in to the ‘management’ section of the place. where i thought i could do more good.

hah.

and at home.

i was a mongrel.

well thats what i was told.

‘no dinner.

‘you’re anal.

‘you’re too noisy.

‘you’re too tidy.

‘why don’t you sleep?

‘you nag.

‘you a buzz-kill’

on and on and on and on  and on    and on.

and i paid the rent when it didn’t.

and the power. both of them.

and the phone bills. all of them.

i paid to get myself out of those hideous joint accounts that had been set up in trust and transparency.

i paid the student loans i’d taken to get that kick ass education to get my this awesome fucken job, where i’d help the world, possibly change the world … yeah i paid that shit.

i bought the food … or lack of it sometimes.

i paid the school fees; extra tuitions …

and then all the other little and big things that just happen …

yeah i paid that shit.

‘thought we were going halves?’

‘why do you always go on (not a question)

you’re trying to control me … ‘

so i tried a little harder …

family day?

Nope.

date night?

Nope.

Oh no, hang, there was 1.

surprise birthday?

Surprise! where is it?

Its not here … its drinking piss with a mate … not here.

theres was the graduation day …

and night …

trashed.

there was the lunch that never happened.

the trip that never happened.

the concert i sat and waited at.

the ride that never came.

the first ever ‘you are about to have your fucken power cut off bitch’ notice that came.

the car that never showed up.

the coffee that was 4 hours late.

the dinner that was 6 hours late.

the ‘i’ll be home soon’ that took 16 hours.

the milk that never came.

the meat, form the grocery store, that never came.

the phone calls that never happened.

and then there was the silence.

the long drawn out silences, that i absolutely abhorred.

in a cloud of smoke and tears.

wondering

‘how the fuck did i end up here’

and i didn’t notice large chunks of my hair coming out.

or the clothes that weren’t fitting anymore.

i figured it was work.

and it was.

glorious job of the decade was also the most fucken backwards, two faced, hypocritical job … ever.

we weren’t there to save the world.

we were the proverbial ambulances at the bottom of the cliff.

and as i got sicker. more hospital check ins. more doctors visits. more money out the door. more frail. more worn down.

my grandfather died.

and i died just a whole lot of a little … along with him.

and then the pedo came.

and the tension mounted.

i vomited.

and just a whole lot more of me … disappeared.

‘how the fuck did i get here’

there once was: a probs definite, part three #responding #7

then came fight two.

after the tension, the criticism, the tension.

but still as my fabulous self … i got my job. that one i had worked my ass off to get. i’d moved. relocated body and mind … dependents.

we celebrated. well thats what it was supposed to be.

untrained in the art of how to read this person yet … not properly anyways … we supped, we drank, we cheers-ed the fuck out of the night …

congrats You … you scored 2nd highest in the history of … thats why you got the job.

cool.

cheers.

congrats.

lets go to town. celebrate some more.

woohoo.

‘i don’t want to … you go.’

ahh ok.

‘yeah, you go … i’m ok.’

ok.

‘no really, i don’t care that you’re leaving me here. you go.’

ok. you know you can come too ay.

‘nah … i’m good.’

So, not a professional at this sort of bullshit … but pulled by the churning in my gutt … i didn’t go. we went home instead.

mistake.

the tension in my gutt grew. but i ignored it. and as the argument ensued, i was confused.

and stunned. but not by the thud of my head hitting the furniture – no.

stunned at where i was. where i had gotten too.

how had i gotten to here.

had i not noticed? had i become that blind?

i automated – did what i knew i should.

i rang the pou-pou. then thought twice.

‘how’ – ‘how did i get here’

and then i cleaned all the blood off the wall. why? because it was a friends house and i didn’t want it leave a mark.

well thats what i told myself.

its what i told them … the pou-pou.

‘how did i get here’

i heard him leave. his father came. i rang them apparently. yes i did.

what had i hoped for? an explanation? some help?

fat chance.

and when the pou-pou had gone, he took me back to their home.

not the hospital. not somewhere safe.

apparently i rang a friend. and when they came, i had told them i was fine.

she knew what had happened. she knew.

but said nothing.

‘how the fucken hell, did I, Me, get here’

a resounding question.

i am still asking myself.

and was this when another little piece of my insides disappeared? retreated? retired?

is this when another little shadow came together with the other little shadow to make a bigger ass shadow? which cast itself over my conscience?

maybe.

there once was: a definite, part two #responding #7

where was i:

thats right. the beginning of being hung. ham strung hung. done. dung done.

fucked … in other words. the beginning of letting ones self be fucked over.

Indignantly, I might add.

any who …

fight one, lead to a steady decline … in confidence … just a little chip at first.

enough to matter.

then came the overbearing confidence … in him. known as a shift in power. politely known as a shift in balance. a shift none the less.

‘whats that green shit you drink … (not a question)

‘why are you such a drama queen … (also not a question)

‘sensitive? just an anal fucker … (also not a question)’

as an analytic, pondering on a response, i thought discussion was what was being called for. a thrashing out of the issues … to get to the bottom of possible exuding aggressive behaviours.

and then a twitch.

what if he’s right. what if i am. i am a bit. is that why? is that why i’ve been battling for so long, trying to be heard? is that why? is it?

self-reflection. cool. but not so cool.

and another little bit of me chipped off.

not only did i let the conceited aggressive criticism hit my surface … i also let it sink in. muddy the waters. sink further.

remove some more confidence.

and as i filled in the job application … the job of my dreams i thought. that i had studied 5 years for …

i wondered … could i really do this? what if he’s actually right … that i am not what i think i am. that i am a loser.

it would follow.

i should have stopped it there.

but once i’ve started something, i make sure i see it through, goddammit.

and as my insides hollowed out just a little bit more, and my grip on reality lessened, and my daughters well being seemed to be over ridden by a looming sook who wanted everything … now …

i started to re-neg.

on me.

me.

there once was: a possible, part one #responding #7

a woman. head held high.

not particularly phased by the bad shit; but scared as hell of the normal shit. looking … always looking for … something … better … a safe place … home.

she was like any other, and not like any other. the proverbial middle ground.

not too noticeable, but definitely not un-noticeable.

constantly trying to blend … so as not to be a target.

but never able to blend … it wasn’t in her nature.

to survive, was the call.

and so she ambled. unchecked.

criticised at every turn. but still she remained. survived.

then along came him.

she noticed him. he noticed her. and they became.

not quite blended, not quite un-blended. they just became.

a chance, she thought … to do something different – possibly ‘right’.

so she blended. and bended.

just a little at first. just enough to not be so notable or noticeable. this was not unusual.

she was always up front: it was her design.

this was a new thing for him. unsurfed sea, so to speak.

then came the first disruption. disturbance. dis-quiet. dis.

it escalated quickly. from walking to screaming.

from screaming to smashing.

to tears. to shock. to disbelief.

to nervous.

what the fuck just happened.

this wasn’t normal. not exciting. not wanted.

how do we discuss what just happened.

apparently we don’t. because it doesn’t discuss. not ever.

it sulks. it retreats. it gets its own way.

upon reflection, she wonders whether this was indeed the beginning of the end. the start of the demise of self.

the start of the high head being hung.

Image

mauri of me #12

My Partner.

I have my days where I’d like to throttle him; not in a good way 😉 And then there’s day, or nights, like last night, when I get that he gets Me … and I’m grateful.

The nightmares are re-surfacing / flashbacks are becoming more frequent.

But of course, I’m not alone in my bed anymore; or dosed up to the hilt on sleeping pills.

Last night I had another ‘trapped – get Me the fuck out of here’ dream. Whenever these happen, the partner has been trying to wake Me – without getting his head smashed in by a half asleep Me. Instead, last night, he did the following:

Spoke loudly, but calmly – so I could hear him.

Rubbed my shoulder, gently and calmly.

Left his hand on my shoulder until I had woken up.

He kept repeating: ‘It’s Ok dear … you’re dreaming … I’m here’.

For this, and for many other quirky reasons which I tend to forget – I love him.

He is the Yin to my Yang.

He leaves me these: to make Me smile 🙂

and again

we tried,

i tried,

he tried.

its been so good.

and as it got quiet,

peaceful and still.

skin to skin

warm and reassuring.

a sharp shift

of smell,

not skin.

a refocus,

of him,

now not him.

so fast

it happens.

he felt the shift.

knew straight away.

thank fuck.

and before i could breath

out,

remind myself

that it wasn’t then,

that it is now

i came undone…

frozen

then shaken,

then tears,

then that fucked up choke

then…

breath dear, breath

so cruel it is,

to be so close

but slapped back

so far

anaesthetised

to

sleep

warm tears still

that sting like a bitch