Friday Night Freak Out

Apparently Friday night I had a freak out. I don’t actually remember it, but I’m told that the kids dad (my ex) actually took a detour on his way to a job to come over and do a health check on me.

I remember sending him a message telling him that the kids were doing my head in and I couldn’t take it anymore. They weren’t listening to me when I told them to clean up their toys, and they made more mess, and it sent me over the edge. I don’t recall much after that. But my phone shows he called me seven times and I kept hanging up. And it prompted him to come over and make sure I was ok.

I also must have taken 3 days worth of my meds the same night, sometime after my freak out – because I woke up the next morning and noticed my pill box had 3 days missing when I only filled it up the night before. He says that it showed in my change of mood – I suddenly went from highly agitated and angry to calm and tranquil and very sleepy.

But sometime before before the calm set in I must have started writing a post, because I found it earlier today when I was doing some maintenance on my blog. It’s interesting what I think and feel when I’m off my rocker. I usually don’t remember so when I have something I wrote in that state I’m pretty fascinated.

Oh shit the cracks are starting to show. My carefully constructed veneer is chipping at the edges. I thought I had it together enough to get by. I thought I was in a place to be ok. Two and a half fucking years. It’s been two and a half fucking years and I should be able to cope now.

But I can’t. It’s getting worse. I’m getting less and less able to deal. Fuck I don’t love him. I don’t fucking love him. But without him I can’t fucking function. I can’t breathe without him. Fuck I hate him so fucking much. He fucking ruined me. Tore out my heart and crushed it. He didn’t fucking care that it broke me. He broke me.

And the fucking joke of it all. I’m still so fucking weak for him. The need for him is clawing me apart. I keep waiting for something to give. My heart most likely. I guess.

That is definitely the deluded rantings of a crazy girl. I am living and breathing without him. I’m doing just fine thank you very much. If some else had written this and I read it, I’d be like “wake up and smell the coffee you still love him”. But I don’t. I really really don’t. And I know that I am better off without him. I definitely can’t feel any chemistry between us. Absolutely not.

Alright so maybe I feel just a little. But I’m going to keep on ignoring it. It’s better that way.

I (Don’t) Want…

If I were honest with myself, I mean really truly deep down in my heart of hearts honest with myself … maybe I would admit that somewhere underneath it all, I want the story of happily ever after. Maybe.

But I’m never completely, without a doubt, 100% honest with myself. So I don’t need a handsome prince to rescue me. I’m not dreaming of a fairytale, because fairytales don’t exist. There isn’t anyone to sweep me off my feet. And I don’t want that anyway.

I don’t want the romantic proposal.

I don’t want the diamond ring.

I don’t want the beautiful bridal gown.

I don’t want the honey moon in Hawaii, or Paris, or where ever.

I don’t want someone who’ll write me songs, and sing to me and take my breath away. I don’t want to belong to them and they belong to me. I don’t want to hear the soft sweet sighs meant only for my ear. I don’t want someone to take me by surprise every time they tell me they love me. I don’t want anyone to look so deeply in my eyes that I can see my name etched onto their soul. I don’t want fall asleep listening to the even breaths and the heartbeat of the one beside me. I don’t want any of it.

Except I ever so badly do.

The Odd One Out.

One of my work colleagues became engaged on the weekend. Her boyfriend took her for a weekend away to Uluru (also known as Ayers Rock) in the centre of Australia. It was all very romantic. When she came into work today all the females (except me) in my department practically swarmed her and were cooing and fawning over the ring and the proposal story for ages.

Don’t get me wrong, I am genuinely very happy for her and I think it’s lovely that her fiancé (I’d better call him that now!) made it all very special and romantic for her. At the same time, I don’t really get why women suddenly feel the need to gush and get all sappy over hearing of someone else’s engagement. I was watching them all out of the corner of my eye (I was on a call with a customer, I am at work after all!) and I was really quite bemused to see these otherwise professional women start squealing and carrying on like a pack of high school girls, the pitch of their voices getting nauseatingly high and baby like.

I’m sitting here laughing now, because reading over this one might get the misunderstanding that I’m bitter or jealous. It’s not that at all, it’s just that I’ve never been a ‘girly’ girl, and cooing and squealing and all that rot just isn’t me. But I do sort of feel like an odd one out, like there is something different about me in situations like this. I don’t behave like a “normal” girl. I can’t. It’s not me. I just kind of see those over the top reactions as a little put-on and pretentious.

For my part – I gave her a heartfelt congratulations, and even gave her a warm hug (and I’m certainly not a touchy feely person – so any hug from me is a rare event!). I thought her ring was gorgeous and told her so. I did this all in my own voice, the one that is filled with enthusiasm and happiness of course, but it’s still my regular pitch and decidedly no gushing. I promise it’s definitely not cold or unfeeling, but at the same time it’s not falsified or overdone.

Does that make me weird? Maybe. Truthfully, it makes me a little sad that I’m not like the other girls. I sometimes wonder what people think of me because I’m not like other girls. But, I am who I am. I can’t change that any more than I can change the weather.

Sometimes though, I wish I could change the weather…

Making my Heart Skip a Beat

As much as I sometimes loathe the fact that I feel things so deeply, there is a particular aspect of my empathy that I do rather enjoy. I love that it is strikingly easy for my heart to “skip a beat”. You know that excruciating and wonderful feeling where your stomach flutters, something in your heart twinges, and you shiver? Those physical manifestations of falling in love?

All I have to do for my body to produce those automatic responses is to read a romantic tale of two lovers in a novel, or watch a charming love story play out in a movie. I don’t have to try too hard to feel those feelings, I don’t need to actually have someone to make me feel that way. I can just engage myself in a story and physically feel all the emotions a character has. It allows me to live vicariously, to feel the depths of those feelings in a simulation, not needing to rely on real life experience. My imagination is so vivid – I can not only see the story in my mind – I can feel it in my body.

At times like these, I appreciate my ability to feel things so wholly and completely – body and mind. It’s not always pleasant, but these moments make it totally worth it. It reminds me that underneath my stoicism, my cynicism, my loneliness and my determination to keep others at arms length –  there is a hopeless romantic who is completely and utterly in love with even the notion of love. And the revelation that I am a hopeless romantic brings a fond smile to my lips. There is some sadness twinged within the smile, because I never truly forget how lonely I really am, but once in a while being a hopeless romantic is enough.

it also strikes me as funny that I am such a romantic – because outwardly not many people would really know that. I am not too fond of physical displays of affection directed towards me. I’m not really a touchy feely type – I have to be the right mood to engage in hugging and kissing anyone (even family). I’m more likely to wave and nod my head in greeting a loved one that I am to hug them.

And yet, and yet, I dream of exactly those things – of being held and being kissed, and walking hand in hand. Even though that germophobic part of my mind screams about the unsanitary and ghastly things that occur with the exchanging bodily fluids.  The thought of swapping saliva, or letting someone’s sweaty palms touch my skin actually repulses me. It makes my skin itch, and my stomach drop (not in a good way). But the closeness, the intimacy, That is something I paradoxically crave yet detest. I want it so bad, even though the thought of it makes my stomach whirl unpleasantly.

Funny how contradictory it makes me.