Talking but not really talking

 I’m fed up with being sad, of the tears tripping me, of sitting in my living room in a morose depressed state. I want to snap myself out of it and now I understand when people say they could shake someone so hard to make them come to. I’ve uttered it about a hundred times about others, oh they’d piss me right off with their wallowing and their woe-is-me attitude, and their unwillingness to help themselves. News flash incoming… I’m right there with them. My wallowing is sinking deeper and deeper. Who knew that losing your fella to a trollop would rob you of your motivation and plunge you into a shitty mire of a mucky abyss.

I miss him. I miss him smacking his chops as he tries to suck the meat out of a chicken bone, I miss him belching on command, I even miss the putrid scent in the bathroom after he’s been in it for twenty minutes… okay, I wouldn’t go that far but you get the picture.         He was my one and the only one I’ve ever known, and it’s all gone up the swanny. I often think do I honestly miss the crap he put me through or am I hankering after the house feeling full again. Do I yearn after picking up his skid-stained boxers, of chucking his empty cans in the recycling, of the glint in his eye on his birthday when he wanted a bit of how’s your father… if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

You might think I’m mad, he was a dirty dog and I should be celebrating. But what next? How do I fill the void – in my home and in my heart? Once he’d slung his hook there was a touch of relief but then a flood of sadness, hopelessness, and anxiety. I don’t care much for kicking around the house on my own yet I’m also chuffed the cheating bugger can no longer carry on firing bullets at my wounded heart. Strange isn’t it. We don’t half contradict ourselves over emotions and life dramas. I’m very much stuck in No Man’s Land, not a clue how to move on yet desperate to spread my unclipped wings.

The kids were here again last night and we shared a takeaway. I dote on them and cherish every second but it’s becoming hard work to engage because they don’t know how to deal with it. We exchanged so many pleasantries and had multiple empty conversations, all the while avoiding the key issue. Still, it was lovely to have distracting chats about God knows what. The more I seemed to be interested, they’d kick the convos up a notch, and I was genuinely happy to not have to think about my shit life. But this can’t carry on forever, sooner or later we are going to have to face it head-on and talk about ‘it.’

Maybe I’ll seek solace in work, they’re always banging on about how talking makes things better and a problem shared is a problem halved. I guess it’s easier opening up to strangers. I might try that if I feel brave enough.

Positive test... now what?

It turned out to be a positive test. I took my test and the three backups and they were all a concrete positive. I sunk down into the loo seat, my entire body recoiling. I have no idea what my emotions have been up to but they’ve been running wild and free inside me. My tummy twists, if it had butterflies in it they’d be rioting and desperately attempting to break free from my weary shell. The knots whirl around like nobody’s business. All the while I’m wondering how quickly the baby will cotton onto this. In fact, I’m sure it doesn’t want to come out and will do its utmost to not survive. It’ll be cursing me because it’s a vital life form that deserves to exist but it’s stuck with an absolute mess of a mother.

All I know at this point is that I’m shit scared to move too fast or do anything remotely strenuous to give the foetus any excuse to scarper. I bet it’s analysing my every movement, logging it all for reference. Maybe God or whoever is having a good old gander too. He must think, ‘Hang on, not everyone is fit enough to bear a child, I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. I did invent procreation after all.’ Shit. So like I said, such a lot thrashing around my head and I have to try to deal with it.

When should I tell Scott? That’s going to be tough. What’ll he think? Will he even want another crack at a shot at parenthood? I can see it now, I’ll blurt it out and he’ll slump forward, head in hands, recalling the horror of the last miscarriage, think, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers, I’m off to the pub.’ No, he wouldn’t actually. Last time he was sweet and as supportive as he could have been in that situation. They don’t give you instructions on how to deal with it, so we scraped through by the bones of our arses. Hit us hard. Will our rough patch get rougher? We’re trying to navigate our issue and steer through some very choppy waters. Will this blow us apart?

Okay, there’s still a baby in there, even if it hates me. I have to do all I can to keep it alive for as long as possible. I’m too terrified to breathe too deeply or sharply. Since I took those tests, I frantically scan every part of an area with my beady eyes, for potential dangers. I suppose I could be like one of those terminators such as Arnie, who scan everything and it throws up all kinds like who people are and threat level. I could do with that, how I needed it last time. I don’t know why I miscarried last time, it just happened. It’s cruel to never be given a reason, you also don’t get any closure.

I’m trying to be sensible so I’ll make an appointment to see the GP, and I’m going to have to tell Scott, I’ll want him with me. I can’t act in secret. Last time I chickened out of telling him for ages and he was bloody furious. No, I must get my big girl’s pants on and bite this bullet. 

The Cycle of Self-Torment

 I wish things could be different. Ever felt like you just don’t want to be you anymore. That being in your body repulses you as much as it no doubt repulses everyone else. When I say that, I mean others are equally repulsed by me as I am of myself. My insides bubble away most of the time now. No let up, no respite. I see shit loads of posts online about how you ought to be kind to yourself. I genuinely don’t know if I can be kind or how I would go about trying.

Now and again I re-activate this dating app. I scroll through and see some nice men. I’ve come to accept it will only ever be a game, something make believe I try when I have a miniscule amount of confidence. It’s a repetitive cycle even I’m totally bored of now. They have a swipe right thing where you can show you’re interested. Don’t get me wrong, you can tell there are many fakes. The ones who are widowed airline pilots or doctors who are drop-dead gorgeous, dazzling teeth, too perfect pictures… But, there are several decent looking guys on there.

Okay so I have this routine where I re-activate the app, add some of the people who’ve friend requested me, and engage in a bit of light flirting over a few messages. And then I lose my bottle and delete the app. It’s like I don’t want it to become real which is what it would do if I did get to know someone. God help the people who want to get to know me, they’d vomit all over the place if they did. Having this ongoing torment is exhausting and torturous. I know what’s going to happen but all I can do is simply watch by, as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, and go through the same rigmarole over and over again. Maybe it’s a form of OCD? Like a routine you do in vain but can’t help it.

It does feel safer than having to engage with potential partners. I can hide behind my screen and pretend for as long as I need to before I cut the inevitable tie. It’s a shame because some of them are hilarious, hot as hell, charming, I wonder what could be if I let myself… well, live! Sadly my anxiety kicks in to remind me to not dare get above my station and pretend I’m someone desirable and worth loving and taking care of. As well as flirting I might also sabotage by saying something crazy to put them off me. Usually works a treat, radio silence will follow on their part, I’ll have scared them off and see them metaphorically fleeing for the hills quicker than Speedy Gonzales, job done. This is another twisted way of justifying to myself I’m not worth a punt. I get in there first and invent some craziness before they find some of their own within me. But, I… I just wish that I didn’t have to do that. I want to be loved and to be able to be me.

The invasion of the body continues

 Okay, just when I thought I’d got this sweat under control, the hot flashes rip through me and make it all a billion times worse. Summer’s buggered off now but you wouldn’t believe so, the absolute state of me. My hair – my beautiful hair I was always so proud of – is lank, sweaty and straw-like. I resemble Worzel Gummidge and keep looking out for Aunt bleedin’ Sally. This menopause is no joke. Your body is no longer your own and way out of control. My hair presses on my forehead like a boiling towel and the chills that flood me make me shiver uncontrollably. Combine flu, covid, and a shitty cold together and you haven’t got half of it.

I usually wear pretty patterned neck scarves but no chance of that because they feel too tight on my skin and exacerbate the heat factor, in turn making me irritated with the world’s shortest temper. Oh, the temper. Never known anything like it. I flip quicker than a pancake on Shrove Tuesday. The emotions won’t settle. I’m bawling at the silliest of things but then I’ll harden just like that and get angry with myself for showing emotion in the first place. The rage is boiling over though, that’s scary. The other day I needed to scratch an itch on my cheek and it wasn’t anything major, just a light one. But, it wicked me right off and I had the urge to scrape my cheek, oh I was pissed off. Felt like Freddy Kruger wanting to shred through a human torso, the way I wanted to dig this bloody itch out of my cheek. Horrendous.

I’m stuck with this menopause for goodness knows how long. I’m not even sure. I’ve not been to the GP, they have enough to cope with without some wreck of a woman rocking up. I know they can give you HRT but wouldn’t they have awful side effects? I try and steer clear of meds, the way I deliberate over taking an asprin for a headache is bad enough. I’m not computer literate so can’t Google or Goggle or whatever it’s called.  I did see Sandy the cleaner the other day and she kind of saw that I was in a bit of a state, like she possibly understood but no doubt she was thinking what a sweaty idiot I looked. She’s alright though and maybe she’s going through it herself. I get the feeling something might not be quite right with her too. You can tell by looking at someone’s eyes, you can peer right into them.

Anyway, there’s a staff tea out next week. I’m nervous because that’ll probably be a moment when I’m on one and start to shiver and seep sweat out. Pity I can’t give them a heads up and a warning. I’d understand if they didn’t want me there, I’d look a holy show and they’ve got enough to contend with. Part of me wants to shout out that I’m struggling with this alien that’s occupied every part of me and has set up camp for the foreseeable. I wish I had help to deal with it, I want that more than anything.