February 2008 Archives

I never had a muse before. I never had anyone say "I understand" before, nevermind someone who inspired me as well. Secretly, I had big hopes for 'us'. Realistically though, there is no such hope, and it seems that there is no muse either, anymore.

It's shit.

Since I sort of lost the plot last weekend, we've both made a big effort to do something about me. I finally registered with a doctor, after being without one for the past 15 months. We bought some furniture, and unpacked a couple of boxes. I chucked a load of stuff out, and bought a whole load more stuff in. Book stuff, mostly, but I have a lovely new pair of boots too. And some shocking red hair dye.
And I've more or less decided that I am too fucked up for words. But that's a problem in itself, as I discovered yesterday when I skipped off to the doctor to ask for some help. I couldn't fucking do it. I didn't know where to start, what to say, or where to look. So I muttered something about my contraception, and skipped home with 168 tablets to stop me getting pregnant, instead.

I don't have to go back to the doctor for six months.

I'm so upset I've cried. Mind you, I've cried alot recently. But I just don't know how to go to the doctor and say I think I've got borderline/histrionic personality disorder! Stop laughing! There is something wrong in my head, and I don't know what it is, or how to show the doctor it, without actually having a mental episode of some description. And I can't plan those (or control them, unfortunately).

So that's good, eh. And in other, even more cheery news, I've got the hangover from hell.

I've been very fragile this week, and my sleeping has finally been effected by this, so that's good. Now I can be pissed off and knackered. And due to some retail therapy (that hasn't quite worked yet), skint as well.

So what, you may ask, have I been buying in the name of making me feel better? Silk stockings? 12" vibrators? Shoes? Or sexy handmade papers and acid-free glitters?

Yes, I've been to Hobbycraft.

And I'm going to 'make' a book. Just for me. It's going to be a sexy book, with lots of secrets and photos and glitter and things, and it's going to be lovely. I hope. I'm going to have to practise my gluing though, because I got in a right pickle the other day making cards with the kids.

It's been a funny old week. I've felt very strange. My muse is convinced I've lost the plot... I probably have. But it feels to me more like I've just opened my eyes, and don't have a fucking clue what's going on, or who anyone is. Like that Talking Heads song, whatever it's called. This is not my beautiful wife.

And this is not my beautiful house either. I bloody hate magnolia walls - they remind me too much of my mother. So we're going to make a beautiful house (apparently), and I'm going to make a beautiful book. And everything will be beautiful and happy and gay.

But first I need to go back to bed.

Did I tell you that I have a muse?

My muse said a few things to me the other day, things I can't get out of my head. Things that have seen me completely unravel this weekend. Things about being too hard on myself, and losing the 'pleasure' in life. Things about not looking after myself, and generally being in a right old mess. Home truths: they bloody well hurt.

So I've done a great deal of sobbing this weekend, like the self-pitiful fool that I am (too hard on myself, or just stating facts?). And loads of thinking. And then more sobbing. And then mania. Argh. I am filling voids in my life with booze, and drugs and sex, because I don't know what else to fill them with. And of course I blame my mother and my cuntface ex-husband for everything, but it doesn't change the fact that it's wrong, wrong, wrong, does it?

Hence, I am in a state of self-loathing at the mo.

Ya gotta love mardy Mondays, eh.

The muse and the boyfriend both agree that I need to make my life more...er.... rounded. And this is something only I can do, apparently. Great. Where do I start? Somebody mentioned the word 'hobbies' to me, and I shuddered violently as memories of childhood stamp-collecting came flooding back (this is my mother's fault, before anyone decides to take the piss). Somebody else mentioned exercise and fresh air and fruit, and I think I might've stopped listening at that point. I refuse to be a apple-crunching health freak philatelist. I mean, hello. This is me we're talking about. Next they'll be suggesting I go to church to confess all my sins (shall I pack a suitcase?), or worse still, get a job.

But I think the main reason I stopped listening is because they're right, and it's all too much. There is too much. If I take away all the things I do to blur the edges, block out memories, and hide from 'reality', what I'm left with is something resembling a hideous amount of crap.

I don't trust people. I lack self-assurance. I have intimacy issues (the main issue being that I don't know what it is). I use sex as a coping mechanism. I have a drink problem. I don't collect stamps. And yesterday, I wanted to die.

Happy fucking days!

1. No photos of my lovely self, especially those that are posted elsewhere. This might be problematic, seeing as I'm a complete fucking show-off, but we'll see.

2. More name changes. I promise I will stop doing this soon, heh.

3. I'm clearly going to have to be less specific about when things happen, and with whom.

4. The archives shall be edited before they're republished.

5. Trust no-one!

6. Probably some other stuff too, that I haven't yet thought of.

I might also experiment again with turning the comments off sometimes. This is absolutely bugger all to do with being furtive, but probably alot to do with being a minx. I know that some things beggar belief, let alone comments. And for some reason, I'm braver with the comments off. My inbox is open all hours should you wish to engage privately in either conversation or pervaciousness, though.

(I made that word up, by the way.)

Now, in lieu of a better idea, I think I might go and bang my head against a wall. Do excuse me.

I keep thinking about chastity. Do you think this is because I'm a sick pervert, or more to do with the fact that I'm only lacking a belt? Three weeks, folks - three fucking weeks!!! Frustrated is an understatement.

I need help. And a fuck would be good, too. But if I'm honest, I probably need help more. I'm in such a fucking mess, I can't get myself out of it on my own. I've been trying for the last God knows how long, so I think it's time to admit defeat.

Can I find a kink friendly therapist anywhere though - that I can afford? No, I cannot.

I think I'm going to have to sell my body. Again.

Maybe I don't really want to know
How your garden grows
I just want to fly
Lately did you ever feel the pain
In the morning rain
As it soaks it to the bone

Maybe I just want to fly
I want to live I don't want to die
Maybe I just want to breathe
Maybe I just don't believe
Maybe you're the same as me
We see things they'll never see
You and I are gonna live forever

Maybe I will never be
All the things that I want to be
But now is not the time to cry
Now's the time to find out why
I think you're the same as me
We see things they'll never see
You and I are gonna live forever
We're gonna live forever

~Oasis

I fucking hate Oasis.

Sorry folks, been a change of plan. Not that I ever had a plan, and not that I know what the new plan is, but it will be here in due course. In the meantime, my inbox is happy to answer any queries, and give refunds, if required.

Back soon.

There's nothing where he used to lie
My conversation has run dry
That's what's going on, nothing's fine I'm torn

So I guess the fortune teller's right
Should have seen just what was there and not some holy light
To crawl beneath my veins and now
I don't care, I have no luck, I don't miss it all that much
There's just so many things that I cant touch, I'm torn