Be careful once you let it out
And so the post-Christmas meltdown arrived a little later than usual. But at least this time I know the answer is not to sob but to write. It's the thing that keeps me going. I don't know why.
I have a houseful of selfish adults ( now all post 18 ) hell-bent on living life on their terms, their agenda, their whims and desires. I blame those crappy motivational posters that tell you that you CAN have everything and if you dream it you can do it - no you fucking can't. Meanwhile, I'm here keeping my shit together , facilitating, enabling, encouraging, sacrificing ( trying not to slip into martyrdom ) and all with that brave grin on my face. Then the straw gets added to the camel's back and it all comes crashing down.
I've told H to give me a very wide berth today and that everyone else can go to hell in a hand cart.
Christmas does this to me. No-one asks me to put on the show but I do it anyway because I think that's what's expected of me. I only have myself to blame - that and the rod I created for my own back. I'm a PPP - pathetic people pleaser. Don't know why. Best not to over-analyse it.
Writing calms me down. It's the only thing that's ever worked. Crying doesn't do it any more, nor do tantrums, rants or explosions of anger. Maybe it's the anonymity of knowing that no-one will read this , or if they do, that they'll turn the 'virtual' page quickly and move on to a happier blog full of tissue pom-poms, latest handbag purchase and beauty shit. The Instagram whores who have to prove that their loves are oh so superior.
I'm thinking of starting a new platform - INSTAGRIME to show the real side of life. Maybe someone's beaten me to it already. It's logo will be a sort of dull brownish green colour - the same as sludge. Anyone posting with photoshopped pics or pastel colours or pimped pooches will be instantly banned. Points will be awarded for sagging bodies, sluttishness and stale food. I think it will catch on ... in the real world.
I think the real cause of my black mood might be that I'm suffering from a serious book hangover having just finished American War by Omar El Akkad whose thesis is that “The misery of war represents the world’s only truly universal language.” Set in a late 21st Century, civil war torn US damaged by global warming. It suited my mood perfectly. If you're wavering on that wrist-slitting tightrope , don't read it. If you want to wallow in fear, terror and alarm and can make it to the end without worrying yourself into a complete funk that this is just around the corner, then I would highly recommend it . It's a new genre for me. I'm sick to death of 'stream of consciousness' novels whose protagonists bare their woes to all who can be bothered to listen. Time for a bit of grit and grit is what you get in shovels.
And so to end on .... my 'One Little World' for 2019 . Yesterday , in a more benign frame of mind, I chose 'listen' . Today I have ditched that for 'pointless'. It suppose to be the lens through which we view the forthcoming 12 months. Never been a sentimentalist.
I have a houseful of selfish adults ( now all post 18 ) hell-bent on living life on their terms, their agenda, their whims and desires. I blame those crappy motivational posters that tell you that you CAN have everything and if you dream it you can do it - no you fucking can't. Meanwhile, I'm here keeping my shit together , facilitating, enabling, encouraging, sacrificing ( trying not to slip into martyrdom ) and all with that brave grin on my face. Then the straw gets added to the camel's back and it all comes crashing down.
I've told H to give me a very wide berth today and that everyone else can go to hell in a hand cart.
Christmas does this to me. No-one asks me to put on the show but I do it anyway because I think that's what's expected of me. I only have myself to blame - that and the rod I created for my own back. I'm a PPP - pathetic people pleaser. Don't know why. Best not to over-analyse it.
Writing calms me down. It's the only thing that's ever worked. Crying doesn't do it any more, nor do tantrums, rants or explosions of anger. Maybe it's the anonymity of knowing that no-one will read this , or if they do, that they'll turn the 'virtual' page quickly and move on to a happier blog full of tissue pom-poms, latest handbag purchase and beauty shit. The Instagram whores who have to prove that their loves are oh so superior.
I'm thinking of starting a new platform - INSTAGRIME to show the real side of life. Maybe someone's beaten me to it already. It's logo will be a sort of dull brownish green colour - the same as sludge. Anyone posting with photoshopped pics or pastel colours or pimped pooches will be instantly banned. Points will be awarded for sagging bodies, sluttishness and stale food. I think it will catch on ... in the real world.
I think the real cause of my black mood might be that I'm suffering from a serious book hangover having just finished American War by Omar El Akkad whose thesis is that “The misery of war represents the world’s only truly universal language.” Set in a late 21st Century, civil war torn US damaged by global warming. It suited my mood perfectly. If you're wavering on that wrist-slitting tightrope , don't read it. If you want to wallow in fear, terror and alarm and can make it to the end without worrying yourself into a complete funk that this is just around the corner, then I would highly recommend it . It's a new genre for me. I'm sick to death of 'stream of consciousness' novels whose protagonists bare their woes to all who can be bothered to listen. Time for a bit of grit and grit is what you get in shovels.
And so to end on .... my 'One Little World' for 2019 . Yesterday , in a more benign frame of mind, I chose 'listen' . Today I have ditched that for 'pointless'. It suppose to be the lens through which we view the forthcoming 12 months. Never been a sentimentalist.
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