Talk.

Ok, so here’s a thing. Depression is the number one most diagnosed mental disorder in the UK with about a quarter of the population experiencing it in the course of a year. Think of four people you know. Odds are one of them is experiencing a weird kind of pain that you have no idea about, or maybe you do know and you have no idea how to help. Maybe you’re the one in four. I am. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Mark Twain said “write what you know”. So I will.  Since December 2010 my mind has been playing nasty tricks on me, making me feel things harder, think things through badly.

 

depression__don__t_let_it_by_lou_in_canada-d38uo08

Its not about being sad. Its not about crying. Its about guilt and self loathing.  Its about the cycle of doom which is going round and round in your mind without you realizing it. Its about cutting yourself off and being alone in something because you don’t want to burden other people with your stupid brain issues. Its about assuming the roles of other people in your mind as you put words into their imaginary mouths. Its about going to parties and feeling invisible. Its about how five minutes feels like an eternity in a room full of people where you’ve somehow never felt more alone.  Its about doing nothing. Not bothering to get out of bed. Not looking after yourself. Punishing yourself for not being better than you are. Not being as good as other people. But who told you that? You did.

images

Depression is a master of disguise. I’m often the loudest in the room. The most boisterous. I command. I attention seek. I laugh and I make jokes and I have a good time. But there’s always a part of me, even when I’m with my closest friends, that feels out of place. Like somehow I shouldn’t be there and it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t. That its probably what everyone wants anyway. Someone who suffers or has suffered depression on any level can instantly recognize it in others  because its like looking in a damn mirror. Your own pain reflected back at you. We know man. We get it. But what about the people that don’t? The partners, the parents, the friends? The people that worry on the outside of the glass house but can’t find the door to get inside. The people who have an entire toolbox but not a single thing that they can use to help. Help. Get help? How can I help?  Cheer up. Fuck, look at that I’m cured. They feel useless. You feel useless. We all scream for ice cream.

 

Let’s take a moment to think about the suffering of non-sufferers. Watching someone you know dig themselves a pit to curl up and hide in and standing on the lip looking down is terrifying. Its as though you’re both stumbling about in heavy fog, both trying to find a way to each other and a way out.  Missing the tip of their fingers by a hair as you reach out to help in any way you can. Its watching them sink in quicksand and beginning to sink yourself. Its the empty void swallowing you both. Its arguing and fighting. For us its rage that we feel for ourselves  projected on the ones closest to us because we don’t know what else to do. We push you further and further away bringing you closer to the edge of the pit. You are our punchbag. Our pillow fort. You are the only good thing we have and we don’t deserve you. We’re so sorry. We don’t know how to change our behavior yet. We know you don’t have the answers. We know its hard for you too. Separate us from the illness. We aren’t one in the same. Depression is selfish and nasty. Depression shuts you out and keeps us isolated. We need you more than we can ever articulate. Please don’t give up on us.

depression_by_pa_he-d39yw2q

So, what do we do? What is the answer? Medication? It helps. For real, it helps. The feeling of anti-depressants creates is best described as “Everything still sucks but it doesn’t matter as much”. You don’t go numb. You don’t suddenly walk out the door with your own theme tune playing in your head to be greeted by the mental equivalent of a sunny day. There are down sides though. I find I can’t really get drunk on them. Ever. Bad idea. My body tends to eventually just reject all the booze in my system at once. Which is horrendous. There’s the fact that if you accidentally stop taking them, you will crash and have a meltdown. Frighten your mum, worry your friends and set yourself back a few months. There’s the fact that they become kind of a crutch. I know I need them. I know that if I don’t take them I won’t work properly. But I do have the answer.

 

Talk. Own your madness. Know that its ok to not be ok. That your friends want to know if you’re feeling low. That it won’t be easy, but that there’s a major difference between actually having no one and choosing not to see the people closest to you as your shield in the fight. Show your weakness and let that in itself show you your own strength. Know that depression is not emotional weakness. Know that your loved ones want to understand, and the only way they can is if you explain. Own how you feel. Focus on you now and make the decision to care enough about yourself to get better. Reach out in the dark and finally find the hand that’s always reaching back.

 

Advertisements

Power and Passion

Today there is a worldwide lemon shortage as I have apparently eaten them all. Such bitterness has not been experienced since Megan Fox had hundreds of  thousands of dollars worth of cosmetic surgery done only to have her toe-thumbs pointed out (seriously, Google it) . Love and hate are twin emotions, both felt with a fiery passion which is hard to extinguish once the embers are crackling to life. One could argue that the difference betwixt the two are simple, one is positive, the other negative. We are supposed to associate love with romance, warmth, puppies and kittens, toasting with champagne and generally being really quite smug. Hate is the badlands, the shadows, lurking alone scowling and nothing filling the void. However, each can be as brutal as its brother. Love can put a sharper edge on the twisting knife just as hate can make you feel power and accomplishment. Love lifts us up where we belong but hate sends us into orbit. Both can send us spinning us out of control until we slow down enough to enjoy the view with which we have been presented. Yes, glorious perspective. Given the impetus for today’s post, I will focus on hate, with the promise that if I ever experience smugness of the romantic sort I will create a post full of puppies and kittens and feelings and sweetness. But that is not for now.

255543_11853648_lz

What, I hear you cry, has happened to send your blood boiling to this extent? What chaos has erupted into your life, miss salt, to make you unleash the beast? I’ll let you think about it for a second or two…..can you guess what it is yet? Ahhhh yes what else could it possibly be.  For a few months now I have been battling a ghost, something not quite there, but who is the vengeful spirit now?! Me… I am.  I have spent time with G (for Ghost) fewer times as I can count on both hands, and yet my mind has given him such power as the spirits themselves possess. Lurking in corners and disappearing from view when looked upon directly. There is nothing supernatural at work here, no measurable powers of charm, persuasion or seduction, there is only the smokey air of vague. I gave him undeserved weight, status and purpose in my stupid mind clouded by a pretty face and cracking blue eyes. And an accent. The journey of blogging began with him because I let myself feel. Well, lesson learnt, there is to be no more of that nonsense.

 images (17)

The best thing about being on the other side of the fairground ghost train is knowing it’s not real. Knowing its cogs, bells and whistles. Seeing the horror house actors underneath the makeup and wigs and knowing that the fear comes mostly from you imagining what isn’t there. The same is true of whatever I have let myself feel, reading warmth into an icy blast, making allowances, omitting and adding details, essentially creating a person who doesn’t exist out of the good bits you find. And so Frankinstein’s Monster is given life by its creator and allowed to blunder about in my mind for weeks on end, trampling everything in its path. But in my version the monster doesn’t develop a sense of duty to those around it. It just ceases to be. Hate helps,like a torch in the dark it picks out pieces of Lego and upturned plugs on the floor wishing to cause us harm in the night. Nothing can hide from hate, nothing fogs its crystal clear focus.  It is not the nasty dark power people think it is,it is the last knife in the drawer when it comes to self-preservation. Hatred is both sword and shield, aggressor and protector. It gives a sense of purpose, an outlet for excess emotions, recently evolved from something softer and less able to protect itself. Where many of us are left in a state of dribbling confusion, unsure of what to do with ourselves when mere thoughts sting, we can use hate. Give your weakness strength; transform those fragile butterflies into iron dragonflies. Shed your exhausted and tear-stained skin and step out clothed in glorious hate, the smoldering embers in your eyes the only clue as to the depth of your true feelings. Some may say that promoting hate is a bad thing. I am promoting the kind of hate that you feel but never act on, it gives you a charge, an electricity that surges through your veins, speeding up synapses, reminding you what you’ve been through so you are not taken in again. I’m preaching power with a sustainable source, you don’t need to feel weak, no more tears only clenched fists and a source of power that will never run dry, after all, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Dark_Phoenix_Rising_by_Protokitty

Schadenfreude

There is a nasty bastard inside each and every one of us who gains pleasure from witnessing the misfortune of others, we call this phenomenon Schadenfreude (Sha-den-froy-dah). Now each of us will have watched shows like You’ve Been Framed and spent half an hour giggling guiltily at grannies falling off benches and toddlers getting maimed by the family pet. There is no joy like watching other people absolutely fuck it. A great example occurred this weekend, me and my friends went paint-balling and it must have been maybe the 6th game of the day. I was pumped up, paintball gun in hand, loaded up with precious ammo, the adrenaline was coursing through my veins, I was so ready. The Marshall called “Game On” and it all happened in slow motion much like the battle movies of the eighties. I sprung forward aiming for the shelter of a nearby palette and caught my foot on a root or a branch or some other unhelpful dickhead like that. I was flat on my face, paint-balls spilling everywhere like blood from the wound in my ego. I took a friend down with me, we both scrambled towards the palette to take cover and a third friend, who had watched it all unfold all but pissed herself at our misfortune. In this example, I too found the entire mishap completely fucking hilarious, I haven’t fallen like that since the playground, it was a glorious mess, and had us laughing for the rest of the day.

download (10)

Now the reason I bring this up is because I still find myself thinking of a particular past conquest every now and then and it bothers me. I am aware that it could be a case of a bruised ego, as if it hasn’t suffered enough, this asshole wormed his way into my brain without permission, and usually he is a fairly good tenant, keeping to himself, but every now and then he will throw a kegger up there, and the odd empty can will roll into the conscious side. Upon hearing that he who has so dis-pleasingly plagued my thoughts is allegedly pretty unhappy with his current lot in life has filled with with a sense of serenity unlike any other. I’ll openly admit that hearing this news has given me the congenial gift of smugness. This prick has made and broken promises, he has mind fucked me, he has been unfair and essentially represents the side of the male gender which we are all programmed to avoid at all costs, and now, finally I have received glorious confirmation of karma biting him on his pretty perfect ass. How honest of me to accept this nasty little part of me with open arms, because we can’t possibly be nice all of the time. It is healthy to, every now and then, leave yourself completely open to being a total bitch, being nice all the time and swallowing our venom creates within us a miniature Dark Lord Cthulhu, whose tentacles spread into our arms and legs and turn us into a walking nightmare when we least expect it. Exorcising our bitchiness is our right, nay, our duty as human beings.

tumblr_m8t5ej3doe1rq8m6do1_500

Schadenfreude is a guilty pleasure, a bit like watching Man VS Food or quietly farting at the station as the train rolls in. You know you shouldn’t be doing it, you know you shouldn’t be enjoying it, and yet you let it happen time and time again just to induce that smug little smile, that grin of perverse enjoyment which only mischief can induce. And you just know that others do it too, groups of school girls burst into musical giggles as a teenage boy face-plants whilst showing off on his skateboard, friends deliberately commenting on unfortunate Facebook photos so as to bring them to light in an annual event of hilarity and piss taking. It’s good hearted fun, a bit of comic relief, there is nothing like the savage joy of watching somebody else fuck up and watching beauteous karma show its occasionally demonic face at the party.  So yes, when I hear that that girl at school who was mean to me now has three kids with another on the way and zero qualifications, I smirk to myself, when I see that smug bitch take the last seat on the tube only to be sat next to the world’s smelliest man, I grin and when I see a cat, nature’s most graceful creature, stack it and fall off a counter top, I outright laugh because I know, were our roles reversed, it would do the same to me!

Love is a Tool

Love songs are unrealistic. Written to tell us what we want to hear, making him out to be a saint and her to be this perfect pedestal dwelling angel. They aren’t. They are people with flaws. It is the most written about subject in literature, film and song. Shakespeare had it right in his sonnet 130 beginning “my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”, in which he talks about his amour being imperfect and even ugly, but concludes with ‘and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare’;  essentially he loves her for who she is. A glorious revelation, but one whose value has been lost in time. We tend to listen to people drone on about how in love they are and how the world is new to them, how everything has changed,how perfect she is, how wonderful he is,  how lonely they were before and how fucking smug they are these days. Its fucking exhausting hearing about it. Today’s drive for perfection has seen beautiful women reduced to alien beings, more plastic than fantastic! Giving themselves horrifically over-inflated trout pouts, noses that belong on barbies and don’t even get me started on fake tits! These poor women think that looking ‘perfect’ outwardly will help them find love, help them to find someone perfect for them, when actually you should be more concerned with giving your mind a makeover because you will only ever attract someone who is as apparently vacuous as you seem to be. That’s the horrible thing, I see these barbie dolls walking around like clones of each other, all of them armed with their black leather Michael Kors Tote, hair up in a high bun, each clinging ferociously to the over-pumped arm of some orange skinned slick-haired buffoon.  I look around at these couples on MTV’s The Valleys and Geordie Shore and it’s no wonder it makes such good entertainment when those people essentially are caricatures of themselves. Covering themselves in war paint and hair extensions, the lads doing so many push ups they end up looking like a skinny guy coming out of the torso of a buff guy, it’s just not right!

 

body-builder-skinny-guy-Now-You’ll-See-It-Everywhere

 

 

 

realitytv_geordie_shore_s2_cast_7

 

Love is a complicated mess and yet the pinnacle, the summit of our lives.  My uncle asked my mum recently whether I would be bringing my ‘latest squeeze’ to this family party we are throwing. And the truth is i have never had a ‘latest squeeze’. The relationship thing is a shadow to me, an illusion. I don’t know whether its me being hilariously picky, whether I ‘just haven’t found the right person yet’ (ps for the love of fuck, relationship dwellers, stop fucking telling us this…I know I haven’t otherwise I wouldn’t be on my fucking one now would I?) or whether its something deeper like a the constant need to self-sabotage for some reason. Who knows? But one thing is certain, whilst I may have missed out on many, many lovely things like make-up sex, couples holidays and whatever else it is that they do, I’ve also avoided break-ups, cheating, foul PDA and the absolute hell of meeting the parents. I think so many people these days are so preoccupied with not being alone that they will jump into any relationship offered to them, rather than spend some time getting to know themselves a little better. Especially the generation following mine, where 14 year old seem to think that listening to Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift makes them ready for any kind of committed relationship that isn’t with a celebrity who is unaware of said relationship. I have friends who have never been truly single and who like to pretend like they are just  like me… gurl…you  are not. Spending a couple of months post break up is not being single…it is being momentarily indisposed. Having to pick between guys and it being a struggle…not being single.  Spending at least a year struggling to even sleep with the same person twice…that, my friend, is being single. And you know what, for me, so far, it’s working. Sure I don’t have anyone to wrestle naked with, but I have friends with whom I can do literally anything a couple would. We cook dinners together, sleep in the same bed, share secrets, cry together, laugh and love. As I’ve said before, friendship is a BIG deal to me and there aren’t enough songs about that!

 

Here is a poem I enjoy immensely:

 

Love is a tool

Love is a tool to manipulate the weak.

We see love on TV every day,

But its something that’s followed with ads for Diet Dr Pepper and mascara or Trojan Condoms

Love is a marketing scheme designed by CEOs

Who have gone through five wives with no remorse

And haven’t paid child support in years

But their bank accounts support octuple digits

That can buy a new car

A Swedish cabin

Or a set of new shot glasses.

Thats why when you tell me you love me

I’m reluctant to believe it.

How do I know you’re not going to sell me shoes

Or trade me in when the new wears off?

I don’t want a price tag on my head,

So fuck love

And its sneaky trappings.

Love is a tool to persuade girls like me to buy romance novels

and Ben and Jerry’s

And sit and cry over guys in High School

Who called us fat one too many times.

That’s exactly what love is.

Take the Tesco sticker off your roses

And try to convince me otherwise.

– Anon

I think love is finding someone who drives you up the wall but you can’t kill them because you’d miss them too much. Its laughing at every fart (because they are always funny), sitting through questionable movies and braving awkward social situations like a two man army. Its finding a best friend who you want to have naked playfights with and who will hold your hair back when you puke. It isn’t just having someone.

The Penny Drops

How much shit are we all willing to endure for the sake of aesthetics? I have mentioned before that I have a pretty sparkling track record when it comes to notches on the bedpost, this bitch has punched above her weight time and time again never failing to coax her prey into bed. Each and every one of them was a solid 7 or above externally…but I find the lack of substance in the bunch disturbing. Reflecting over late night cocktails with my friend/ volunteer life coach, I realized that much of my grief surrounding the rejection following conquests is because they were gorgeous physically. On closer inspection i realize that X had a pretty tiny penis, which is the route of their generally negative demeanor, Y was incredibly stupid,  which is probably the most unattractive thing ever ,and Z all your friends hated, and your friends are NEVER wrong.

Time and time again I have found myself defending dickish behavior and severely below average performance, citing past traumas or some confidence crisis as reasoning behind laughable social etiquette. Why? Because we all like hotties. Beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder, and sometimes, when you are standing too close to something your vision becomes blurred. So we squint and imagine that what we are seeing through the haze of  desire is what we want and attempt to cram a triangular peg into a round hole. Having a certain allure means that we are willing to overlook a lot of shit that people throw at us, you can become a crutch for someone; misery loves company and you assume that getting to them on an emotional level will even out the playing field. It doesn’t. This is something to really keep an eye on, everyone has their own shit to deal with, their crosses to bear, their skeletons in the closet, always be aware that when your arms are full of your own controversies, you are in no position to offer to carry someone else’s too.

skeleton

These hotties come in many shapes and sizes, but all of them give you that unrivaled tingle of pure lust which clouds our judgement. This is where our friends come into their own. My lot have been saying for weeks that i should run for the hills. Of course they are right. Unfortunately, I’ve been so busy being smug that I have failed to really see the idiocy of this all too familiar situation. So the cycle continues, we lust, we lose, we hurt, we live and we LEARN, which is the most important step. I am learning, slowly but surely, by pulling this carcass of mine up this endless hill called life, that you can’t compromise when it comes to your peace of mind. Fuck bargaining for your happiness. Fuck waiting. Fuck being fucked over.  I am in my god damn mid-twenties, the world is my proverbial oyster! So what the fuck am I wasting my time on anyone who isn’t going to make me even happier (to those of you who know me reading this, yes, you were right, fuck you all)

fuck everything

 

So having been knocked back for the millionth time I feel it is time to stop all this feelingsy bullshit.As my cocktail compadre said last night, I have come too far of late in the mastery of my mind to throw it into the fires of lust and watch it shrivel into nothingness, especially for anyone who isn’t even remotely worth it. This ache will ease, the butterflies in my stomach will be consumed by the acid therein and I will emerge victorious once more. With my gym membership in hand and summer looming on the horizon I will embrace Hedonism as my mantra. I will behave appallingly and I will not let myself get bogged down in these futile swamps of douchebags who are going to try to fuck me about. No longer! Those who are unwilling to make little changes for the better are not worthy of a second of my precious time. I am a fucking phoenix rising from the ashes of another charred fuck up.   The sun-starved goddess in me is surfacing, she has been hiding in Hades for too long now, she needs to breathe the glorious honey tinged air of Mount Olympus where she is meant to be,  she needs to spread her legs and fly.

 

phoenix

The Perfect Shoes

We all want things all the time. It’s part of the modern human condition to never be fully satisfied with our lot in life, whether it be our jobs, our bodies or our possessions, there is always something more that we crave but don’t necessarily need. Perhaps its due to the fact that instant gratification is now expected in all areas of our lives; from ordering books online to buying fat burners at Holland and Barratt, it seems as though our generation has lost the ability to value longevity. ‘Wanting’ in general is not necessarily a bad thing at all; it gives us a goal, a summit to reach, a target and these things all create in us a sense of self-responsibility, that is to say, by wanting something, we push ourselves to acquire it. If you want that promotion you batter down the competition and prove you’re the best for the job, if you want that last pair of Kurt Geiger’s you better be ready to floor some bitches for those kicks , and you will be praised for you fervor. So why is it that when we want a person, giving it our all is deemed “desperate”?

Image

 Imagine the scene, you’re out shopping one fine day, bank card loaded up with this month’s paycheck, handbag prepped with a bottle of water and snacks, phone on silent so no one can interrupt you. Eventually you find them, the most beautiful shoes in the land, flat and practical in a glorious shade of pastel lilac with playful leather fringing and tassels across the fronts. They’re just your size, well within your budget and (for once)  you are not lying to yourself and everyone around you when you swear they will go with everything. So you try them on and they fit beautifully and the sales assistants are cooing and the other customers are glowing an envious green. They must be yours. You get them home and the day comes when you wear them out for the first time, and lo and behold… they rub relentlessly at the backs, leaving you with blisters and resentment. So here is my question;these shoes that you adore so much hurt, do you give up and throw them out, or do you throw on a pair of socks and persevere? For those of you who give in, you didn’t deserve those shoes in the first place, you were not willing to go through a little pain for a lot of gain. The best shoes are the ones you wear in, the ones that take their time molding to the shape and size of your feet. This is why I am willing to put myself through a whole heap of shit on my personal quest for the perfect shoe. Everyone is different, for some its those Christian Louboutin Miss Rigidanie PVCs, others chose indestructible Doc Marten’s and for many its reliable Converse or even those horrendously-made and ill-fitting Primark offerings.

christianlouboutin-missrigidaine-1140806_B039_1_1200x1200

Of course I’m  not talking about shoes, but its a lot easier to defend your actions when talking about inanimate objects than people. I was accused this morning of acting “desperate” by a very close friend of mine (I will add here that I was in no way offended, but it got me thinking enough to start writing) because I am continuing contact with one of those mind-fucks I’ve written of so fondly.  Now I know that this contact could possibly be detrimental to my mental well being, given the last contact we had concluded with him yelling at me in the street outside a bar until my friends physically removed me from the scene . Me being me, I have defended him to all those who are far closer to me than he is, offering my own explanations for the psyche screwing, the radio silence and the apparent lack of low level social skills. Why? Because you don’t throw new shoes out because they haven’t been properly broken in yet. I am, of course, all too aware that in honoring people with the benefits of my doubts, I am leaving myself open to all the nasty things that can occur; regret, heart ache, disdain. But I’m also blazing the trail for the nice things that could come because no one will put their trust in you if they don’t think its reciprocated, that’s human nature.

kissing shoe

You know the best thing about shoes though, you are supposed to have more than one pair. You can wear your oxblood brogues one day, your lilac fabu-flats the next and your leather ankle boots the next and no one can say a damn thing about it. I was not made for one shoe, one style or one material, I was made to look at them all, make my mistakes and remain faithful to the ones I’ve had the longest. Yes, I may treat myself to the odd pair of Irregular Choice Abgail’s Party Sequin Kittens, and yes I may toy with the idea of  transparent glitter Jelly Shoes, but these fads come and go, but Converse are forever.  Just gotta find the perfect pair.

Mind Games: A Dire Idea

 

Fancying someone is like what I imagine having children to be like, no matter what you’re doing you cannot get a moment of peace and radio silence is more suspicious than anything. There is nothing more frustrating than not knowing where you stand. A friend said to me this weekend that relationships would go a lot more smoothly if there was a stronger element of transparency to them. He’s absolutely right, of course, the games we all play to do nothing but shroud us in an unnecessary fog of ‘mystery’ or, as I like to call it ‘mind fuckery’. The act of mind fucking is a plague upon all of our houses, serving no purpose other than to deliberately taunt the minds of those unfortunate enough to experience it. My assumption is that you’re either a brain raper, or you’re a perfectly honest person just trying to get by in a world where having the upper hand is apparently paramount. Gone are the days of honest hearts and open minds. We are, all of us, allowing game playing to become a horrendously ordinary way of going about our romantic business.

 

With the advent of Tinder has come the loss of transparency; casually flicking through five or six potential candidates a minute, stock piling those you ‘definitely would’ is creating a selfish generation where ‘playing the field’ has never been more a la mode . To me, it is clear that we are losing faith in the idea of finding anything meaningful, we no longer value monogamy, we fish about in the sea using a net rather than a rod, preferring to ‘keep our options open’. I was guilty of this too,however since the flaccid experience on a Tinder Date lately, I’m hanging up my swiping shoes in the hopes of finding a genuine connection with someone which isn’t based on looks and proximity. Imagine my frustration then, when I think I’ve found something that could have become significant, only to have fucked it (ha!) by hastily fumbling about naked…..twice. Silly, silly girl, when will you learn that no matter how glorious you are as a sexual partner, carnally vivacious does not girlfriend material make.

gf material 2

 

Our old enemy obsession (see my post Obsession not Love for full rant) plays a key part when it comes to brain banging. The culprit relies on the fact that their victim has a strong interest in them, whether it is forged in a mutual interest, or (more commonly for me) in manipulation. A friend who I will call M (for Master Manipulator) has told me a few times that to get someone to fall for you, you need to work out what is missing from them and provide them with it. For a while I thought ‘what a great idea, creating for oneself the opportunity to seize the upper hand, to hold the power and become (This summer, Arnold Schwarzeneggar is) the Manipulator’.  But I soon realized, having spent years feeling endless tuggings on my various strings, I couldn’t put someone else through it. Call me weak, call me soft, but having been fucked over time and time again, I know how pathetic it can make you feel, and it isn’t something I would risk on my hunt for a permanent piece of peen, slash ‘love’ (if it still exists somewhere)

 

arnold

 

I’m sure it isn’t just me who gets excited when I embark on a new adventure in romance, I will fantasize, maybe I’ll see something of a  future, maybe I’ll read into things a little too much and is that so wrong? Perhaps my interest in finding something real shows in my face, in my posture, the way I construct my texts or the frequency of them. Maybe I reek of neediness, but whatever it is, it can be sensed and it is a repellent. So I deliberately try to be chill, I treat the situation as a fragile glass spider, handling it with care and diligence, holding back so as not to snap its frail legs. Yes, this is obviously not transparency at its best, but it is keeping my cards to my chest in order to cushion the blow of what will doubtless be yet another rejection. Obviously this is incredibly negative, but, honestly, its the only surefire way of avoiding that horrific ache in your chest you only experience when your affections are rebuffed. Why shouldn’t I use any armor available to me? Why shouldn’t I get my cub scout on and be prepared? The worst that will happen is my assumption that things will flop is, yet again, correct. Its surely better than getting your hopes up, pinning them all on someone (which, by the way puts a huge amount of unknown pressure on your beloved) and having all of them smashed in an instant. The situation I’m in now, I am doing my utmost to put out of my head, the more I think, the more the obsession takes hold, and the top of a pedestal is a long way for anyone to fall.

 

man_on_pedestal_by_dnomaid-d3hdfjc

So I will protect myself, I will keep my shit together, be a friend first and foremost, as has been asked of me.  I can’t stop the sensation of butterflies that follows a dazzling smile, and I can’t avoid feeling as though everything is a sign of something that could be coming, but I can try to ignore them. I will not decode every text, every full stop, every lack of  kisses at the end. I will keep my feet firmly on the ground and do my best to keep my head out of the clouds, but we all know that eventually, not matter how many distractions you provide yourself with, no matter how busy you are and how much you try to ignore it, your mind will saunter back to the forbidden land of your heartthrob and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.