I want him

I am at risk of falling in love with the man I cannot have.

The musician still tells me how he's feeling about me, and I can only resist for so long. I want him. I want his softness and his kisses and his words and his eyes and his passion.

We hold hands and look. Unable not to.

He is taking risks. He has told my sister what's going on his is head.

He is not mine. Nor is he likely to be.

I beg him to stop saying all the things he does. It isn't fair.

I don't want him to stop though.

He is someone else's and it makes me weep.

Words, believed or otherwise

I've known him a while but it's been ages since we've seen each other. We skirt around different edges of a group of friends. It's great to see him. He is attractive, cheeky, and so very easy to talk to.

It is still early-ish and no-one is drunk yet. Well, apart from the guy who's been asleep at the table after peaking way, way too early in the evening.

We talk about life and love and all that stuff, and he tells me I am feisty, clever and sexy. I am surprised.

We all carry on to another pub and a band, and still we only really talk to each other. He flirts, in front of our friends. I try to dismiss his chatter as affable sport. He apologises for flirting, and continues nonetheless.He tells me 'you've got me'. I don't know how to respond. I am so very curious.

He is a musician whose songs were part of my teens and twenties. He's bohemian and creative. We go home and he plays the guitar bought for an ex, a present returned.

I like his mind, I like his hands.

His words keep coming. Words of attraction, connection and flattery. I want to believe him. I want to be all those things he tells me I am. 

I am not sure I believe him. Perhaps I am some of these things?

If he is telling the truth, it was passionate and dangerous territory. If he is spinning me a line, he is a convincing bad boy and I have enjoyed his game.

Either way, I was tempted and he is not mine.

Trick or treat?

Last night an email hit my in-box that made me cringe.

An old friend is having a Halloween party. It'll be a fun evening with good people; no bullshit, no agendas, just simple straightforward giggling, conversation and so on. No pressure.

So, what's the problem? Fancy dress.

The last fancy dress party I went to was an ex's 40th. The location, format and company for the weekend were perfect. Problem was that the more he looked forward to the idea of dressing up, the more I felt awful. The Elvis costume was booked for him with much glee.

I was already nervous about the weekend as it would be the first time I would meet his family and many of his friends who live in different parts of the country. I offered to do the catering, which I enjoy, as a birthday present. Added worry, but also fun and something I could do for him.

The closer we got to it the more hideous I began to feel.

I wear clothes because I have to. I have a completely neutral view towards them and my body. They serve a function, and I do my best to look reasonable, but they hold no joy for me. I wear simple things and quirky jewellery (I love vintage beads more than anything). I'm not glamorous, but can be elegant. I never wear anything that makes me stand out from the crowd.

Fancy dress makes me feel awkward and shy and clumsy and fat and ugly and self conscious. It is not fun. I understand that some people think it is.

I tried not to say too much about as I didn't want to spoil his excitement and any minor comments were brushed off with 'you'll be fine' kind and conciliatory responses. I didn't tell him how sick I felt about it all.

When it came to it, I had a friend help me do my hair and I reluctantly got organised. I was running later than everyone else as the food took first priority. I wanted to run away. I delayed going into the hall. Got into ticked off for being slow and eventually emerged. I refused to be made a fuss of in thank you speeches, and luked in a corner. I didn't want anyone looking at me. Of course they were - 'Who's the girlfriend?' 'what's she like?'....

Horrible. I felt like an incompetent child and didn't behave as socially as usual. Typically I'm a great hostess, and I let myself down that night.

So, I have to face these demons all over again on the 31st or will I just make an excuse and not go? Will I go and not dress up – disrespectful and fun-spoiling? Will I put on a brave face, drink too much, smoke too much, hate every second?

These people are friends, they love me and accept me for who I am. Why can't I do the same?

Why can't I bring to bear the confident, creative, clever girl I am in my professional life to a world of devils tails and witches hats and cross dressing?

I will paint on a smile and endure.

A question

There are a millon sentimental quotations out there on the subject of regret (better to regret the things you have done than the things you haven't, better to have loved and lost etc.....). I wonder if people believe them, or if it's what we tell ourselves to dull the pain of loss or stupidity or moments of weakness?

I'm not sure I believe people who tell me they have no regrets.Who are they trying to convince, me or themselves?

Deaf Ears

I don't need to have the last word. I don't need to be right or wrong. I just want to be understood. I sometimes wonder if I'm speaking a different language. I am trying to stop editing my words so that I do not offend, or upset, or challenge losing my voice along the way. I am trying to be truthful.

My mother has spent my life telling me that 'if I say black is white, black is white'. Any attempt at putting across another opinion or asking her to see someone else's view met with that helpful remark. I learned that it was her way or no way at all.

I didn't shut up, I kept fighting, kept trying to be heard, kept getting shot down. I was relived when I left home. I was tired of trying. Tired of fighting. Tired of not being heard. I learned to save my energy for the battles I could fight and hid the rest.

In all those years, I don't know I ever told my mother about the name calling, and the like. I remember being told about sticks, and stones....' Perhaps I did try. I know I stopped telling her things. A recent conversation has shown she hasn't got any idea of quite how much I put up with, and probably never will.

Any argument or discussion where I feel I am not being understood still stirs up that urge to fight back and be acknowledged in some way. I am thirteen again.

If someone tells me 'there's nothing else to say' or 'let's leave it there' or 'let's agree to disagree' or, or, or.....

It lights an old touch paper. These words translate in my head as 'your views or feelings are unimportant, I don't care, I don't want to know what you think, I don't respect you, I don't love you'.

I fight back harder than I should because I am thirteen again, not thirty something, and I am trying to be heard. All I want is for someone to ask me 'what do you think?' or 'I don't understand, why don't you tell me?'. Is that so much to ask? Perhaps it my responsibility to be more eloquent.

But am I thirteen again, and hurt, and scared of everything slipping through my fingers. I fight back in a fit of unreasonable proportion. Or, I am silent. Choosing my battles. Or, I am silent. Scared of my vulnerability.

She still doesn't listen.

An introduction

Some time ago I explained my reasons for writing here. My blog is anonymous to all, apart from the friend who's been mentioned here previously. It is a space for thoughts I have nowhere else to put or struggle to say out loud. It is a diary of sorts and a world apart from reality.

Somewhere along the lines I became a person who performed for those around me. I learned to conform to expectations, learned to please, and hid myself away. I felt like a fraud.

After crumbling last year, I started counselling to help me sort through the quagmire of broken bits. I could never have anticipated the journey that process began. It was a journey that started with external influences on my life, and then turned inwards. Through turning inwards, I am beginning to learn to share what I found there. I'm learning to give a bit of myself, take risks with my emotions and let people see the 'weak' version of me. The two selves may emerge one day as a whole, mask removed and integrity in place. I hope so. I'm trying.

A conversation has made me want to share a little of the external self here too, and give this a context.

In real life I work in the not for profit sector. I am privileged to work in a world of passionate and committed people who really do believe they can change the world bit by bit (so do I).

I am an outspoken, clever, compassionate girl with good friends. I am active and busy. I volunteer. I play the fiddle. I have fun and interesting times.

All sounds a bit conceited. The next bit? Sentimental, trite perhaps.

But, I'm a bit like a three legged dog. I live life and pursue my career reasonably well, but I often stumble. I am inhibited by the part of me that is more present in these pages than the everyday me. They are both real and true, but quite different. The scared, vulnerable, hurt me is here without the façade.

Not embracing the blogging 'me' has caused me to damage many things. I am a procrastinator as I'm scared of success/failure. I argue over things that are seemingly insignificant because a button has been pushed by someone to whom it is invisible and fires up things in me that are terrified. I run from emotional intimacy because I'm scared that if someone truly knows me they will dislike what's on the inside and on, and on, and on....

I am doing the best I can to reconcile the two. I will get there. I could not continue as I was. So, some days are good, some days are bad, sometimes I just want to record a moment in my day. For years I have told everyone what I thought, not how I feel. It is time for this to change. These pages are part of my journey.

I neither need nor seek pity or praise, just somewhere to explore.

One day, I would like to learn to write.

More of the past

Here is a woman I didn't know. She was my great grandmother and I bear her name. My mother thinks we look alike. I can't judge. There seem to be many mysteries in the communal past of our family, are they actually secrets, or is it just that we can never know everything? I am sometimes shocked by words that come out of my mouth. Shocked because they are not my words, they are my mother's. I, like a parrot, occasionally find myself speaking phrases, commands, opinions that are not my own. How many of these came from her mother, and her mother's mother? Are there family phrases and opinions that still remain which came from the woman in this photo? Words distilled down the years gaining strength or becoming weaker in an intergenerational game of chinese whispers.