Dates

Washing floors is not in my style. Washing anything is not in my style. except for laundry, but then I don't wash anything then, I just shove things into a clever machine which washed them for me. The rest is just not my style. And I'm not trying to be sassy about anything. I know, I know, I've left my mum's house years ago and so I guess I should have learnt a thing or two. But I haven't. There are so many machines to do it. And I just found out two days ago that I didn't even know how to turn the oven on. Bad I know, but I fail miserably in the housekeeping exam. And perhaps I would have tried washing something if I was at least average in doing it. But I'm not, I cannot for life's sake understand how to wash floors. I'd just shove all the water on the floor and my Bluthner Boudoir would be ruined. It's a thing for experts, not for yours truly. And as long as I have someone to do it, I'll be ok. It's nice coming in and seeing everything so clean, so everything in its proper place. I don't know how to do that, and anyway it would take ages and it's just not worth the while. But on a Saturday night my cats have decided it's water and food play time and messed the place up. And my help can only make it on Thursday, so it's had to be DIY. Funnily enough it didn't make me swear under or above my breath. I just had to do it. It's done now and I don't think the floor shines but as long as it's clean what the hell. And now I remember, I was doing exactly the same thing this time 8 years ago, for a very different reason. Yes I remember well. It's not that I am some Einstein historian who remember things so specifically. But I remember this. Not for a happy reason, but then I can't do anything about it. I remember the night leading on to eight years ago come tomorrow. It is etched in my brain, as are etched eight years ago tomorrow. Some years I am not really aware of the date looming up and yet I start feeling uneasy. It's happened this time, I have spent all week trying to figure out why I wasn't feeling very pleased at myself and at life. Until a very innocent, what-date-is-today brought it all on as if someone suddenly threw a bucket of ice at me. Then I knew. Then I knew why the block, why the lurching of my stomach, why I suddenly just wasn't interested in food anymore (no, not even chocolate), why I suddenly felt so immune and aloof as regards everything. Please do not tell me that a date is just a date, and that a number is just a number. Try telling a 100 year old that. Back then, a number was really just a number. Today, just let me be with myself. It will be over soon.

Stupid people

And I'm up again. Yes, yes, yes I've slept the afternoon away. It's what I always do on a Saturday. And no it's not harmful, quite the contrary, people who are sleep deprived do not behave very nicely, and I, too, start playing up. Now beautifully rested, the evening starts looking differently. It's dark so the night-owl in me pushes the play button. I'm not sure I want to play though. It's the eve. And although it goes way back, it's still the eve. I've never liked January very much, and life hasn't helped change that. Nobody will understand, because as the very stupid psychologist in Xarabank yesterday said, time heals. I could have punched her through the TV, but since my financial situation is not the top of tops at the moment (damn sales), I am not about to put a TV on the blink just because of a stupid woman wearing designer specs. Specs don't make a person. I know, I wear them, I have something like 30 pairs because I change them according to what I wear, or depending on the mood, and all of this of course depends if I have got myself out of bed in time, which is nearly never. Time heals, said she. A woman gone to University just to have learnt nothing. And a woman who is supposed to be helping people. Nice one. No, it's ugly. Time is nothing. People heal for a variety of reasons, none of which is time. They heal because they have support, or perhaps because they have turned to the right people for help, sometimes they heal because they are lucky, and because they are strong enough to get up, brush the dust and try again. Most people do not heal. That is statistics. And stupid people will also tell you, don't cry, be strong. Yeah right. How about reversing the situations. I'd say, cry, cry, cry until there are no more tears to cry. That's being strong. Take your time. If you need to stay inside, away from it all, then do just that. But the stupid people will say, go out, go out as much as possible. It's all so wrong. They will say don't talk about it anymore because it's worse. And I say, talk, talk, talk until you exhaust it from your system. To all stupid people, the least you can do is just shut up. Let the victims turn themselves into survivors who will live to tell the tale. They will also live to be able to help those who, like them, are wounded. Because, although unfathomable at the time, the deep gash will heal slowly into a scar. And it's the wounded who make the best of therapists. Oh, and they usually come forward themselves, without expecting anything in return.

Rocks

Apologies to all those who are closely following my blog. And thank you for all the concerned emails, but I'm fine. Ok perhaps I'm not fine, but I'm ok. I'm just stuck, I will try and do better today, but I can give no guarantees. One good thing, my broken fingernail is restored to perfection so I can type deliriously if I want. Or if I can that is. I'm just stuck, it feels as if I'm wedged between something and something else. I know what it is. The closest to me know what it is but are pretending they don't know. They know well enough, but acknowledging the fact that they know is difficult for them. I understand. But it's not making it any easier for me. And no, it's not my foot. It still hurts but I'm thinking of something else. No worries, I'm not going back there, I can't do that anyway. But it's the things which have healed into perfect scars. And sometimes the scars become alive. According to a lot of 'brainy' (as in people working in brain related matters) people, it's normal. So it makes me at least normal. Yesterday I was looking at the TV, but it was more of an I was looking at myself years ago. And I thought that the girl on TV was strong, which in turn made me realise that then I must be strong too. Strength doesn't mean we feel anything less than other people. It means we are rocks, but even rocks are eaten away at sometimes by rough seas and horribly weather. And that is how it is in life. Nature is such a good example of life. If only we realised it before. It would save us so much sad agony. But we don't so we have to work our way through the hard way. Then they call us strong. And they mean well. But it is no compliment. I'd much rather be called not strong and have had a simple agony-less life. And because we are strong, we inherently put it all in one capsule and swallow it down. And although it's in a capsule it still tastes bitter. And all the sugar in the world, enough to turn anybody diabetic overnight, will not make it any sweeter. Because we are rocks.