Therapy

It's finally happened. I get a stretch of four days of bliss; of holidaying and sleeping and making up and making down and of course of blogging at my leisure. I'm not sure why I love this blogging thing. Perhaps I've discovered that it's very much the same as buying years on the couch, only it's better, because I do not have to keep appointment schedules, I do not have to worry whether the couch can take big old me, I do not have to think in advance what the issue of the moment is so as not to waste time out of the expensive therapy. And with me, it could get massively expensive, because I seem to have a different issue every day. I do not have to worry what the therapist will think of me if I cry at the wrong moment, or laugh at the wrong moment. Sometimes I am just like the naked women that go around in the Australian bush. No it doesn't mean I go around naked, but they are known to have it the other way round. They weep out of joy and laugh out of sadness. And sometimes I do that too. Blogging also means saving me a lot of time which can be spent in the good way of sleeping. Going to therapy appointments means I have to dress up, I have to be flawless, because I do not want the therapist to know what's going on inside. Which is silly because I am actually paying him to get to know what's on the inside. One day I decided to forfeit the flawless everything and turned up in jeans, an ugly shirt, bad hair (sorry Nigel), and a squeaky clean face. The result was astounding. The poor therapist, who is extremely good at his job, was really and truly concerned. Just because I'd gone from fab to drag (not as in gay drag, but as in something the cat dragged in) meant I got the extreme attention as to what was wrong. Nothing was really wrong, it just happened that I had lost the mask. Which made me want to smile and about which I cried instead. I still have my therapist for emergencies. But I've come such a long way thanks to here. Because once I have sworn myself to say the truth and nothing but the truth in here, however uncomfortable that may be, then it's truly therapeutic. I do not come here to story-write, although that is how it may seem sometimes. I come here because it's such a breath of fresh air on the world wide web. Oh and I can sit on a couch too, a really comfy couch. I may be judged but really I don't care. What I don't see will not hurt me. I don't even see so much as a raise of an eyebrow. It's just me and my beloved blog. And thank God for that.

JAQQ!

I have never been sure if the meaning of the word upset means upset as in sad or as in angry. But if someone can be angrily upset then it is yours truly. Angry for a woman who has decided that she wants to get back into my life regardless of history. And no, it's not even a sexy tidbit history, because sadly her having a husband being the worst example of homosexual , could never have been sexy. Being married made her so arrogant, so rude, so as if she knew it all. And her being married made me want to kill her, not in a hurried way of killing. No, I wanted to prolong her death so it would be as painful as possible. But since I unfortunately didn't live in the jungle then, I just pressed delete on her name and her miserable ignorant entity. She never could have hurt me, but she hurt my Mister a big deal. Because this woman is his hysterical sister. She worries me a great deal in the what-if-I-had-a-child-who-turned-out-like-her. I thought she was mad then, and I think she's madder now. And while mad might be good sometimes, this isn't. I do not care if she cries now, I do not care if she is depressed, I do not care if she's sick or not. Very frankly I don't care if she doesn't exist anymore. Some things, a lot of things, I can forgive. Some and many other things I cannot forgive. Geeze when I remember the agony and pain she created for her brother, when I watched him hurt and hopeless, there is no way on earth she's getting back into anybody's life, certainly not into mine. She cared less when her brother wasn't well, and I will care less for her who isn't well and who hasn't been well for six years, because that is as long as I have known her. Because now, she's left her husband. A husband who qualifies for the rudest sense of the term 'pufta'. And I do not like using the word, for my own reasons, but this time I just have to. A husband who walked and talked and sat and stood up like a woman and who interpreted my open-mouthed staring as if I were hitting on him. And boy is he ugly. And stupid and illiterate. There is only one word for people like him, it's a shuddering JAQQ! And it does happen that people sometimes wake up and recognise their mistakes and say the sorry word, which however does not guarantee forgiveness. A million sorry words wouldn't make me forgive. But what gets under my skin is that this mad hag hasn't even felt the need for just one sorry word. She goes around in a nest of hair, with a big mole on her face which would be perfect for this weekend's Carnival, had she to go around as the cruel witch of course. And just because she's lost the pufta husband does not mean she can call my house at her will. I think she'd like to, but she doesn't have my phone number. And she has actually tried to chatter me up as if nothing was ever wrong. It was I who sat there feeling helpless praying for Mister's and my situation to be better. It was I who cried with him. It was I who sat with him. It was just us two alone. She wasn't there. No she actually was there to make things worse. Together with her pufta husband whom she sang praises to... at the time. And now it's my time. My time to decide that I've pressed delete on her hysterical ways six years ago. My time to feel angry that she now expects help when she made sure she was never around. It's not my fault. Perhaps I am a bad girl. I am not Jesus who apparently accidentally told us to forgive 77 times. She's exceeded her 77 times anyway. And I will not forgive. I do not hate just because I am selfish, because I know that had I to hate, the hate would eat at me and in this sphere of life I am no masochist. So I just forget, i.e. forget her and not forgive. I know it's not making me look like a very nice girl, or a very sweet lady. But it's how it is, and I owe it to myself and the Mister not to let a wolf at my throat again. JAQQ!. That's the only word I can come up with. The big sense of disgust I feel is overwhelming. She can go hysterical as much as she likes, perhaps one day someone will lock her in a straight white jacket and put her where she belongs. Complete with her unpronounceable disgusting sorry excuse for a name which I shall not mention because then I'd be risking looking insane myself. JAQQ!

Jesscia Rabbit

I love my brother-in law. And I actually like him. I like him a lot. It was not the case when I first met him. He was too quiet, one of those good-looking fellas who are so quietly contained in themselves that they can sadly go unnoticed. Nigel, a man of many artistic resources. Nigel, the one who makes my hair shine, the one who makes my face shine, with glee while he quietly lights up a fag (no pun intended) and smiles. He's the one doing all my hair experiments of which all go right. He's a man of not many words, but of a lot of wisdom. It's a very wise head on the good looking twenty-four year old. He's the one responsible for me being a fiery redhead right now. And he loves my hair, because it's so long and silky. I can feel it when he does it (the hair I mean). The way he lovingly runs his magical hands through my hair, almost as if he were making love to it. Not sex, but love. That is how passionate this young man is about hair. My hair. And somehow I don't feel uncomfortable about him making love to my hair. I guess I should, because hey he's my brother in law. But I don't, because it's hair and I guess it's allowed with hair like mine (ahem). I mean God has bestowed beautiful hair to cover my already beautiful head, and if a top stylist like Nigel doesn't make love to my hair, to whose is he going to do it with? And it feels nice, perhaps because it's family and thus it should be forbidden. I'm not sure, but I don't argue because I love it anyway. And I love him, not just for the hair magic tricks. I love him because somehow he's grown on me (just to add to the weight that little bit more) and I have come to love him and his quiet ways as if he were another brother. He is also a very good chef, he treats me like a princess, he really cares, it's a 24 year old looking out for a 35 year old, which is probably very mad. But I like mad and sometimes mad is good. And yesterday it was this quiet man wanting something wickedly mad. He wanted a Jessica Rabbit, because he thinks Jessica with her big butt (hint) and massive boobs is the sexiest cartoon character ever put out in the cartoon world. I kind of agree, although the fact that she's a rabbit and thus a rodent still puts me off a little bit. So I get my Nigel, my fine hair, a Jessica Rabbit costume on the table, and a sad Nigel because he would so have loved to dress up in his Jessica Rabbit costume, sewn perfectly by himself. But he lacked the shoes. The red patent high heel killer shoes worn by this rabbit. And I smiled. Shoes... now that's my department. Red patent killer heels... I had just the ones, bought because they looked so sexy and never worn. And I smiled even harder, because while I am a big 41 in shoe size, he's a trim size 41 in shoe size. It meant that I could make a man happy without even showing him my boobs, and you don't get that very often. I just looked through my shoe room, sure enough there they were, grabbed a pair of stockings and displayed them proudly for him to see. His reaction... never have I seen a human being so overjoyed in my life. After putting them on in a flash, he did the walk... and dear God the guy actually walks better then I do in heels. They fitted perfectly, suited him and his Jessica to a tee. That's what being a good Samaritan is all about, sometimes it's all about shoes. So there was Nigel, walking the walk, talking the talk... of Jessica Rabbit. It was almost perfect, except for one thing in which area I am dreadfully inexperienced. He just needed a bigger butt! Something apparently difficult for some people to have. But we foamed it all out with the heaviest of foam padding I ever saw. And finally Nigel got his bigger butt. His red shoes. His siliconed boobs. And his Jessica Rabbit. Now he's just got to shave his legs a little bit...

All Mine

I've been good today. I've finally broken my oversleeping pattern, just when four days of holidays are around the corner, four days which I could spend sleeping in limbo. But I just thought if little people were going to be allowed make-up, then so was I. So I wore the paint, dressed finely for the first time in weeks, heels and all. And I just froze to death. Glamour doesn't go with human body temperatures. I'd have loved to go shopping, but I just couldn't take the cold anymore. I was at a point where I didn't know where my butt was. And that is a big statement, which means it's really cold if my butt just became numb and frozen. I just had to head home. I'm now wearing two pairs of socks, woolen pants, two woolen tops in the hope of defrosting. It's not glamorous by any means, although if someone had to take a head shot it would look nice. But that's all. And I'm happy to trade glamour for anything if it means I have at least some warm comfort. Maybe I got kicked out by the Gods from under my duvet way too early this morning. It's change, something which is as foreign as the Chinese language to me. I hate changing my coffee mug because the coffee doesn't taste as good, I hate changing my place at the table because the food tastes funny. It's a whole list of commandments. Thou shalt not sit on my computer chair because it's mine. Thou shalt not drive my car because it's mine. Thou shalt not sleep in my bed because it's mine. Now I realise this is a very possessive part of me which I never knew I had and which could easily qualify for OCD. It's all mine, and I don't want to share. It's not very Christian-like either. What's worse is that its making me think of my mother and the more I have struggled to be her opposite, the more it seems I'm becoming like her and her ways. Not as in her size of course. It would take me the 7 years of famine to perhaps come close to her size. And then there would be the 7 years of abundance for me to put it all again. The yo-yo. I haven't seen one around in ages, except for the big one in my life. And it's weird because y0-yo's were a big part of Carnival in my day and age which seems so long ago. Did they die a slow painful death or did they all take a secret massive decision to incorporate themselves into my life and become all mine? That's so cheeky of them.