Lost in Thought

This is the first day of my life
I swear I was born right in the doorway
I went out in the rain suddenly everything changed
They’re spreading blankets on the beach

So if you want to be with me
With these things there’s no telling
We just have to wait and see
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides maybe this time is different
I mean I really think you like me
Bright Eyes – First Day of My Life

I don’t like this inertia which has slowly crept over me in the month since things settled down here. It bothers me, annoys me too. I’ve been there before, but it’s not as simple as that. I just can’t see a way out of it.

I’m starting to understand just how unnaturally stressed out I have been in the run up to moving here. I have NEVER experienced stress like that. I remember just staring blankly into the distance before going to sleep, unable to summon up the strength to switch off the bedside lamp because of the thoughts which charged through my head, taking control and taking me along with them. I was wrapped in stress and worry, bound by it.

Now it has let me go, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to function anymore in anything less than a state of high anxiety, and it’s almost as though that’s what my body has become accustomed to. It’s what I need. The calm, the peace here… It feels alien to me. And perhaps a part of me can’t quite believe in it still, believe that the rows are over, that he can’t make my life miserable anymore.

I think I’ve forgotten how to be properly happy. Not how to experience moments of happiness, but how to be content. I have not been content for a long, long time and it’s not coming easy. How do you re-learn being yourself, pottering about the house attending to things and taking pride in things? The time I used to spend on my OU work – my only free time – I now spend sitting twiddling my thumbs, or on the internet, or in bed napping when he naps. I don’t know how to be good to myself anymore, to do something small and beautiful just for the sake of it. And it’s so immensely frustrating, and I’m SO impatient! Okay, so I’m not the worlds most patient person anyway, but especially with myself, with my healing process, I am wracked with irritation and exasperated grumpiness. Not good *shakes head*

I need someone to slap me round the face with a metaphorical wet fish; I feel anesthetized. And deep within the bundled up layers of numbness and stagnation, there is a tiny spark of anger beginning, at him. That he is still destroying my life covertly, that his shitty, emotionally abusive legacy lives on.

I need… I don’t know. To get a grip, probably. And actually make a start on the massive list that is ironically buried under piles of mess on the kitchen table. And I think, to do that I need a babysitter.

Oh well, a decision. That’s a start I suppose

… that I could stop being so afraid of everything. It’s like a disease. I just want to turn my brain off. Then maybe my stomach would stop churning, my appetite would come back, I would stop feeling so tense and hunched and stressed.

I have the keys to my new place, and I am moving stuff in. I will properly be living there with the small dude after we all come back from the camp in early June. Yay. But, the headaches I am having to sort out, are just so HARD. And the annoying this is, they are really not! The fridge I bought for £35 at the bootsale won’t work? Never mind! I will phone the number the man gave me, and if that doesn’t work or he won’t sort it, I will buy another one from the paper and persuade my reluctant snarling angry ex partner to collect it with me in his car. Simples. But I have no room for extra unexpected stress: I have budgeted how much of me there is to last until the release of the camp, and there is no leeway for stuff like this. The gas engineer who came to do the gas safety certificate accidentally cracked the loose slate tile in the kitchen and I didn’t find out til later. He probably didn’t even realize. And… it makes me want to dissolve into hysterical sobbing instead of shrugging and mentioning it the next time I phone the letting agent. And I DO do the normal things, outwardly. I do shrug, and mention it to them. But inside I am convinced they think I am a bad tenant, and are wishing they had picked someone else, and I’m scared of having to find another home, because I don’t know if I can do all this again in 6 months time. And lots and lots of little things like that keep happening, and I understand that it’s called life.

But I know it will be okay in the end. I know this because I saw my future self and spoke with her, a few weeks ago. She leaned in the car window while I was singing along to Tangerine by Led Zeppelin. I asked her if it would be alright, if I was doing the right thing. And she smiled and told me it would be the best thing I would ever do, and I would wish I had done it years ago.

I’m starting to realize that I’m always going to worry about everything. Things are looking up, stress is easing marginally, and nothing has yet cropped up that shouts “I’m going to shit on your parade!” in big triumphant letters.

Yet I still worry. I’m reminded now of the David Sedaris reading on Radio 4 recently, about all the petty squabbles he has with Hugh his partner, but how he needs him really and would be lost without him. Now, I know David was writing a lot of that in a different country to his own, but still there are many similarities. Like, staying unmoving in bed, pretending to be out and afraid to make a noise after declining an invitation to the party in the flat below? That’s something I would do! I sometimes wonder if there are only two groups of people in the world. Those who are making it, and those who are faking it successfully. I think I’m starting to become comfortable being in the second group. I have no idea how normal my thoughts are, but I don’t really care anymore.
I think about my new place and all I can wonder is, what if I don’t know how to work the central heating? Will I look stupid asking the letting agent? It it something people should just know, once they are grown up? What if I can’t make it feel like home? How long does a place have to feel like staying in a strangers house while they are on holiday before it starts to feel routine and familiar? Am I really that scared of everything?

Yes, yes I am. I’m terrified. But I’m not fighting it anymore. Okay, so I’m scared. So what? I feel like a little kid in an adults body who has been tricked into a situation where the only accepted responses are adult ones. Well, never mind. I’ll just muddle through, and have a knot in my stomach that I won’t notice disappear. And one day it will be all right, and I’ll look back and say that wasn’t so bad. What was all the fuss about? I don’t know what I was so afraid of.
When really I know I’ll always be like this. Faking a lack of fear, thinking too much, worrying about what might happen. That’s just me, I suppose.

It may be alright… perhaps, maybe, possibly it may be alright. That is to say, it might well be alright, probably will – but I’m so cautious and hesitant to get excited that I won’t, not for now.

But there is a part of me that is already jumping around whooping and clapping. And another equally valid part of me that wants to cry and cry and cry and not change anything and let someone else work things out so she doesn’t even have to think, let alone get out of bed and face the day. The part of me that is still tucked up in her little bed in her little room at her beloved granddads house, lightly touching the pink velour curtain, feeling the texture of the fabric as she watches the light die outside and wonders with complete confidence and hope what tomorrow will bring. Knowing that it must be alright because it always is: someone else takes care of it.
I hope I find some balance between them. I hope I can be grown up, now that it matters so much. It’s never mattered more than now.

You’ll never know all the lucky escapes you had: only the ones you didn’t. Perhaps I should be more grateful for the times I was saved from some fantastically stupid choice, person, situation, whatever. I spend so much time lamenting the things I wish I hadn’t done, or the things I didn’t do and wish I had, that I rarely give thanks for the messes I have been mercifully spared.
Thanks, God of cock ups. Thanks that I am not with R.B now, probably being beaten to a pulp or subject to pot-induced paranoid verbal abuse. And thanks, also that I had Felix here in Cornwall and not in London. His lungs and mind salute you.

Things here are strained. A dire, once-in-three-years “properly losing my temper and screaming” row happened a few days ago, and the dust is still settling. The atmosphere is not tense it’s… I don’t know. Unrelaxing. There is no certainty anymore, I never wake up and know how the day will be, or wonder what it will bring. I don’t dare look ahead. It’s all about getting through each day, trying not to collapse in a heap before it’s over. I need to be strong. I also need money, and I don’t have enough. I need a guarantor, and I don’t have one. I need sanity, which I have but sometimes it feels like it’s dribbling away, and I might have to ration it to get me through the next few months – or there won’t be enough to go around.

I remember last year, when I moved out. Thankful, now, as I can learn from that, all the things that I should have done differently, and all the things I remember with a wince. The fear, I think, will take a long time to go. G said to me the other day, “you have to leave home all over again, don’t you?”. But really it’s for the third time. I left home for real in 2007, and a few months later, moved in with someone my mums age. Hmm. Then in 2009 I moved out, but I went back a few months later. There is a pattern emerging here, isn’t there?

I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t ever want to run back because I can’t cope with adult life. I don’t want to feel like a little kid anymore: I HAVE a kid. I wish so much that I had the ability to switch my mind off and not worry about things. It would be the greatest gift I could give myself right now. Instead I lie there at night, too preoccupied to even turn out the light and try and sleep, because there are so many thoughts whirring in my head. How much will a second hand washing machine cost? Can I do without one for a bit? What if he refuses to help me collect it, who can I ask to be a guarantor, what about a cot, what about Peebles’ favourite toys, how should I explain things to a letting agent, what if he… And then my mind blanks out. There are some things I can think about, but can only allude to: custody battles, pet euthanasia, housing estates, homelessness. And I know, that because these thoughts are in my mind, they are almost happening. They are happening in my mind. And because of that, the worst things that could happen, are happening, and I shouldn’t be afraid because it can’t get any worse.

Except you’re not supposed to say that, or God smites you. Please don’t smite me. Please help me find a place to rent with an understanding landlord and all white goods. Please help me.

Do you think there is a God of washing machines? And private lettings? I hope so.
I hope I can stop feeling afraid soon.

This person is me, they are me, I am them. Finally, I’ve found someone who says it so much better that I’m actually happy to be reading their words, because it means I understand.

Sometimes you have to see things from the outside, I guess.

Can’t afford to stay, can’t afford to leave

Last night I dreamed of that place again, the one where I am living a different life and learning new things. Where things are interesting and ever-changing.

In my dream, I was learning to play a guitar – at least, a guitar is the closest I can get to a description for it. It was made of beautiful pale blond wood, like a very long bass guitar with just two thick strings and no frets. It wasn’t an electric, but it was slim and I couldn’t see where the resonating chamber could be. It sounds strange, but this guitar you played with your emotions as well. By plucking the strings in the conventional way with a thumb, great variation of sound was possible just by making a tiny movement. The same was true of the left hand, what would be the fretting hand if there were frets. By using the two in harmony, and also by involving ones emotions and playing ‘from the heart’, beautiful music was possible. I own a guitar but I don’t play, I never really learned beyond a few chords. In my dream, I am not very good and I know I’m not even tapping the surface of what the instrument is capable of, but still the music I am making is more beautiful than anything I have ever heard. I am almost crying in the dream, because its so amazing to be playing like that. I’m so happy, happier than I’ve ever felt in my life on earth. When I wake up, the gorgeous dream stays with me so much that I hardly have room in my heart to be disappointed that it was a ‘only’ dream. I smile in the darkness, and try and memorize the look of the instrument. It looked something like a lute actually, with an overlong neck. There was someone with me, watching me play. They told me something I can’t quite remember, about how popular this new instrument was, and it was in high demand and sold out very quickly. I was determined to get one of my own. I saw on the back the name of it was written in curlicue writing, by being etched onto the wood with heat. I can’t remember what it was now.

I’m learning to drive in my dreams, too. That works with intention as well a physicality. You have to intend how fast to go and where, and you do. It reminds me a little of the Intention Craft from Philip Pullman’s book The Amber Spyglass. I can’t drive in real life; perhaps when I do learn, my dreams will be of help to me

Okay… So although my mum may have looked at my blog, it seems she is not what you would call a regular reader. That’s alright then. *scowls* Which brings us to:

Latest news!
My bell tent arrived, I originally took a gamble and ordered from a company called Obelink based in the Netherlands, they are selling the Sahara 400 Bell Tent which is just the same as on belltent.co.uk – without the horrendous markup, of course! About £100 cheaper from Obelink. Many people from the UK have successfully bought from them, if you look on camping forums. But they officially have an agreement with the belltent.co.uk people not to supply to the UK. They also say they don’t sell here – yet others have had no problems in ordering. I thought it was worth a go. Sadly, they refunded my order without a word, minus £10. Surely the euro-pound exchange rate couldn’t have fluctuated that much in ONE DAY? Anyway, I let it go, because I was still hopeful and I didn’t want to rock the boat!
After a few weeks of searching, I found out that Obelink also sell on ebay – German eBay. Under the guise of ‘onlinezeltshop’. And they do most definitely ship to the UK, at least in that channel. So I ordered one, and it arrived about 4 days later! I was able to track it all the way. Very happy bunny Guy got all jealous and bought one too. *rolls eyes* Although his will not look as groovy as mine, with its many rugs, mats, sheepskins and grooviness going on inside. I will have peebles in his travel cot to contend with, got to rig up some way of him having a separate sleeping area which is dark and peaceful. Hmm. There is no way I am buying an inner tent from the belltent.co.uk people, they are greedy so they are not getting my money. £100 mark up! Pffft.

All this is in aid of the camp at the end of May. Must get our tickets soon – I can’t wait!

Hmm, other news… not much. Or, not much I can talk about. Relationship stuff, sad. Job and future plans stuff, happy. But all somehow… too private to put on here.
Which is ironic because a couple of actual regular readers on here (Rob, Catherine ) would totally sympathize and be all lovely about everything. I could probably use the support. I have virtually no friends around me here, but am probably more peaceful and yet quietly dissatisfied with this than at any point in my life. Okay, that doesn’t make sense really, does it? What I mean is, I accept it and I know I am unlikely to change loads: I will always walk my own path, to some extent, need lots of time alone, get shy in social situations. So, I accept myself. But it makes me sad, because I know there are some smaller ways in which things could be different but I am not ready to reach out for those changes yet. I am still biding my time.

I think for the first few years of having a child, most women go really into themselves, they retreat into milk and sick and nappies and singsong rhymes and chubby wrists. Then sometime in the 2nd year, they emerge again and become real. I am emerging. I can feel it and I’m glad, it feels good to be back. But I am a little wistful already for the baby days. Even though pregnancy and birth hormones messed with my head and I felt very unhappy a lot of the time. I have good memories.

I feel like this sometimes, and I wait for it to pass; Homesick for experiences I haven’t had yet, people I have not yet met. For hugs and kisses and conversations and places and smells and sights. I’m greedy, I want it all. I want to take the world and wrap it up in my arms, hold on to it and never let any of it go.
And I still remember when I hit my head, and I didn’t want to wake up. I am so in love with life and so hungry for and impatient of life, and also I know that everything passes and we are just fragile, silly muppets trekking about uselessly on the surface of a planet that is much bigger and wiser than us, thinking that we are going to make a difference. Both are true.
This sounds really silly and too out there but… I just want to make love with someone again. I want to believe that it will still happen for me, that that side of my life is not over. That I will love again. I wish I felt sure of it. I guess you can never be sure.

If, on the off chance I’m right and my mum is reading my blog… what?? Come on, leave me SOME mental space, please??

Hopefully I’m mistaken. *sigh* But I mean, who else googles “Lostinthought + ‘my mum’ ” from a mobile.

This is NOT COOL. And eight years of relative blogging peace may just have escaped down the drain. Sorry to any regulars here if I take off for a while.