Days 0683, 0684 & 0685

My psychiatrist once told me about a patient of his who came in wanting to be ‘cured’ of the anxiety they felt when traveling in elevators. I don’t know how quickly he came up with his response – he made it sound immediate in his telling – which was this:

How many tall buildings are there in this city? (There are hardly any above six or seven stories.)

And then he said:

Can you get away without taking elevators? Can you walk up the stairs instead?

And of course the answer was yes.

So the patient was ‘cured’. Not of their fear of elevators, small spaces and the anxiety of being trapped in a metal box, but of the sense that they needed to take the challenge head on.

Sometimes, my psychiatrist said to me, making yourself work so hard isn’t the answer. And it doesn’t really help anyone.

At first I saw this view as simply practical and pragmatic.

But I think he was telling me to be a bit easier on myself. Not all faults or failings are things to be fixed. The wise person knows when not to waste energy.

And it was this thought that dropped into my head today when I was required to wake at a truly ungodly hour to catch a plane. 

In my barely awake state jumbled subconscious thoughts organized themselves into a conscious line.

I can’t forgive Halfman for what he did to me. I’ve beaten myself up for ages thinking that was something I should accomplish for my own sake. 

But the revelation is that I don’t need to forgive him. Ever.

I allow myself to be angry when his stench invades my life. I think that is fair.

And I never need to forgive him because I never need to have anything real to do with him ever again. Now that gives me a sense of peace.

The only person who needs to go through the pain and hard work of forgiving him is his wife. And then, only if she wants to.

Being unable to forgive is not a sign of a weak character. Of course, I would like to be able to forgive, but it would only be for my own personal edification.

And, quite frankly, I can’t be bothered.

Arsehat without end. Now and forever. Amen.

Days 0560 & 0561

So the Halfman haunted my dream last night. And the worst part of it? I found myself enjoying his quiet, whimsical company. It was the pre-Halfman in my dream: the person-constructed-by-Halfman who I had fallen in love with and cared about.
It made me so angry with myself that I was pleased to see him in my dream.
Distance means I can see this:
When I discovered the Halfman betrayal I had been 3/4 of the way through the process of mourning the loss of what I had believed was a sincere and gentle relationship with someone whose brain and company I enjoyed.
Halfman’s appearance sent me to a place where I couldn’t mourn that person any more: he hadn’t been real. He’d been deceiving me the entire time. I was a bloody fool and he was a fucking bastard. I wanted that person I’d loved to hate me and be scared of me.
So I didn’t finish the mourning because it didn’t seem real. And it hurt to mourn something that was just an illusion. I felt like a fool and a horrid person for what he’d done to his wife with me in tow.
And I refused to remember anything about him with joy or even a quiet happiness because he’d destroyed it all so thoroughly.
Now I’ve reached a point where I’ve forgiven myself a bit at least. And I think it might be ok to stick a tentative foot into allowing myself to have fond memories of some of our times together: even if they weren’t ‘real’.
But see, even writing that down in a sentence makes me want to puke — and a BIG LOUD PUKE, not some ladylike barf in a handkerchief.
So while the thought has entered my mind, I still haven’t come to a place where I can enact it. Where I can allow myself to think fondly of a bastard who screwed me royally both literally and figuratively.
One day though, perhaps a fond memory or even a non-angry one won’t lead me to this place of self and Halfman hate. One day the warmth I feel about this won’t be a burning anger but a fond remembrance of how a young, immature man who was able to sit a metre from me for a whole year and fall for me in spite of it. It will be nice to arrive at that place.
But until then: This middle finger’s for you, Halfman.

Day 0528

So I invested another millimetre’s worth of tooth enamel in that scuzzy bastard last night: hardly slept at all.
I wasn’t particularly thinking about him or not running him over. I most definitely wasn’t feeling sentimental.
It was like I had All The Feelings bubbling just under my Conscious-Thought Bubble. Like caffeine too late in the day leads to a tired body and a restless mind.
I kept telling him to go away; kept shutting him out; but he was still there, lanky arms and legs, fuzzball face, scraping his lacksidaisical fingernails on my metaphorical braindoor.
And the positive thing I can see in this – because, let’s admit, that’s something I can always see – is that I didn’t let it pull me down any further than that.
I’ll sleep well tonight and continue on with my own life – one that I feel increasingly proud of, one where I don’t feel embarrassed by my actions because I own them, a life where I refuse to scuttle away from things that are difficult or people I don’t particularly admire.
And he … he will continue to be lost. And continue to scuttle. And continue to lie and betray until the end.
Because a leopard — even a lazy, gormless, psychopathic one — doesn’t ever really change his spots.

Day 0507

Oops! Turns out Love does not actually = Kindness. I’ve spent my life thinking the two things shared the same definition, which makes me a real turkey cos I’ve certainly experienced all types of love but relatively little kindness over the years.
In fact, when I think about the possibility of meeting someone new – and it has begun to cross my mind once in a while (a nice change) – I want to find kindness before almost anything else.
Almost anything equals: right wing political views, unkempt nosehair and an exhaled wheeze instead of a belly laugh. And, of course, anyone who says while naked and in bed: So do you think less of me now because you know I cheat on my wife? … This is the first time of course!
SO how does one identify kindness?
I can recognise love: big, warm, blinding, deafening, stomach churning, electricity making love.
But kindness, it’s much gentler and quieter cousin, how do you identify that? And how do you distinguish true kindness from just being polite or gentlemanly? How do you know that it’s a kindness that will last into the intimacy of knowing someone really well?
Is the only way to test it? Because I don’t have a great batting average with that method?
I need a Cosmo Quiz!

Day 0503

It’s nice how little I think of this now. But I had one of those dreams last night. If I was being flippant I would characterise it as a ‘bad conscience dream’, though I have little to have a bad conscience about with regard to Halfman. I don’t know what it’s about really, but I have it once in a while: a dream where I meet the ball-less one somewhere and his wife talks to me and I realise she has gone mad because of what he did to her, how he treated her and the lies he wove that involved me. I woke up feeling terrible about it. And powerless.

Of course, though, as the day wore on pleasantly, I started to think about how much I wish the final moment where Halfman and I shared a piece of earth as two people who had once had an intimate relationship was a moment in which I had spoken aloud what I was thinking.

As is often my wont, I chose to be silent.  But my head was full of thoughts.

I had met with him in a certain park on a cold, damp, grey day, having discovered his betrayal, his lies and his psychopathic scheme. I couldn’t bring myself to yell at him, but he knew I was angry.

He was frightened to speak to me. And then he cried. Poor, pathetic thing.

Eventually I ended the conversation, pretended to be ‘just fine, thank you very much’, and popped off to my car to grab a box of things I wanted to donate to the place he was working, but which I didn’t want to bring in because I’d have to see him. (Ugh)

So I stood behind him as he sat on the grass, his legs folded under him, his shoulders curved forwards, his head down. He was either continuing to boo hoo or just waiting for this to be over so he could go away and solidify whatever lying excuses he’d made to his wife about me at that point.

I gave him the box. I tried to explain to him what was in it. He cut me off with his sharp tongue — as if to say: don’t be so frivolous, I’ve had enough. (I now think he was just grumpy that I had ensured what he’d done was now known to his wife and that he’d felt he had to appease me to make sure I left him to weave his lies to her from there on out.)

So I stopped explaining the box’s contents and I put my left hand on his left shoulder – just for a second.

I reckon he thought I was being wistful, sighing with the weight of having to let him go.

But here is what I was thinking – for the record (the record only I really care about, I’m sure). I was thinking: You are a liar. You shit allllll over me. I hate you.

Of course, I didn’t hate him. And I don’t hate him now. I’m not very prolific at the Hate Thing. I seem to default to hating the action, not the person. As much as I’d love to hate him, I don’t. But, my goodness, it would have felt good to say that to him out loud and make sure he knew he had killed off all the loveliness that had once been there.

Arsehat.

Day 0026

An extremely reputable (possibly not) website posits the following couple of reasons for men lying to women (be warned this list was found right next to an article on ‘Etiquette for Lapdancing’) and boils it down to the essentials:

• They will lie to avoid conflict.
• They’ll lie because their wife or girlfriend is stupid, or they think she’s stupid.
• They’ll lie because they’re insecure.

I can’t help but think it’s mainly that middle one. How else would they think they could get away with it, or does the consequence never enter their minds. Now, I am by no means saying all men are liars but I have met a couple of exceptional ones.

And they both leave me wondering: Who can live like that? How do you live like that? What is the point of living like that?

Too much arsehat contemplation today. I need to tell myself it’s less about me and more about them. And isn’t that just so sad. But I’m not convincing today. At all. 

How do I turn off my head?

 

Day 0024

It seems all it really takes in the end is for one human being to treat you as or nearly as you deserve and suddenly the blinders let in some light.

I am worth a 1000 of you and you and You.

I am so very far from perfect but I have the courage and the care to be me. And tonight I don’t think that’s half bad.

Arsehats not worth worrying about: 2.0

Day 0007

Felt a bit Angry At The World today. Everyone got on my nerves. Turned on the wrong element on the stove so dinner took forever. Dropped a box of cookies which graciously exploded all over the floor. Am keen for someone to give me a hard time so I can snap at them. Or cry. Or both.

Sexist comments: 0

Arsehat males directly dealt with: 0.2

Time spent in male-related self pity: FTM

Day 0004

Sexist comments: 0.5 (Couldn’t catch what they whispered and leery smiled to each other when I walked past. Next time I promise myself I will stop and ask.)

Arsehat males directly dealt with: 1 — there is always that one

Kind gentle males who treated me like a human and told me I was ‘impressively strong’: 1

Tortured, beautiful male souls that I wish I could gently caress with an angel’s wing: 1

A hard day but adding up the above, I think I came out on top. As did today’s men.

Manlessness rating: -15