How I Spent my Monday….

I am not good at reading things with men.  Not in the sense of actual words.  If you write, as a previous partner had to in letters cut from a newspaper, “I have feelings for you”, then I will get it.  Otherwise, I’m not so sure.

I understand the basic rules of the game, of course.  Meet on a dating site – flirting is the name of the game.  Work with them – don’t put your hand on their dicks in meeetings.  I always err on the side of caution.  Even if I’m pretty sure someone is trying it on, I sound them out by asking in a way that lets them say that they’re only being friendly, because I assume they’re not flirting.  Some take it the wrong way and assume I’m angry or accusing them of leching, which is not true. I just like clarity.  The grey wilderness is not for me.

A guy caught my attention online.  In terms of interests and chat, he wasn’t really my type, but his humour got me, and I found myself quite liking him.  We did the dreaded number swap and started using WhatsApp.

The first video came with the caption “What I did on Friday”.  I’m not that green.  Pretty sure of what was coming (don’t pardon the pun), I didn’t open it.  He followed up with the old “Oh no!  It’s not what you think!  Please look.”  I caved.  Opened it….

Turned out to be a video of him standing in the rain having to watch his kid play rugby, singing ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ with added lyrics that included my name.  It was quite funny, I felt bad for prejudging him.

The ‘What I Did on Saturday’ video turned out to be him painting his garden fence, and the ‘You’re the Best!’ song from Karate Kid with equally clever new lyrics.  It made me properly belly laugh.  I started to look forward to his messages.

The Sunday one was funny too, and, after finding out I was working in Glasgow on Monday, we agreed to meet for lunch.  I will admit to not having the level of butterflies I usually get, but he was funny and I’m a total sucker for that.

Monday came, and I made my way to a pre-arranged venue.  With a meet time of 1pm, my phone pinged five minutes before to let me know that he was stuck in the office but would definitely be there by quarter past.  Not a problem.  I ordered a coffee and waited.

About ten past, the phone pinged again.  “What I Did on Monday”.  I assumed it would be him huffing and puffing as he ran along the street to the cafe.  Well – there was huffing and puffing.  That’s for sure.  There was also what was clearly his penis, in his hand, in a cubicle in the work toilets.

I don’t think I’ve downed a coffee faster in my life.  It burned a bit.  I didn’t care.  Grabbed my bag and headed along the street…. straight into him.  I didn’t know exactly where he worked, otherwise I’d have gone the other way.

He looked genuinely surprised that I was leaving, as though he’d clearly sent what was the mental starter and was now following up with a delicious main course.  I’m not sure if it’s possible to cause lasers to shoot out of your eyes, but I did my best to incinerate the back of his skull.  The best bit was that he looked genuinely confused, like maybe I was angry because I’d reached my data limit and not seen the ending?

“Hey,” he said.  “Are you uptight?”  Yes, I am uptight.  Men sending videos of themselves wanking when I’m trying to drink a cappuccino puts me at the top of the uptight tree.

I get it.  Online dating is weird.  I have had guys offer to send stuff before.  I’d never ask for it because I wouldn’t want to make folk feel bad, and I never send it because in my head I am 12 and assume paedos would use it.  But really?  I’ve had guys send stuff.  It’s fine.  Sending unsolicited bullshit is not okay.

I wish I could tell you that I eloquently explained to him the error of his ways.  I wish I could tell you that I made him see the difficulties with his approach, and we parted as friends.  In reality, my brain panicked, and I shouted ‘Work wanking is not okay!’ at him before I scuttled off to catch my train, throat still burning from hasty consumption of coffee. In hindsight I made myself sound like I worked for HMRC and was angry at him wasting working hours when he could be more productive.

Damn you, work wanker.  Damn you to hell.

Gordon Gekko

Tinder continues to be an interesting place.  Back on it after yet another guy decided that, despite knowing from the start that I’m’emotionally interesting’, this was a huge surprise to him when it reared its head.  I’ve given up on giving second chances.  The marketplace beckons again.

It seems quite hard to find a middle path on Tinder.  Guys fall into one extreme or the other – they’re either talking to you about football, telly, news (anything apart from dating), or they’re trying to put their cyber dick down your throat in the first few messages.

I’m an idiot, though.  When I find a rare one who hits the right balance, I still chat to them.  I still assume it’ll be okay.  Here’s a tip for you – it’s never okay.

The latest one hit the right note, walking the fine line between flirtation and sleaze.  He was interesting and a bit unusual.  Just my type.  We talked about a lot of things….and then came the message.  The ‘there’s something I need to tell you’ one.  I immediately wondered which breed of animal he was interested in, sexually, or which prison he’d served his time in.  There began a tedious, drawn-out conversation, but just as I was about to give up on him, the truth was revealed.  He’d had surgery on a cleft palate as a child, and it had left a bit of a scar that he was very self-conscious about.  The guilt I felt was terrible.  There I was, marking him up as Deviant Number 31, and in reality he was just a guy with a physical issue that made him worry about people’s responses.  I sent back a message that let him know that although I realised this was an issue for him, it was not for me.  It was kind, and reassuring, and gentle.  “Phew’, he said.  “And I’m into big women doing X,Y,Z with me.”

I won’t tell you what X, Y or Z are.  Imagine the most inappropriate sexual requests you could make in a conversation.  Then triple them.  Then multiply by a hundred.  I say that as someone who is not vanilla, so you have some idea of what I’m talking about.

Fair play to the guy – the segue with which he went from vulnerable, affected human to Marquis de Sade was admirable.  In the same message.  Never even skipped a beat.

I didn’t reply.  Talking to someone else distracted me, however, and I didn’t unmatch, meaning he was able to get back in touch a few hours later.  He was sorry, he said.  He’d been drinking.  He realised he’d overstepped the mark.  Pole-vaulted it, more like, but to try and get him to go I replied that I wasn’t interested and that nothing would happen.

The next message was an offer.  He would pay.  Prices could be negotiated.  He sent another message with a higher offer, like some kind of perverted Gordon Gekko.  At that point things were turning into a version of The Antiques Roadshow that nobody wanted to see, so I blocked him.

Lesson learned, I suppose, but I’m becoming so jaded with the whole dating thing that stuff like this barely leaves an impression any more.  The only thing it does is make me laugh.  Any time they show footage of traders on the floor of The City or Wall Street, I like to imagine they’re trying to negotiate prices for Y.*  They lose or gain and retire at 40, safe in the knowledge that they have procured sexual acts for the rich and willing.  I think I’m going to buy myself a pair of red braces.

*X depends more on physical flexibility.  Z needs a poor gag reflex and substantial nerve damage.

 

Run-Run-Run-Run-Run-Runaway

I run away quite a lot.  Never did it as a kid.  Never saw the point.  Who wants to hide in a park in the rain with nothing but your copy of ‘Look-In!’ magazine and a soggy sandwich for company?  As an adult, I ration it out to about three or four times a year.

My brain runs all the time.  Yours does too, I hope.  It’s momentarily distracted by a funny programme on telly or a nice cake, but the rest of the time it’s thinking of the worst-case scenario and opening doors to battle anxiety backdraught.  It made a point of using the British spelling there, as opposed to ‘backdraft’, because erosion of language matters to it.  My brain is a dick.

I ran away today.  Kissed the cat goodbye, filled the automatic feeder (sometimes what I intend to be a three hour escape turns into four days) and brought the ipod for the car.  Running away when you can drive is much better, particularly because the snow started again.  It’s not about the hardship.  I suppose if you’re eight years old, you’re not doing it through desire to experience winter in a park.  It’s about getting away from something, and walking or driving will do it.

There are a couple of fishing villages up the coast that I visit a lot when I feel like this.  They’re only about an hour away.  One is usually full of tourists, but the impending ice and snow had kept them away today.  The other is a little further away, and practically deserted come rain or shine.  They are my thinking places, full of natural distractions to shut up the anxious part of my brain.  It’s harder to focus on problems and ‘what-ifs’ when the tide crashes against the rocks and the little boats go off on their perilous journeys.  Remember those stress relief balls you used to get, that you could squeeze and squeeze until the desire to murder everyone around you disappeared?  This is the mental equivalent of that.  I sit in my car (or walk the beach when weather permits) and let nature take away the stress.  The fact that there’s an award-winning chip shop and ice cream place nearby helps a bit, too.

So today I let the rough seas take my thoughts away.  It turned out I only needed to run away for three hours.  The wind battered the car at a few points, and the snow on the road made sure my brain had to concentrate.  It’s amazing how quickly your troubles fall in with the rank and file of the other hundred things to do.

The final stop on the way back is always a little bay I know.  There are hardly any visitors because it’s pretty hard to drive down to, but it’s worth it.  You can see for miles on a clear day, and even with the heavy snow blowing through the wind, I still got out of the car and headed down to the little natural harbour.

A huge pile of dried seaweed was washed up on the shore.  Shrivelled, unrecognisable.  A shadow of its former self.  And yet the tide will come again soon, and it will be rejuvenated, and it will continue this pattern for years to come.  I’m sure there’s a not-too-hidden lesson in there somewhere, but damned if I know what it is.  I’m still here.  I’m waiting for the sea to come back.  It always does.

Whack-a-mole

My brain is made up of 17% stable person, 22% cake, 20% lip gloss and 41% absolute bastard.  You don’t need to check my arithmetic, but I bet you did anyway.  The Bastard is in charge today.

Mountains have been made out of molehills.  Said mountains have then been put on to gargantuan hydraulic lifts and jacked up another couple of thousand feet.  Sea level is a tiny dot on the horizon, cloaked in mental mist and the fog of irrationality.

I’ve tried to distract The Bastard.  I set a trail of chocolate back to the cave, hoping she would follow it and let me slam the door shut behind her.  She consumed it, but continues to run around without sign of capture.  Sometimes I let her drive, because although she is horrible she is also very good at watching road signs and changing CDs.  Despite the drive home from work which takes about half an hour, she still reigns.

I’m trying to tempt her away by writing this, playing a game on my phone and watching telly all at the same time, but she’s an excellent multitasker and takes it all in her stride.  Fair play to her – when it comes to making me feel shit and anxious about everything, she’s incredibly efficient.  You know those traders in the City who can sustain the most stressful buying and selling activity over the course of a morning, and end up making millions?  She could do that.  She’d wipe the floor with them.  The Bastard can buy, sell, humiliate, terrify, quieten, antagonise, damage and exit a slip road onto a motorway at the same time.  I don’t cross her.

I’m sure there’s a reason she’s there,  I’m just not sure what it is.  I’ve been very good about taking the Citalopram when I’m meant to, been eating healthily, trying to get enough sleep and have no excuse in terms of the Lady Waterfall of Death (aka hormones).

For what it’s worth, I’m sure that everyone has a voice of doubt in their head.  I have a choir.  Some people definitely need a few more sopranos than they already have.

Maybe she’ll stay for an hour?  It might be a week.  All I know is that for the foreseeable future I’ll be playing mental Whack-a-mole, trying to suppress one anxious thought as another pops up in its place.   The Bastard is cruel.  She’s insidious.  Yet, she’s me.  I’m trying to take the lesson she gives me as well as the malice.

Whack.

 

Beat It

I’ve never really understood the term ‘sugar rush’ before.  Probably because my blood was usually full of sugar in the first place, so a bit more didn’t make a difference.  Taking a day off after 7 weeks of not consuming it has been horrendous.

I had a bottle of wine yesterday, and, as predicted, that gave me the green light to have a packet of chocolate biscuits.  It was so close to bedtime, however, that I slept through the effect.  I was determined to get back on track today, and had my sandwich bag of stroganoff (no carb) out of the fridge this morning to take to work with me.  I was halfway there when I realised I’d left it.

I work in a village.  There isn’t really much I can buy in the way of low-carb unless I fancy gnawing on a chunk of cheese, and the facilities at work aren’t great for cooking raw sausages or anything like that.  In my wisdom, I decided I’d have a proper day off and go to the baker’s for lunch. My greedy brain went into overdrive.  A macaroni pie, a cheese roll and fresh orange juice.  Carbs and sugar.  Carbs and sugar.  This was my daily diet before, so I didn’t see how one day would hurt.  I was wrong.

Since lunchtime, I’ve felt truly awful.  My resting heart rate is sitting at 120.  I feel sick.  I feel shivery.  My brain is racing and my stomach is churning.  The effects have reduced with time and about two litres of water, but it was a real shock to see how it could affect me like that.

I’m back on the low carb plan tomorrow.  In lots of ways, today was a blessing.  I can’t believe I used to feel like that all the time.  Even though it was 2 degrees outside, I was sweating after lunch and had to open a window.  My body was working as hard as it could to get these toxins out.  I felt so ashamed of myself for treating it like that, but it was a clear wake up call that will mean I don’t do it again.  I’m finally starting to realise that low-carb and low-sugar is going to be a permanent way of life for me, not just something to ‘do’ until I reach my target weight.

I’m not going to beat myself up about today.  A horrible man made me feel crap.  I had a really stressful day at work.  Life is not currently a Disney film.

That’s okay, though.  Onwards and upwards.  Start again tomorrow.  Be grateful for the progress I’ve made.

Anaesthetic

I anaesthetised myself tonight.  I didn’t mean to, of course. It sort of sneaks up on you.  7 weeks with nothing but sobriety and perspective have taken their toll, though, and I needed to escape.   Although I felt the loneliness most deeply this afternoon, it was during cooking at around 8pm that the bottle of wine on the worktop called to me.

I drank it all.  Not because I needed it or wanted to, but because I wanted to numb myself for a brief while.  The lack of contact from the guy I like combined with absolute feelings of worthlessness meant that it was a relief to temporarily remove myself from things.  I have to admit that it has worked.  I’m not staring at the phone any more, checking if he’s online.  I’ve enjoyed myself this evening.  I’ve cared a little less.

To those who are worried (and thank you to those who have previously sent messages) – I’m not an alcoholic.  This isn’t a header off a wagon.  The only repercussions for me will be in terms of carbohydrates.  I’ve lost around 30lbs.  The 20g of carbs in a bottle of wine will knock me out of ketosis and put me back to square one, but right now, still slightly drunk, I know I’ll do it.

Why do people stop caring?  That’s the thing that’s in my head. If someone goes from multiple messages a day to not getting in touch for days at a time, that means they’ve lost interest, yes?  I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, and right now that’s haunting me.  As I said last time, it’s not good to value yourself based on the affections  of another, but as one more guy goes down the road of ‘I don’t care about her’, it hurts.

I’m enjoying the anaesthetic.  There won’t be any more.  Sometimes though, when things get too painful, you’d be a masochist not to do it.

But….

People get sick of me pretty quickly.  I’m the human equivalent of chocolate fudge cake.  It seems like a good idea at the time, but after a couple of mouthfuls you realise that it’s just not sitting right and you can’t manage any more.

I’m good at working out when people have had enough; pre-empting it to soften the blow.  Still hurts, though.  This week was yet another of those experiences.  “You’re a really nice girl, but….. ”  I could transcribe those conversations, print them out and paper every wall in a stately home with them.

‘But’ is the word that best describes my life.  “You could be pretty, but you’re fat.”  “I could be happy with you, but I’m not looking for that at the moment.”  “You could be a Formula 1 driver, but you’re shit at taking roundabouts.”

I think that’s why I got fat in the first place.  I’m not clueless, or one of those people who says ‘Who knows how I ended up like this? It must be genetic!’   For me, it was nothing to do with my DNA.  It was eating foods that were high in fat and sugar, then deciding not to exercise.

It’s difficult though.  Food has never said ‘but’ to me.  Banoffee pie says ‘You’ve had a hard week and I will make you feel better temporarily.’  Biscuits have never told me it’s over.  Crips and cake have always accepted me just the way I am, and although I know they’re killing me, the comfort they provide is addictive.

This week has been a real challenge in terms of not eating crap or drinking alcohol.  Sugar (fermented or otherwise) to anaesthetise myself would have helped.  It’s ridiculous, I know.  I’ve seen posts from friends on Facebook who are going through genuine, life-changing trauma, and I know that being chucked by some guy doesn’t even compare.  It doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt though.

You shouldn’t value your self-worth based on the affections of another person, but when yet another person gets sick of chocolate fudge cake, it’s hard not to take it personally.

I learned to make low-carb pancakes today, and they tasted reasonably good.  Some of them, and a bit of low-carb fruit syrup has had to do, but the bottle of wine on the kitchen worktop is calling.  Today, it’s been hard to block my ears.

He’s not a horrible man, but he’s not a great one, either  The belief that somebody out there will settle for chocolate fudge keeps me going.  After all, I settled for it for years.

Onwards, lady.  Two stones off, and onwards.  Upwards seems a bit optimistic at the moment.  Maybe just not downwards?  A bit of a plateau would be nice.

The Donald

Remember Donald Rumsfeld?  I try not to, unless it’s to make me cry at a funeral.  I imagine he’s what men think of to stop themselves going off too quickly.  He had a way with words (a terrible way, but a way with them).

He was responsible for this gem:  “There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don’t know we don’t know.”

I worry that my brain functions a bit like his.  I’ve changed medication over the last week.  My usual thought patterns, already as scattered as a pile of rice in a hurricane, are even more messed up than usual.  Every single thing I think has to be checked, rechecked and then still doubted.  I’m starting to find it all majorly upsetting.

I read too much into things.  Always have, always will.  With consistent and appropriate medication, I can usually skim the surface and try not to let it get to me.  When things are as they are now, every single message, tone of voice and look is analysed repeatedly to try and work out the true meaning.  I’m not an idiot.  That’s not it.  Well, I am, but that’s not the purpose of this post. It’s just that my brain doesn’t trust the information it’s receiving and is reluctant to process it as truth.

Somebody sends a message saying ‘I miss you and I can’t wait to see you’.  Normal people would take that at face value.  My current brain can’t do that.  It reads the words, but then looks for the meaning.  Do they want to see me because I’ve been neglecting them recently?  Maybe they’re angry?  Maybe they want to see me because they’re sick of me, and they are nice enough to tell me face to face that it’s over?

I follow convention and reply in a positive way, but my brain can’t let it lie.  I’m hardly sleeping – tossing and turning over the real reason somebody raised their eyebrow when we spoke this afternoon.  It is exhausting.  All I want to do is sleep, but my brain can’t relax enough to let that happen.  When I do manage to drift off, my dreams are full of conversations and scenarios that wake me after about an hour, unsure if it’s reality or invention.

If people said what they actually meant, it would make things easier.  I don’t know if it’s a particularly British thing, to skirt round the issue and use metaphorical language, but it’s certainly something I’m dealing with a lot.  Passive-aggression, sarcasm….  all of these are testing my usually quick brain.  I’m sarcastic.  I’m passive-aggressive.  It means I’m always looking for double and triple meanings in the interactions I have in life.

It’s  hard to admit you’re not well.  Functioning on a day to day basis is easy enough.  I can get myself out the door in the morning, do a shift at work, shop for food and remember to phone someone to wish them happy birthday.  Beyond that, I want to stay in and leave the world outside.  People are too confusing at the moment, and the greater the number of interactions I have, the higher the chance I won’t be sleeping tonight.

The pills will even me out soon, I hope.  Until then I need one of those flowcharts to have conversations.  Did they punch you in the face when they said hello?  No?  —-> genuine greeting.

Don’t tell me you’ll call me.  Don’t say you’ll be in touch tomorrow.  If you don’t, wondering what I’ve done wrong will keep me awake at night.  Just leave me be.  I am in Donald mode.

Bats

I like codes.  When things fall into place and your brain finally stops whirring like the machine in Enigma and produces a solution, it’s a wonderful moment.  In life, I’m quite good at it.  I was ‘book smart’ at school.  I can look at a poem or a set of instructions or an equation and work out the meaning quickly.  When it comes to reading my own mental health status, I’m not quite as good.

I read too much into things.  I’ve always been that way.  For the two emotions or conclusions you could draw from a single text, raised eyebrow or slight change of tone, I can draw forty three.   Constantly second-guessing myself means that even on the occasions where I’m right, I go through the other options so often that the truth ceases to have real meaning.  It’s even more pronounced when it’s my own head I’m analysing.

I talk to myself all the time.  It’s cheaper than a therapist.  Occasionally, when the astute part of my brain gets involved, it asks “Are you bats just now?”  That’s another way of saying “Pray tell, do you think you’re batshit nuts at the moment?”

It sort of feels like that.  Bats flapping round in my head, disturbing bits that I had thought were at peace, knocking over piles of carefully hoarded sandbags I was using as defences.  The bats don’t care.  Sometimes they can be a positive thing.  It’s very rare that I write new material or have a great idea without hearing their squeaks.  It’s just that when I’m trying to be normal, they fly in the face of that.

Relationships are difficult.  When you’re an hour’s drive apart, even more so.  When the other person’s hurting and you can’t be there to comfort them, for practical reasons, it makes you doubt your worth as a person.  Well, it makes me doubt mine.  Even though your rational brain knows they’re going through the mill, when all you have to interpret things is a few texts or phonecalls, it’s easy to let your mind think the unthinkable.  Bereavement?  Definitely.  Sick of me?  Most probably.

I’ve never been one of those online stalkers.  In the past, I’ve rolled my eyes and laughed as friends have gone online to check when their partners were last active or if messages had been seen.  Thankfully, I’m still not doing that, but I can see the temptation.  The problem is, when I can’t interpret things with my eyes, my brain fills in the gaps.  Unfortunately, the bats are in charge at the moment and the picture is hazy.

Citalopram (an anti-depressant) is the bat killer of choice – a hawk in tablet form. They’re just not dying quickly enough.  They’re actively trying to sabotage the bit of happiness I have in my life because it suits them. Probably because I’m reluctant to let myself believe I’ve finally met somebody decent, who loves me.

My keto diet doesn’t help.  I’m pretty sure it’s missing the serotonin that a bar of chocolate can produce.  As much good as it’s doing for my cholesterol, weight and physical being, having to fill the void with zero noodles and sweetcorn isn’t doing much for my mental health.

I’m holding out for the hawks (that lesser-known Bonnie Tyler song). They need to come soon.

Coming and Going

I’m not great with life’s major events.  I dance appallingly at weddings.  I’m uncomfortable holding babies.  I well up at funerals of people I’m not even close to.

This week has been a challenge in that sense.

My partner had a bereavement in his family.  Not immediate family, but close enough to affect him and those he loves.  My idea of comforting someone is the same way  most people approach an acquaintance who is crying about a divorce – a few taps on the arm and condolences that sound insincere.  When I’ve been bereaved, I’ve distracted myself with cooking new recipes and trying to keep myself busy.  I decided this would probably benefit him.  It was difficult to tell if the tears were grief or the fact I’d been a bit liberal with the chillies in the curry, but either way, it was a nice change of scenery for him to spend half an hour in the bathroom retching his lungs up.

I’ve had my friend, her husband and their two children staying with me for the last few weeks.  They move back into their own (hopefully) asbestos-free home next week.  Unfortunate timing meant she went into labour today with baby number three, and tonight a tiny, brand new baby girl was brought home.  I’m trying to forget about how much the heating is costing me to make the place cosy for the tot, and value the miracle of life.  It is miraculous.  We probably don’t need the radiator on in the hall though, do we?

Despite sincere protestations, I was made to hold her.  I’ve been thinking about International Women’s Day, and how a new girl born today will live.  I’m sure some things will be the same for her as they were for me.  There will always be arseholes in your class at school.  Your parents will always embarrass you in front of your friends, but you know they love you really.  There will be unfortunate decisions about fringes and hair in general, but she’ll get past it.

She has been born into a world of technology that I could never have dreamed of.  Thousands of songs on a small square in your pocket.  A car on the moon.  Medical advances that seemed impossible.

There are also things I worry about for her.  Will the NHS still exist, or will she have to delay going for medical treatment because she can’t afford it?  Will some species I have seen become extinct?  Will the car on the moon anger the Martians (who think of the moon the same way Americans thought of Cuba in the 1960s – too close a threat for comfort) who will launch apocalyptic war on all of humankind?

I thought about what I would wish for her.  Money and intelligence are too obvious.  Beauty and health are too generic.  Happiness is subjective.

So I did make a wish for her.  I wished that if she ever needs it, there will be someone who loves her, ready to sit and rock her as she cries her eyes out, and who will promise to stay until things are better.   If a killer curry is included in the deal, all the better.