Wednesday, 8 June 2016

Bonsai. Contact List. Pidgin

I have the best friend in the world.

As Elizabeth Bennet said: “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well."

I love very few people. I tolerate most people with a throbbing headache and a fury against the world. So I have chosen my dear ones with care. I have, I hope, focussed enough attention and consideration into nurturing these bonds to keep them strong. I love my best friend Pidgin. She is my only female friend, (non-relative) and that is because she's the only friend I chose to keep. I let others drift away or quite literally pushed them away, frankly because I don't want them. But Pidgin, I care about. Our friendship is much like a slow growing bonsai tree. It takes time and care to establish, it then requires very little pruning to maintain but it must be respected and treated with care. Our friendship is strong as a hundred year old Oak, but fun, easy and simple like a potted plant.  The miniature tree. The Bonsai.

I can be so honest with Pidgin. I am so relieved this evening to have been able to unburden all this drama of the past weekend and confusion and annoyance and just breathe.

I don't want Pidgin to leave again. But I'm so proud of how brave she is in going to new places and doing what she wants and facing walls and finding a way to climb over them. I'm not like that. I wish I could be, but I don't think I have it in myself. I always see the worst.

I sometimes think I would go crazy if I didn't have the right person to talk to. Jones is my rock but you can't always talk to a man the way you can talk to a girl. Sometimes men just cannot even pretend to be interested in what women have to say. This is when you need a friend. Simple.
But as I said, I choose my dear ones carefully. I don't want any more, I don't want random add-on's. I like who I like and if I let you in it's a big deal to me. I love my Pidgin. I have my person. I can't be best friend to anyone else. I am just not 'big' enough to handle it. This bond has grown over years and years, as with all my personal bonds.
I cannot magic a connection over a weekend and a 2 teas. I can't! I'm sorry.

There are no openings on the Miss Siviter close contact list.

Tuesday, 7 June 2016

Thoughts on new friends

I feel like I've met some really lovely people at work. I have fitted into my new job and genuinely feel at 'home' there. I hope it stays this way.

A few particular individuals are so caring and friendly I'm touched emotionally by the experience. I'm not usually a touchy-feely person, I'm not the agony aunt or the drama queen but I can appreciate that I have people who I am beginning to care about and that they possibly care for me too. In a work colleague/friend way. More than just people you have to 'put up' with all day. I enjoy the company 9-5.

It's nice.

Monday mornings still suck, and I still wish I was a billionaire. But for now, I am quite happy with the way things are going.

I like these people.

Poem Clingy.

You close in
as the nights will soon
a hug of fire, you consume all
taking in the air
as you live from my life force
you drain all I have
because you are a cuckoo
pushing out all others
until there's only you.
You won't let go
and I can't cope.
...You need to let go.



Sunday, 5 June 2016

Please be nothing.

I'm in one of those grey moods again. It's been a while, I count several things this Sunday that have spiralled me into a dark cloud.

 Jones is away and I have grown so used to seeing him so often the separation, however short it may be, is difficult.

 I was unable, due to unforeseen circumstances, to do what I wanted to do this sunny day.

 I have retreated to my room now, but it doesn't feel like my room anymore. I have tried to rectify this by adding maps and note boards to the wall behind me but it hasn't helped, not really.

 It's Sunday and I have work tomorrow-so everyone always feels the Sunday night blues.

 Miss Havisham has opened up to me today and it's rattled my bones. I'm not good with counselling. I'm not the best friend type because I'm not the person who can always be there for you, who drops things instantly for others. I am too often consumed in my own little world, I lose myself in fantasies and have little-to no interest in the politics of everyone else's lives.

  I listened and tried to react appropriately but all I wanted to do was return home to my own mother and confide in her, hug her, and tell her not to ever keep anything important from me. No matter where I am in the world she is still my mother and I will be there for her if and when she needs me. This is what I was thinking as Miss Havisham spoke to me, I wanted to retreat but I felt like I was all she'd got, so I couldn't turn away.

I listened to Miss Havisham and it was difficult for me. I don't do this. I don't want to do this, but I feel obligated. Then to throw a bit of a bombshell on me I kind of had to hold myself together and be regimental about the whole thing. I wanted Jones. I wanted his logical approach to a situation like this. It might turn out to be nothing. It may well be a false alarm and all will be well. I hope it's nothing. I do not want to be the person facing this, if it comes down to it, because I'm not the right person for it. And I have no idea how He will react to this sort of thing should it be that.

But inside I think I'm morally contracted to deal with this if it turns out to be that dreaded reality. What if this is some sort of unearthly calling? What if I am the one chosen to deal with this because I morally cannot turn away? Because I know the right thing to do. I am the sort of person to do the right thing.

I am not the support type. I'm not the carer, or the advisor. I'm not a shoulder to cry on or a therapist. I just don't have it in me. I don't even believe in half of the issues people claim to be dealing with in their heads every day. But I do believe in Cancer. Everyone believes in Cancer.
I don't know if I believe in God. I can never make up my mind.
But I pray to something that this is nothing. It all turns out to be a false alarm.
Miss Havisham will be fine and I can go on the way I was before.
Please, please be a false alarm.
I have no idea how to deal with sort of thing if it does turn out to be that, and death frightens me. I cannot watch people as they lose people. I've watched several people say goodbye to their loved ones and each time I've had zero idea how to even relate to the situation. I have never lost anyone and I feel as if this might be a vile trick Death is playing on me. Waiting until my guard is down before he snatches away people who I love.

I don't love Miss Havisham. But I know someone who does, and I don't want to witness their grief. I'm not even thinking about Jones, I have a rough if perhaps jaded idea of his opinions on such matters. It's the bulldog of the family I am concerned about.

Of course I cannot keep secrets from Jones. It's impossible. She doesn't understand that.
He's away and it's driving me to distraction, into a grey mood because I know and he doesn't.
I won't spoil his trip. The bulldogs with him too and I couldn't bare to consider his reaction. Please, please turn out to be nothing.  I will wait until they're back. In the meantime I have to deal with this dread, just her and me, and hope it turns out to be nothing.


Monday, 30 May 2016

Losing it again

I've only been in these four walls for a day and I am tearing my hair out. I feel like a stranger in someone else's house. The older I've gotten the less patience I have, the longer I hold grudges, the more I detest peoples interference and opinions. I am sick to death with people telling me what I can and can't do. What I am and what I'm not. What I should do and shouldn't do. I'm sick of it! I don't care how 'well meant' it is, because I didn't ask for your advice. I don't care how much you think you are 'looking out for the best for me' because I did not seek out your opinion.

I cannot stand being spoken over anymore, my words shunted and what I was going to say is irreverent because they can fill the gaps themselves with what they think I am going to say. I sit in these situations and my head is spinning because I don't fit here.

I'm sick of people putting false words in my mouth.
"Yeah but you're obviously not going to have kids"
"You're not interested in America"
"You're not going to move far"
"You're not going to be able to get a house"
"You don't eat stuff like that"
"You can't climb that mountain"
"You don't like dogs"
"You wont cope in that situation"

On and on and on....the more I seem to accomplish, the less these people believe I can do. This makes no sense to me. Are they in denial? Why am I not taken seriously? I feel like I can't say anything without being looked at and spoken to as if I am five playing at being 'grown-ups'.

If it's not my life choices it's the fact that I dye my hair...I feel like screaming at people that I am a grown woman! It would do no good. There are, now, only two people I am close to and feel I can talk to without fearing judgement or having what I've said twisted and turned and repeated to someone else. Those two people are Pidgin and Jones.

If I mention cutting back on sweet treats to Pidgin she doesn't start spreading around that I am anorexic and dissecting my motives. If I don't want a dirty footed dog climbing over my clean and new dress these two doesn't start spouting crap that I don't like dogs. If I travel to a famous city for a weekend break it does not mean I don't like the wilderness and have no interest travelling around more rural places. Where do these assumptions come from?

It's all absurd! and I am unfortunately crammed into the middle whenever I am in these four walls. So I escape, I stay away as often, for as long as I can. Connie is my respite place.

I think I would have run mad in the head if I hadn't found Connie when I did.

Friday, 22 April 2016

Veil

I've almost given up poetry altogether several times, most particularly when my tutor said I wasn't any good at it and ought to stick to prose.

The fact remains, I write what I want and when I need to. This is regardless to popularity or ambition.
I am no poet.

I only write poetry when I'm unhappy.
The contents of the poems are irrelevant, they do not always reflect my thoughts at the given time but I write rhymes as some form of expression I guess.


Currently, I just miss Jones. Late shifts have meant I've spent the week alone, and no one else can fill this void. It's absurd really, that I've allowed my heart to become so infinitely entangled with another person that I cannot be without them. Even for a short time I feel lost, uprooted.

I've reached a point in my life, where I know and I know for sure there is only one person I can truly be myself with. I've thought at times that there were friends, family members who I could share myself with. I was wrong. There is always limitations. Always a veil no matter how thin that hides parts of myself others would not approve of, or would fail to keep to themselves.

All except Jones. I can be exactly who I have always been, but also the person I have grown into. I can voice every opinion, no matter how controversial, uneducated or wrong. I can show everything, share my whole being; mind, body and soul. It's a freedom I imagine many people live their lives without experiencing.

I have a wonderful relationship. Full of real joy, and affection. Although the presents, surprises, trips, all endear this person to me, it's really this freedom that I love most. No one else knows all my thoughts, all my secrets. No one else has seen or touched every single area of my body and made me comfortable in all physical things. The openness of my soul to this person is dangerous, I'm completely exposed.

So when I have to endure days away from him, and I'm forced to hold the veil indefinitely over myself, giving out the persona that's acceptable I start to lose my mind! I need my friend to talk to, to be real with. So that I can feel alive. I'm numb at the moment. A waxwork dummy going through the motions. I only live when I'm real, and I can only be real with Jones.

poem. Porthole

Night pulls in like the tide
crashing darkness against my window
the moon; a distant sailboat
anchored at it's bow.
If I could swim across the sky
I'd dive into this night
yet I am without good reason
inside this porthole prison