Saturday, February 13, 2016


I can't stop laughing at this. It's so hilariously appalling. The Oatmeal is the meme-killer. 

Look at the photos

Beautiful photos. 

I'm a sucker for traditional beauty. I'm as guilty as the next fat woman of regarding my belly in horror and humiliation and trying to hide it at all costs. Muscles and smoothness and leanness look good, there is no question.

But the body positivity movement is also a seductive one. If only we could all embrace such shifts in perception. There are many forms of beauty.

I can't argue I'd rather look like a beautiful thin person in a bikini than a beautiful fat one, but nor have I ever been willing to do what it takes to shape myself that way. A happy person, that looks good on everyone.

I don't have the answers to this, and the way things are going, I probably never will. It seems connected to what lovely Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about self love the other day - I also very much like this. The sad thing is, I'm aware that the time in my life when I felt most confident, attractive and happy was a year in which I felt secure in the idea that I was loved and deserving of it.The power of that can't be denied, no matter how much the benefits and necessity of self-love is extolled. I don't argue with that - I do agree you need to love yourself first and I don't think that's a criticism of lonely/anxious/depressed people, as I've seen argued. It's quite the vicious circle, however. It's hard/er to create it in a vacuum.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

worrier pose

It's hard not to cry. It's hard not to worry about the things that are wrong. It's hard not to let my fears about the things that are wrong balloon into huge terrible scenarios whereby I die of cancer and my daughter with sensory processing disorder who's been living on Oreo milkshakes for year devolves into a street person and dies of cancer alone, refusing to let anyone look after her or treat her. It's hard not to think of this and how I'm failing to protect her and dissolve into a sea of anguished terror. I need to cry and at the same time it just hurts and it doesn't help and why am I doing this to myself I need to stop thinking.

It's ridiculous. Fucked up monkeys is right.

My friend came back from the place we go to for Autism treatment/meetings/whatever and said she'd noticed abashedly that all the ASD mothers looked so similar - fat and stressed and upset. All we've got left to us is eating. I know another ASD mother with Trich as well... that makes me worry there's a correlation, whatever brain deficiency makes us have this OCD maybe contributes to ASD. But who knows. What difference does it make, I suppose. We're all just struggling along, most people relying on drugs for our kids that don't really work, and taking drugs for ourselves as a result, just to deaden the panic.

A friend's friend in Galway went missing a few days ago. They found her body today, in the woods. I don't know this friend well enough to ask if it was a murder or suicide or accident - maybe nobody knows yet. It's so tragic either way. Again, I am terrified of people's grief. I don't want anyone to feel that way, so part of me desperately needs the information to try and piece it together, make it make sense a little more, somehow.

I told Bodhi. Who said it was very sad and didn't make him feel safe. Of course it doesn't, what the hell am I thinking when I do that? 8 year olds don't need to know about bodies in the woods on the other side of the country.

His father buys him sweets and Subways all the time and his mother tells him about murder  victims. Jesus.

PS: I feel bad for writing this whiney crap, I really do, but I instantly felt better after purging it, so... I'm glad I did. But sorry, and thanks.


And there is this - the two are related, I think.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016


I know too many people who post stupid offensive 'jokes' on facebook. About how stupid husbands are, hahaha. About how stupid women are hahahaha. About what assholes children are. About why do they make themselves angry by reading pro-life magazine 'Alive'. Well, thanks, woman, for sharing the pictures of it so we can all be angry too, I typed bitchily, and deleted it, and unfollowed the pro-choice page.

Still menstrual, and the video of a woman doing loads of clever, pretty hairstyles (bows of hair featured strongly) in a 12 year old's long blonde hair. 'Daughter as toy', I typed bitchily, and deleted it.

I would pay good money for a real life delete button. 

Monday, February 8, 2016

I got out of bed! Even if it took me 45 minutes to do so. And I am now dressed! In clothes!

The clenching anxiety I feel on waking has abated. My daughter is happy because she got to play a game she wanted so she's chirpy.

And now to work, to deal with my students, some of whom have yet more to bitch about. More about that later. 

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Bodhi is playing the kiddy xylophone downstairs. It's oddly pleasant! 

Friday, February 5, 2016

Tomorrow, I hope to spend some time making my bedroom less of a musty, clothes-strewn pit.
I hope to hoover away dust and cobwebs and change my sheets. put stuff in the bin, away, up.

I say hope to, because mostly what happens in Saturday is I lie in bed, flailing around in my head.

PMS (or what might even be Pre Mestrual Disorder) has me in her destructive, hysterical, misery-addled grip. I don't want to say anything... just to stop thinking, keep stopping thinking, don't think about anything, because these reactions are not real, and won't last to this degree.

This is not the week to think about anything.

Though I think Mwa's description of it as being deluded that everyone around you is an asshole until you suddenly realise it's  you being the asshole is the most astute thing I've ever read about PMS. Maybe I have Accute PreMenstrual Asshole Disorder. How do they medicate for that? I hope with more cake. My mother in law left three hefty slices of trans fatty, sugary coffee swiss roll here today, and Bodhi and I hoovered it up - then I debated leaving the third out for Olivia to pretend she hadn't eaten, and I just couldn't face the rigmarole, and what if she didn't, and... I just devoured it instead.

Then Bodhi came in, horrified, and said he was hoping we could share it - shit, child, I hadn't even thought of that! How ghastly am I? I'm tempted to go buy another one tomorrow to make up for it. And also to satisfy my cake lust. But I should at least make something less artificial instead.

I wish I  could spend PMS week in suspended animation, on holiday from my brain.

Sunday, January 31, 2016

ah, piss

My problem-riddled student wanted to have lunch with me this weekend. I dithered, said probably not... today tried to have a chat instead. She told me she misses me - as she always does. Last week she said hello on facebook and said
 '48 hrs!'
 'Longest yet!'

Turns out she counts the hours between getting to talk to me. I had no idea how to articulate how uncomfortable that makes me. The same with her telling me she misses me all the time. I had to try and make it a bit clearer to her today that I don't have space in my life for her needs. And apologised for allowing her to think I did, or encouraging her... sort of. It's very difficult to balance, and I haven't done it right.

She had said she was going to go to Portugal; I was suspicious, but she made it seem fairly legit sounding. Today, in response to me trying to say that I didn't have enough time in my life for the friends I do have, she said 'I have plans... everything will be ok far away' - so I'm fairly sure the plan is to go somewhere else and kill herself.

But... here is the thing with 'saving' someone from suicide - you can't then be there all the time, or become their reason for living. It's a perverse proposition. If my attention is the only thing keeping her happy... she's not happy.

The fucking irony of it - I've a daughter who hates me and who I can't be around for more than 30 minutes without some stupid fight breaking out, a brother who never sees me, a sister I dislike and who dislikes me, a virtually estranged father, a husband who couldn't bear to be with me... but I'm the be and all and end all to an abused, suicidal Brazilian girl. Fuck my life.

I would love to call my friend Cassie, who I adore, and with whom I laugh like no one else, and who gets in touch with me once every ... 4 months? But I know she's busy, I know she's tired, that she has every-day friends in her life that she needs to see, so I let her come to me.

I would love to walk up to ... I don't know, my tall male colleague, and ask for a cuddly hug that went on for longer than 20 seconds so I'd get an oxytocin hit, but I recognise that this is inappropriate.

It's my fault for allowing it, though... the saddest thing is that I won't do it again - offer that level of help, in case of a repeat. I hate that she's proved my cynical, job--ends--here colleagues right. I feel stupid, and culpable, and stressed by it all. But I can't keep up a charade of friendship because of that. 

Friday, January 29, 2016

weary and wishing

I left the house slightly later than intended, and readied myself to sit in traffic. There was no traffic, there was a clear road. I drove down it, peering around, and wondering if was somehow Saturday.

Then I got to the traffic lights, and realised they were out.

Let that sink in - normally, a good 15 minutes of traffic on a given school day. No lights... empty road.

Do you think the council knows about this?

At the lights, the phone wires in the trees were hissing and cracking blue sparking lights. That was quite scary, but two ESB vans were pulling up, so I assumed all was under control.

Our own power has stayed constant through this series of storms we've had. Lucky.

My headache is threatening a comeback. I am weary, weary. Weary of foot, and head, and heart.

Here is what I would like, what my soul and body crave: I would like to take off any constrictive clothing I might be wearing, and crawl into a big, soft bed, where a warm, solid, affectionate man is waiting with open arms. I want to be drawn in to somebody's chest, and held against their heartbeating, letting the healing magic of skin to skin right my hormone balance and restore a sense of peace and calm.

I would like to be snuggled under fluffy covers, read to, and allowed to full asleep with a sense of security and well being, however transient (or... fake) that might be.

That is what I would like. Recently I've got better about not yearning for it much, but some days the longing sneaks back in. Tired days. I would like a hand to rub the stress out of the back of my head and neck. I would like to be squeezed tight.