Undecided Basket Case

My favorite word: visceral  Old women are beautiful. I’m in the emergency department today. Ironically, not an emergency. I’m one of those bane on the system types, but my gp told me to come in so here I sit. The seats are blue and grey. It feels like they always are but I can’t remember the amount of times I’ve been in one of these. An old lady is telling her loved one that her friend fell, she says not to worry. She glances at her friend and says: it was quite a way to make a statement. She laughs, not strained, but free. Not callous, just gentle in the only joy that can be found when acceptance is well and truly past. They gossip after the phone call is done. Talking about daughters and mother hens. There’s a beauty in that I think. I’ve watched people assume that the elderly are resigned. Like it’s sad. But I watch her laugh and natter and I don’t see it anywhere. I love aging. I feel more solid every year. Not compacted to the point of unchanging, or drowning an inner child, j...

This blog represents a yearning for connection and curiosity. There is a contradiction within me, a deep desire for that connection but a repeated pattern of reaching for it from those that cannot meet those desires. This is not the separation from personal responsibility, but an acknowledgement of a pattern.  For context, my personal relationships have changed recently, and in a way I'm proud of the depth of pain I feel. The first friend that I truly loved that I lost; I couldn't engage with that emotion without a buffer of anger. When she reached out to reconnect I couldn't resolve my anger because I'd processed nothing, just stagnated in my hurt. I had reached a point where I no longer forgave. It's a good defense mechanism, and my life and relationships had been spaces of unconditional forgiveness, regardless of the cruelty I experienced. Like a swinging pendulum, I'd gone from one extreme to another. As I'm aging I feel closer to balance. I hope and see...

You know that video in Baby Reindeer? Telling all that shame and pain to a crowd and still existing thereafter? It appeals to me, like muck sticking to bones. I think Donny was right. You become a sticking plaster for others pain. That’s what happened with my step-father. It started when I was six, what’s still there muddling about in the brain, the hugs and the holding and the pressing of my body into his naked one of a morning. I don’t know the depths, I don’t remember anymore, I just remember that feeling and wanting to run. I think it was far more like I was a ragdoll, or a puppy, with a rapid heartbeat and accepting eyes. There’ll be days where I think it was okay, that that was something that just existed and maybe it’s me being prudish and it was all platonic, or maybe what came after tainted all that came before, but the not knowing leaves me like a pendulum on a string pressing send at one peak and blocking calls on the other. When they announced the divorce and...

Two and a half failed relationships and now I'm 23. You know what made me stop the constant search for stability and distraction? Doctor Who. I remember the first episode of NewWho in 2005. I remember my mother dragging me out every Monday night to watch the weekly episodes as they released. I remember falling in love with Eccleston, the genuine grief I felt at his loss. I remember the tears at it all. I won't rehash, because you know-- spoilers. Doctor Who was the program that taught me what love was, what a good life should look like and the nuance in which we approach and run from our pain and our joy. There's so much media that influenced who I am and what I want, but none moreso than Doctor Who. It taught me that not only was intelligence something that could make the people in your life proud, but it was desirable, admirable. It taught me strength in kindness, and self-indulgence. I wanted a love like Rose, like Rory, I wanted a friend like Donna, like Amy. I needed t...

  I read my blog sometimes. When I forget. I forget a lot these days. I’ve forgotten more than I’ve learnt, I’m sure. My grandmother used to tell me stories of her life and at some point during the seven years I lived with her, she began to repeat them. I saw on Facebook once this dumb story about a wolf and a father. Something about him repeating stories to his son, and when his son complained he said I washed you, clothed you, listened to you say the same things again and again as a child and you can’t listen to this? I used to think about that a lot. I would tell myself to be patient, but I would still snap and tell my grandmother, ‘I know’. Eventually she’d say, ‘well, you know everything, don’t you?’. It would make me so angry, and I couldn’t fathom why. I think now it’s because she was calling me out on my lack of patience, and I didn’t like it.   Of course, when you lose someone all you want is more time. More time to know, and to ask questions and to hear the same st...