Saturday, March 29, 2014

I don't really fit in anywhere. I suppose a lot of people feel like that. The things I care about or believe in seem to all set me apart from the other groups of people who care about the other things I do... if you know what I mean.

I've spend a lot of my life sort of ... pretending. Not exactly pretending, just not being fully myself. Whatever that is, at this stage. I'm feeling somewhat husk-like, this decade. I've no urge to write, none of the things I want to do seem remotely achievable because of my personal and behavioural limitations... it's me that would have to do them, you see, and I feel no confidence that that's going to happen. Be it hoovering or managing a return to education or getting a job or managing to parent properly.

I can't imagine selling myself to anyone, as a friend, let alone professionally. Or sexually... I can't pretend I'd ever have the energy, I'm thinking, to go through with an encounter of the sort I'd like. The maintenance, the confidence, the fitness requirements... it seems a bridge too far, I'm realising, despite the last couple weeks of vaguely entertaining the idea of persuing... something.

Suddenly the idea of pretending to anyone that I'm a normal human being seems too much effort. I suppose I'll go take my anti-depressant. And I've a CBT class on Thursday. I had to work last week, for the first one. The careful, condescending, sweet lady who runs it is very nice, she promises to catch me up to speed, and offers extra one to ones that might help with my trich. That, that would be a good thing if it did. I wish it had come together last year, when I actually tried to sign up for it. Irish mental health services... not so efficient...

Part of me wishes to just go inhabit a little island where I'm not responsible for or connected to anyone. I'd be lonely, yes, but I'm lonely anyway. That's what this blog is, perhaps, except for you few sweet people who still read it, though I can't fathom why.

My socially challenged sister sent me a letter I'd written her at 14, about a treasured night out for my birthday, with a few good friends, one of whom introduced me to The Frames. It's written in my mix of over enthusiasm (three uses of brilliant in three pages) and self-deprecating pomposity that just comes across as pompous. My sister just messaged me to say she was glad I'd got it, and 'I don't think I knew what to make of it at the time. We were in such different places! (So to speak.) It's fun to read it now and see that you were enjoying your young teenage life... I did get the sense it was an important night for you...'

Ugh, the frustration... what was there not to understand about... going to a gig with friends and loving music? She was always a music lover, the one who taught me a lot about it. And she was nine years older than me! And living in San Francisco. She was 23 and not going to live music? So sad. It's a mark of my increased maturity that I didn't say that to her... keep walking... nothing to see here. Nothing to see.


Ms. Moon said...

You are right. None of us feels as if we belonged. I think that's true. Maybe that's why I mostly stay at home. I do have friends who love and accept me as I am and I cherish them.
You are not alone, though, in feeling alone.

Jo said...


Jo said...
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Sylvia said...

I think it's hard for mothers to retain themselves, you give everything to your children. Be gentle with yourself, one step at a time things will improve. X