grivell

fuck. i am 36 years of age and  i have a man grivelling over my shoulder at this. grivelling. it is a new word and one that brings me down to earth with a bang and reminds me of the room i am in and the lack i inhabit.
i was just trying to make a decision to train as a secondary school teacher in english and then he came to grivell. oh now i am so tired i will have to carry on where i left off. nowhere. please god let me do something with my life.

a murderous tale

I have gone off writing this blog because the reason I started writing it was to: create a space where i could divulge my miseries unabated and without fear or judgement; to express somewhere my daily misery rather than expound it to friends, passers by or complete strangers and to exercise my writing skills ( start off by writing about yourself- someone said)

however, my miseries have taken over and i have no time to expound them anywhere and my plans of writing have somewhat died.

somewhat. the first superfluous word i have used today.

i have vivid dreams of houses often, ones i have lived in and ones which are a part of somewhere i have lived- in the dreams there are usually extra rooms and spaces i'd not realized were there.

i am not sure i have the temper or energy to write full fledged versions of the domestic misery i consider i endure anymore. it is too time consuming. perhaps this is a breakthrough for me. perhaps i can forget about reality and start to write something that isn't so tedious and heavy and weighed down with detail.

first line: 'he was locked out of the house they shared, her, him, his step son (of hers) and their two children. he had misplaced his key, though he was convinced it was she that had hidden it, tided it away. so busy she was meddling in other's business.
she meanwhile was not at home and she turned her phone to silent to stop the barrage of infuriated texts and phone calls calling her cunt and demanding an entrance to their home.

she was far away with other issues and dealing with a car in the garage and a number of children to feed.

......crux.... so when she returned home with a phone filled with vitriolic texts (17)and voice mails (5) and missed calls (5) from he, she was aware of the temperature reaching boiling point. she no longer had the energy to explain her side of the story.

as he ranted and swore at her, a little ball of irritation grew in her stomach. he swore and cunted and swore and blamed in front of the children, until that little ball of irritation became murderous and without thinking clearly, but with rational intent, she picked up a large and heavy copper plated pan she had recently brought. as he swore and cunted in the adjacent room, swore and remonstrated with her and called her names. she approached the room from which his ugly shouting emanated. and suddenly the copper plated pan was pounding upon his head. the shock made him stop swearing at her for a minute. she struck again, and again, and  again util no more sweearing would ever come from hi mouth again. full stop.

this evening i have been left alone at 6pm as my other half has taken all three kids to football. the relief i feel actually made me cry with joy, genuinely.

its been a along time

hello blog its been a long time and i have miss missed missed you though you are but a orange logo on the  corner of my screen. it has been the longest winter of my life these last few years. cold and hateful losing my sister who is gone gone gone, and she aint never coming back. i think i am in a new grieving process where i simply have her my sister in my mind all de time. and yet she been taken. god. explain please.

miserablefucker

so it's been a long weekend and not in the way you would want it to be. lots of scratchy people nearest and dearest being very scratchy! eeeeeek. nails on chalk board. why must we suffer these souls? in 3 hours 7 years ago, i squeezed (sorry) out a baby girl of most unique quality. today i have scratchy people around me. fuck the scratchy people!!!!

I would say that I have spent the last decade depending upon drink to calm my nerves. From soothing my 25 year self from mania and misery thus uncorking a bottle of red at 11 am and drinking myself into oblivion, to the later more disguised and manageable bottle of wine an evening, melting the seeming hardships of psychological, personal dislike of life.

It's only been seven days since my last recoil into drowning my sorrows: three pints of beer and two half pints of wine in quick succession last Monday night, and since then I've had a social 'small' glass of wine and otherwise sustained myself in the evenings with chamomile or Valerian tea and bountiful reading.

My sister died two years ago this February and I find myself thinking of her in my sober moments for example when I open a cupboard to get a packet of food out, I think of her busying about her kitchen or gratefully thanking me for a vinegar cleaning spray I put together for her and using it with glee, or her keeping a little perfume bottle of homemade perfume I made her on her special shelf.

I think of her avid cleanliness in the time leading up to her diagnosis and then beyond,  almost a reaction to the immunity destroying disease that was to claim her. How she would disinfect and clean so scrupulously her cosy and beautifully decorated and laid out flat. I think then of the sizzling fish cakes she made me, or the perfectly fried egg she'd present me, or vegetable bake next to a sea of baked beans. Somehow even the most meagre meal would be presented and proffered so kindly and thoughtfully that it would always taste delicious.

I think of her plans to start a degree in psychology just as she discovered her illness; and her new round table to dine at with her little boy and plans for all the things she planned to do for her and him.

I sometimes find myself questioning why? of course. But the disbelief reigns strong. That so solid a sister, so real and so a part of the very fabric of the very streets  she walked in Greenwich where she lived, has gone.

The streets where as children we walked together past the 1980's waste land which has now become the Hotel Ibis and Greenwich Picture House.

I am craving a large deep glass of red right now, but will persevere. My head is still not utterly clear.
Rest In Peace my beautiful sister. 1974-2011 xxxxxxxxx

please catch me god. dry January continued.

despite not having alcohol for five nights i have woken up with a headache.

i am wondering if alcohol disguises a multitude of other sins in which case i am missing it.

However, there is some difference in my waking up.

I feel tired and actually do have a headache but i feel an incentive to continue and my body seems to be asking me to carry on as it hasn't even started to heal yet!!

part of me fears that drinking has been effectively pickling me and now i will start to deteriorate

but i guess that is one of the oddest voices persuading me to drink drink drink

(tho secretly i think stopping drink will really unleash a miserable fact of life, that life is boring. life is painful.
and i don't want to be a goody goody stuck with the responsibility of sobriety. No fun. almost cuckolded....................................???

i can see how far this voice has been taking me.
not to drink, to be part of a drinking culture, like being the cuckolded one...?
train of thought most peculiar.

i think i have been drinking for a very long time through fear.

i am metaphorically falling backwards and essentially trusting that i can get through the fear and still be safe.

i am really gonna strive to keep this January dry! very good incentive for a break!

post thought> i suppose not drinking isn't really gonna change much. its all still  there.
all of it.

still i may feel a little more improved, lets say.
lets see.