Taken for granted by the one I love

Ray made some flippant remark about our old age and where we might be living and I came over all warm and fuzzy and butterflies in the tummy-like.

I love the fact that he takes it for granted that my love is constant and that we will spend the rest of our lives together. I love the squiggly feeling I get at some of the things he says even though I'm 41 and quite possibly should be cynical and twisted about romance after years of crappy relationships and frequent bouts of singledom but I'm not! Whoopee for me.

Too many of the woman I know are in such an unhappy place with their relationships. Obviously drawing on her own experience, one woman at work thought that I wasn't "allowed" to go anywhere by myself any more because we always had lunch together and he often came to meet me from work... what? No, I like being with Ray, he's my friend as well as my partner and we like to do stuff together. Sheesh.

Waiting for the tears that didn't fall

I found two pregnancy tests today while looking for something in my bedside drawer. Two of the five, yes five, that I used over 4 days to confirm George's life had begun. The lines have faded to nothing. That seemed such a big sad thing that I sat and stared at them for a while wondering and waiting for the tears. I didn't cry but I can't bring myself to throw them out. Silly little thing really, they are after all just sticks that I've peed on. One day I want to be able to throw them out. But not yet.

Thank you again dear people...

... for your support and kind answers to my blog yesterday. Before I posted I had decided to see the counsellor to see if it will help in any way. I honestly don't think I'm depressed and what I think will help me the most is getting the evilfibroids zapped/sliced/strangled and climbing out of the waiting limbo up into the trying limbo.


On a different tack. I cut my hair today, it's been a while and it was getting far too long. I've been cutting my own hair for years, partly for economy's sake and partly because every time I've seen a hairdresser they have always wanted to straighten my hair and the one time I went in with it straightened? Yup, "Have you ever thought of leaving it natural?" Gah. I think I might have been a bit over enthusiastic with the scissors today. I can't understand how I always seem to forget forget just how much my hair curls and bounces up when it dries. It looks ok though, I'm not afraid to be seen in public without a hat, Ray didn't laugh and it grows like a weed.

Oh and someone needs to take my bank card away from me whenever I get near a computer. Ray's too soft and easily manipulated. I need steel. Might call my Mum.

Dr Compassion.

I had an appointment with Dr Compassion this afternoon. How am I? Tears. Oh dammit I wish I wouldn't do that every time I see him. It's just that he looks so concerned that I feel I must perform. He gives me that raised eyebrows, head tilted to one side and tipped forward, puppy dog look and my lip starts to tremble. I told him that I have ups and downs and at the moment I feel as if I'm in limbo, waiting for things to happen. I'm not sleeping because I can't always switch my head off when I need to. I've never slept well and always coped but I need sleep more these days.

I'm not sleeping? A few sleeping pills, only a few, don't want to become dependant. I don't want I'm not ready to go back to work? Another sick note. My heel is still hurting? Prodding of said heel covered in sock fluff. Ow!

I have, he thinks, plantar fasciitis (which my spell check wants to correct to fascism) and now have another, physical reason to stay away from the toxic workplace. Woo hoo. Lots of rest, padding in the heel, no barefootedness (boo).

My doctor is concerned that I'm slipping into depression. I think I let him think this because it keeps me from having to go back to work, the thought of which really does depress me. But the mere mentioning of depression has me wondering... Am I? I honestly truly don't think that's it. I am grieving. But it seems there is a fine line between grief and depression and the measurement of that line differs wildly depending on who you ask. I feel ok most of the time, I can get up in the morning with only a little trouble, I can talk about George with those who will listen and I laugh a lot and not inappropriately in the middle of the street. I don't hate myself for what happened, I don't blame myself, I don't think I killed my son by somehow not knowing or doing something. I can differentiate between blaming a part of my body and blaming me. Evilbloodyfuckingstupidbabykillingfibroids! See?

I must say, I feel a bit of a fraud for letting Dr Compassion worry about my state of mind. Or maybe he's right? Am I depressed? I know you readers out there don't know the real every day me but do I sound depressed when you read? Or do I sound like someone going through a process of miserably healthy grief? Do tell.

Incidentally, I spoke to my Mum this morning and when I mentioned that Ray had been out building his friend's computer until 2am and we were then both awake until 4am this morning, she told me off for staying up late! And then asked, "what on earth were you doing?!" Well really Mum, we might have been having wild first time in 7 months sex. So perhaps there are some questions you really shouldn't ask your adult daughter! Aaah mothers.


On a much more disturbing note, our friendly neighbourhood serial killer has been dangling bird feeding thingies in the trees outside his building today in between cleaning the blood from his car. Does he think this apparently compassionate gesture will fool anyone?