tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2009-11-12:/MokoFeed2009-11-12T05:15:46+01:00tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/last-years-love-3945603/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:49:18+01:002008-03-26T20:49:18+01:00 <p>This years love; It was what it had been. I regretted some of the things I had shown, and a good many of the words I had said and sent. I wasn’t unhappy without it; just disappointed at its absence because it had been something I had thought was remotely real. Scared was the word on both minds; but in multiple levels. I was scared of him; the way he spoke and what he wanted. He had been scared because of what he thought I wanted. I was unsure as to whether what he thought I wanted was the reality of the situation; but it didn’t matter now anyway, because it had gone. Whilst I had been creating something, he had been minimising it. Whether this was subconscious to him or not, it was debatable. The fact that nothing had been said until the last minute, could have been relevant. He had walked away, in the place he’d dropped me off on so many occasions after I had stayed with him. The difference was that that time I wasn’t wearing any of his clothes, and I didn’t smell of him, and I didn’t have a ridiculously big grin across my face, which I didn’t have to try and turn into a coy smile when I walked passed someone on my way back home. I was wearing my own clothes, and smelling of nothing but a loss. I was by myself, and that was why I cried for a while subsequently. I had missed him; and longed for some kind of emotion; but nothing came. Not the kind I had hoped he could give anyway. I had pleaded through actions for some time; for him to give some form of care; and it was at that last minute, I had given up as he turned and I walked away back to the Lake where the sun was shining and everyone was laughing. I had left the Lake because I didn’t feel laughter. It was a long way off; the opposite emotion was what I felt. I wanted to speak, to talk, communicate, bond again and remember why we had first moved to something meaningful in the first place. True to himself, he refused to show or give. I was unsure as to who was at fault; but I felt little but self-pity after the events of the week before. Self pity was something I did too well; and it all stemmed from feeling violated; and used. Our hearts had given in at one point, but it seems that his mind was fighting for repression; which was what he was used to as far as I can tell. I didn’t think it was healthy to be that way, but then im no-one to judge because I made a good many mistakes, and I knew all about repression, depth and independence of an unhealthy manner. This years loving had come to an end; but I had dealt with it like I always do, and had found another. The thing was, this was going to have to come to an end aswell soon; due to the same reason that the orginal distraction would have had to end by anyway. I didn’t know how I felt now; I had managed somehow to not have to confront him or the situation. All I feel is anger, with a splash of regret. I don’t regret many things; and I know that if I tried to ease my regret by means of talking to him, it would only ease the regret in the sense that i’d remember why I didn’t want to bother anymore. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/last-years-love-3945603/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/satisfaction-a-concept-or-an-ideology-3945597/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:48:12+01:002008-03-26T20:48:12+01:00 <p>Satisfaction: something we generally categorise as a feeling. Is this rightfully so? It is something widely understood as a feeling we experience as a product of achievement. But are we ever really satisfied? Even if we reach our planned goals? We aim to learn whilst young, in both academic and personal matters. We can obtain qualifications, yet never fulfil our full potential. We can spend years involved with people, of both sexes if need be, love and relationships, yet still, winding up in a state of unhappiness remains a possibility. Although we aim high, we may still strike low.</p> <p>If satisfaction is sought, we believe, conceptually, that our degree of satisfaction could be maximised by experience. But do we ever learn and adapt appropriately? Do our mistakes mean we are credited or debited later in life? A concept is defined as something which is not really real. It has no habitat for existence, except as a visualisation, a piece of knowledge of the imagination. It cannot be pinpointed, yet what it is constituted of can be described in detail, have chapters written on its exact contents and their profound meaning. Is satisfaction ever actually achieved? Honestly? Whilst life is demanding, on all fronts, public and private, academic and personal, do we just struggle to meet expectations of others and ourselves? If satisfaction is not met or felt, fulfilled or shown; do we respond with cynicism towards expectations due to a lack of certainty or understanding with regard to what the hell the point of our lives has become; or how the hell we use it productively to get the most from the 70 odd years we are given? (Or less, if you’re a smoker/live in a city/have a bad diet/bad mental health/genetic health risks.) If you too, have at some point, also asked yourself out loud “what the hell am I doing here” whether it was on the way into the office, in a cramped city, going into a lecture of a course you knew you didn’t want to do, being fired, divorced (or married), then chances are you fit into one or more if the above categories; probably due to your place of work, type of work, and subsequently your continuous search for some form of satisfaction; be it consciously or subconsciously. That would depend on whether you were a child of denial, which is another issue all together.</p> <p>Anyway, if so, then cynicism is a product of disappointment. Disappointment is most definitely a feeling; whether self-inflicted due to not meeting our own expectations; or vested in us by our not meeting the expectations of others. So; there lays the question of expectations. What are they? Fact? Or fiction? Depending on your answer to previous questions I asked a minute ago, you will answer differently. If you care what other people think, then “Fact” I hear you mentally cry. If not, then “Fiction; who gives a shit about this fucking bollocks anyway?” If the latter, then satisfaction, it seems, is a concept, that alters from person to person. Do you care of you meet your own expectations? Yes? Then surely it is a perfect feeling, one of gratitude twinned with subtle smugness. No? Then you’re probably just a cynical bugger, who is now mentally arguing that you are ‘living realistically.’ A cynic, of course. You’re clearly fuelled by the resentment of the disappointment at all the unmet expectations of yourself you made years ago; and just remembered you had.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/satisfaction-a-concept-or-an-ideology-3945597/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/losers-aren-t-winners-3945593/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:47:14+01:002008-03-26T20:47:14+01:00 <p>It was the first time I had seen you again. I want to write that it was awful; and I suppose it was, awfully awkward anyway. You’d deny that I know, you’d shake your head, half smile, and shrug your shoulders in your own patronizing way. But I wouldn’t mind. It would just be you, and that’s just how you are. I still know, which is why its so horrible. Because I still know you inside out, and I know you know that we both know that we still know and its still the same. The only difference now is the situation. Im still appalled at the way you acted back then, and I still want to hate you for it. I knew the hate was fading, and I couldn’t be rude, so I made up for it. I had thought it would be a good idea; to make me hate you again. I regret it, which is what I expected, but I didn’t think it would make me shake, make my heart race, loose my focus, stir me up and turn me upside down. Biting is a short, quick, but harsh pain, which makes you cry out. And its usually followed by a burst of anger.“I don’t bite” is what you said; but every word you say, and every time I look up and see your face, with your half smile, it cuts. A cut is a deeper, more prolonged pain, a pain that makes you sob. I know you don’t bite. Im glad you said that, because it shows you don’t feel the same. You always say you don’t feel the same; but I was taught that actions speak louder than words. I hope you didn’t notice me leave. I left because you were there and the shaking of my hand meant I couldn’t hold my pen. I could feel my heart beating hard and fast, just like yours did when I used to listen. I hope you weren’t listening to mine this time, because I was trying to act like you feel. I know you, and that’s why its hard. Because I miss it. And I miss sugary tea in the mornings. You knew where I’d been, and you knew Id cut all my hair off. You wouldn’t tell me how you knew; and I cant guess. I always called you a loser, laughing, but now its all changed and we’ve both lost. I’m not laughing anymore, and judging by the amount of time I saw you spend gazing out of the window, rather than working,<br> neither are you. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/losers-aren-t-winners-3945593/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/circles-of-trust-and-hurt-3945581/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:45:11+01:002008-03-26T20:45:11+01:00 <p>I had started thinking. Granted; I was going on 3 hours sleep in the last 48 hours, possibly more-I had lost track. It had been a whirlwind of alcohol, Cigarettes, stress, locating various pairs of heels and dresses, long limbs, vast amounts of hairspray and other things. I could hazard a guess that thinking, in any way, about anything, was not an ideal option now. Sleep would have been; but the 2 americano’s from Plug and the redbulls from Parade said that wasn’t an option. Deluded, I may have been; but I was ecstatic, buzzing, hysterical and low all at once. It was like a fear was living inside; surfacing like it does after any fashion event. The previous night had been awesome, positively fabulous, and fun.. The fact that we spent the entire time intoxicated with white wine meant the memories were slightly hazy. Once more, the past circled around; or perhaps ‘surfaced’ would have been a better word. It was always there, I knew that. It could be called an insecurity; or just a fear; I couldn’t really say. Back in the day, not even Marilyn, the councillor, could tell me. I had gone to her young and immature, for answers; hoping she would be able to give me some kind of information on myself and my mind, something that would let me sleep; rather than remain an insomniac. Instead, she resembled some kind of bathroom sponge, merely absorbing everything; just sitting and looking at me. The patronising nature of the whole thing; the way she looked at you in that chair like you were some kind of victim merely made matters worse. Girls go to her because they’re refusing to let their eating issues stop them from being alive; it’s an expression of the fighting spirit within them; by sitting in her ‘victimising’ chair they are refusing to be victims. That’s the other side of the coin. My guess is she has never been in the other chair of her office, and so this is unknown to her. Her sprit, on the other hand has the power to reduce them to tears in seconds; it overcomes them and takes them back to being weak. The box of Kleenex on the table in-between the two of you is enough to set anyone, even remotely fragile, off. Maybe it was a personal thing; it just wasn’t for me. Perhaps I wasn’t strong at all; perhaps my spirit was so weak and my mind so complex that I was too defensive. Who knows. She didn’t, and I still don’t. Besides; I never did what she asked. I never cut him out of my life, although she said and I knew I had to, and I was still struggling to do it now. A friend I used to know once said to me “The only way to get over someone is to find someone else.” We had been 14. You felt so grown-up; the thought of GCSE’s scared you. Now we were in our fresher year; and we no longer spoke. (Thank God-if that memorable comment was anything to go by, she talks bullshit.) A lot had happened. A booze-cruise in the summer; (when we were 14-I would never let any child of mine do that. I haven’t forgiven my parents for their overly liberal take on parenting), a lot of kissing boys (and men), a couple of pregnancy tests, the loosing of virginities and innocence, and one major fight. As per norm (well, subsequently it turned out that way) she had slept with my boyfriend. She was the first, but by no means the last. The past was messy; and if I wanted to, I could tell you that the reason I carried on fighting for him was because my spirit was so strong-I refused, point blank, to let her win. I never loose at anything, ever. I may not win, but there’s no way il loose; not in front of anyone anyway. (The real friends who stood by me through her stupidity think I’m deluded when I say that; and give me a sympathetic rub on my arm) And I refused, after that, to let any of my other so called ‘friends’ win, either. I had let him win, with both a good few of my sexier girlfriends and myself, on every occasion. I had always taken him back; put him back into my ‘circle of trust’, whilst I always cut them right out, sitting them on a back bench of the world. I don’t really believe in regret, or maybe I’m just naïve. Its not as if I can say I’ve never made a decision I should regret; I have, many times. Regret doesn’t agree with me; I don’t understand its purpose. Is it just there to make you feel bad? To question yourself? I do that anyway. And I expect other people do aswell; I don’t need regret to help or force me to do that. One good quality of regret is that it should help you learn from your mistakes; not to make them twice. I had made the same ones over and over now, for years. Its like in those Science evaluations you had to do at secondary school; those simple evaluation sheets after an experiment; the last question was always “If you had to do this again, would you do anything differently and how?” Maybe I’m alone with this thought; but if I had to fill one out on my life since 14; Id say Id do it all again. Exactly the same and wouldn’t change a thing. My Dad always calls me a pessimist; but he’s wrong when it comes to this. It has been a learning curve; a process of elimination as far as friendship is concerned. If I knew someone who was going through anything similar; I would ask them now if they would treat someone how they’re being treated. It was something I was always too weak to ask those around me at the time; and something I was too scared to ask myself. It was all that should have been said, and the answer should have been the only thing listened to. The 12 weeks of talking didn’t need to be listened to by Marilyn the councillor. My circle was corrupt; yet I never removed myself. If someone is strong enough to answer and tell you that the hurt (and insomnia in my case) is not worth the friends (or the love) that its costing them; there is no point in them being weakened by sitting in the chair of a victim in the office of a nice woman like Marilyn. If they can tell you that no, its not worth it, not really, underneath, they should just move circles; cut off the offenders and the ones who cause hurt; be it for whatever reason, whatever situation It’s the ones who wouldn’t see Marilyn that can be brought up by the victim chair. Ironic. Because they’re the ones who would never, and possibly will never, sit in it. I left the Kleenex in the box on the table for you. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/circles-of-trust-and-hurt-3945581/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/4-sugars-please-3945575/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:44:21+01:002008-03-26T20:44:21+01:00 <p>It just wasn’t me. I had reached the conclusion that the past just hadn’t been my cup of tea; I had to have at least 4 sugars in my tea; and in the past three years it had been less than sweet. Often sour, even. The internet was down (again); and everytime I couldn’t do something I had planned to do; even something as trivial as checking my email; his words came back to haunt me. “Keep happy-get organised-Dad x.” That was all he had written in the card my family had sent to me a week after I left home. They had all written something; a few lines. I had always thought my Dad had under estimated me. By a long way. He had believed I wasn’t anywhere near capable of living for myself. I knew otherwise; or at least I thought I did. There was always this idea that maybe he was right though; and this thought arose in my head every time something didn’t go to plan. I had let him down in some areas; but he wasn’t aware of the extent. I knew Id let him down; and the battle continued within myself as to whether I was in the right or the wrong. It had been confusing and it was only now; after 6 months of living 250 miles away that it was beginning to decipher itself to me. One of the end results of much thinking was that he just didn’t know me. Maybe it was a lack of understanding; or a lack of communication; but an inability to understand my ideas and my actions had definitely materialised. The previous night; (I still had my make up on) had been interlaced with irony (again), which was always something I found interesting; what the guy next door always called “the OC timing of Sarah’s life”. I had been talking to one particular person; and I went to bed at someone else’s, wearing the former’s rugby training shorts. The comedy factor came from the fact that the shorts had been given to me by the latter; who was oblivious. I slept in my place; slotted together like a jigsaw puzzle. It felt like the two pieces had been missing; and then found years later under a dusty book shelf; and smugly placed back together again. I wasn’t entirely sure how he felt; but the fact I was starting to become anxious told me it had taken a step into the direction of serious. A good thing or bad; I wasn’t sure; and I would even say I didn’t care. It was what I wanted and it made me smile. Besides; he always let me have 4 sugars in my tea. One thing that did make me wonder, though, was that he wasn’t all too aware of my life before I came here. I had always assumed that was a bad thing; but what did I have to gain by his knowledge? Perhaps he would understand me better; but I wasn’t sure that was necessary. If he didn’t understand, like everyone else, I would risk loosing him or creating problems with the perfection it was. Emotional drama was what I did best; It was all I had known since 14, and after a semester or 2 here, I had almost boiled game playing down to perfection. I figured that things hadn’t always been this rosy; so perhaps this was why-I could almost say I had played down the dramatic side of my life to the point of non-existence. Whatever it was; whatever I had done, consicoulsy or subconsciously, it seemed to have worked. I was now getting tea in the mornings with at least 4 sugars; made by my rugby guy with great arms. Of course life was rosy. Dad was impressed with him (for once); and suprisingly I was aswell. Not only had he made me realise I had to let go of his prior; he made an awesome cup of (sweet) tea. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/4-sugars-please-3945575/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/support-networks-3945573/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:43:33+01:002008-03-26T20:43:33+01:00 <p>I felt slightly sick from the peanut butter. I was worrying again. She worried me. Her lack of support worried me. Or perhaps scared me would be a better way of describing it. I wanted to be independent; I always had been. It was just that there are times when we all need some support from our family. It seemed to me that mine was non-existant. The only support I felt I had was from 2 little boys who weren’t even teenagers yet. I knew that if I wanted a hug, that’s where I could get it from. I knew that whatever it was that I needed; they would give it, if they could. That was the void-sometimes you need things that they simply just couldn’t give. My parents had never been too good on the giving front as far as emotional support went. They sucked. Not a proper adjective I know; but there really was no other way to put it. They just really did suck...it was a waste of time and a waste of hope. It had only left me feeling let down. It was a cycle; a vicious circle. It always went the same; I would try, fail, and then swear I wasn’t going to rely on them for anything ever again. But then time would pass, and id try again. Then Id fail again, and that’s when I remembered why I never should have bothered, and I would remember the promise I made myself last time; and id make it again. I wondered when id learn. I noticed that I was learning, but it was a slow process. Although I still asked sometimes; the times were becoming less and less frequent, and farther apart. I was still doing it though. Still asking. I had done it again, and once more I had sworn that I was going to give up on them, my expectations of them, and be myself, by myself, for myself. I was going to do everything in my power to never, ever need them, ever again. I always hoped it would work out, and my objectives were always the same. Grow up, lean on myself. Someone I know once said to me “The only person you can trust is yourself.” I had agreed, but underneath I had thought it was rubbish. Now I think shes the wisest person I have ever met. She followed this comment, saying “Don’t be self-destructive, Sarah. It’s a slippery slope.” I hadn’t really knew what she meant. Or understand what she was trying to say to me; her implications. I understood the first part; not to be self-destructive, but the second part was something I still fail to understand. That was the one thing my parents had always intervened in; the final straw. It was a class A attention grabber. When it came to the crunch, they had always stepped in. It was just the fact that to force them into being there, I had to push myself incredibly far. I was a runner, in many senses of the word. I wanted to run in pretty much every situation. When I was bored, I always wanted to go for a run, no matter how bad my shin splints were; I would still go. In a bad situation, I always wanted to just turn and run away. I had done before. Another thing; when I did reach the crunch point; the final straw, I was always bombarded with questions from them. Stupid questions. Do I have a drug addiction? Have I taken coke in the last 24 hours? Am I pregnant? Have I had an abortion? Have I dropped out of Uni? Although they never said it, I always knew there was a silent “yet” on the end of each of their questions. It was just de-moralising. I have always believed/known that they underestimate me; massively. But then with that thought, I undermined myself. If that was true, and they were oblivious to my potential and my intelligence, then why do I repeatedly let myself down with expectations they never meet? Am I the one who fails to understand the situation? I didn’t think that was the case. Maybe I am deluded though; my parents had always said that was what I do best. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/support-networks-3945573/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/patience-and-morals-3945560/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:41:41+01:002008-03-26T20:41:41+01:00 <p>I had always thought the theme was change. Now I was starting to think that it wasn’t infact the theme; it was the process. Maybe it was happening now; right under my nose. It seemed it was possible to be friends...if that’s what we had become. I wasn’t sure; but I was starting to think that I knew all of these things all along; but I was too scared to admit them. And perhaps change was a process; even if it was a reluctant one to begin with. I had been scared, but now I was starting to get used to it and was willing to try and help it along even. That’s what people do isn’t it? You’re scared of getting involved with the new person after the long mess you call your last relationship; all you need is the right person who has the patience to wait with you. Maybe it was coincidence that Id found someone who had enough patience to deal with me. Is it hard to find that quality? I guess it depends on how much reluctance you feel; it would make sense to correlate reluctance with patience. Together they balance each other out, and thats when it works. All along the way communication is key; which I guess means that you have to find someone who not only has the patience for you, but also has that connection with you. Because the connection would enable you to communicate, and therefore patience would be made easier. So if its easy to find someone with patience, it would mean that its easy to find someone who you have a connection with. But that’s not the case; it’s a long way from the truth. Having said that, is honesty really the best policy? In every couple there must be somethings which are shielded from one half. Maybe because they don’t matter. Theyre white lies, small things which wouldn’t make any difference. On the other hand, maybe theyre kept inside because they mean too much. Its hard to distinguish with some issues. For example the whole being friends with an ex thing; is it relevant enough to tell the current that you are friends with the ex, or is it justified to hold your tongue because you’re over it anyway, its in the past so why let it affect your future? Then comes the question of are you actually over it..If yes, then why is it worth hiding the new friend? You said it wouldn’t make any difference because it didn’t matter to you. If no, then you’d hide it because of how it looks, right? So what would you do? You’d have to ask yourself whether you are really over it. Could you still be without this person in your life? Would you still be without this person in your life? What are your reasons? But then what are the right ones? We all have moral boundaries, but what if yours don’t match your current other half? You want to be friends with the ex, but theyre not so sure you should..or can. If you’ve been lucky enough to find a current someone who you have that rare connection with; then your moral boundaries probably do match. If not, then you should thank god for their patience, because you might need it. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/patience-and-morals-3945560/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/james-the-curse-of-the-ex-3945549/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:39:55+01:002008-03-26T20:40:54+01:00 <p>The theme had been Changes. Changes had happened all over the place; everyone had changed and so had situations. Experiences had changed memories, and also feelings. Yet, ironically it had remained the same. We had never changed, and even now, despite my best efforts, it was totally unobtainable. We had never learnt to change, adapt or breathe. In my heart and in my mind, I knew that it would never change, we would never change. Maybe I knew we couldn’t ever be friends, but maybe I just didn’t want to admit that to anyone, I didn’t want to let go and loose it all. Change was just something we couldn’t master. I felt it was because of him, but what does my opinion count for? It was meant to be counted for 50% of the relationship, yet it seemed to be the only percentage we could muster. The other 50% seemed missing to me; just nonexistent. I had tried to explain, but he didn’t understand. I wasn’t always sure I understood either. I swayed between it being too simple and me dressing it up as complex, and it being too complex and me dressing it as simple. I had no idea. Saying that, to him, it always looked like I had too many ideas. The problem lay somewhere in between him not understanding me, and me being clueless about the way his mind worked. He claimed his mind worked overtime, thinking on our issues, yet to me it didn’t seem that way. It seemed the exact opposite; minimal input, minimal communication and minimal decisions or direction. Whilst, on the other side of the coin, it seemed to him that I had too much direction, too much input. In my head, I though about what constitutes a relationship of any kind. In everything, 100% is the total. It is the whole amount of anything; everything has 100% in it somewhere. In relationships, there is 100%. An equal relationship is made up of each person giving half; 50% each. I felt like I had to give both my 50% and his 50%; that would make it whole. I nagged and I shouted, I cried, and I longed; trying to get his 50% from him, searching for his input. I felt like id been doing that for ages; because of our messy past. Sometimes, I would be annoyed at me having to put in extra effort in order to survive any little problems we had. To him, it seemed like I was working overtime; and was just hassling him. In truth, all I was trying to do was encourage him to be more involved; more like an equal. The more I pushed, the less he gave, and eventually I felt forced to be harsh to him, in words and actions, because that was like my final solution. It was all I had left to try and do; I figured id tried everything else; being patient, sticking out the hard times, trying again and again, apologising to those around me; saying that he was “different” this time round. I always hoped he’d pull through and start meeting me half way. The crazy thing is, he seems oblivious to this. Seems to be totally unaware of it, like it hasn’t been going on. But to me it was obvious, and it had been a gradual descent into the current situation. Now, when I sit and think about whether friends (or anything) would work between us, I feel angry. And he still doesn’t understand; we still haven’t reached the point of knowing where we’re going wrong, let alone deciding what to do about it and how to solve it.<br> “I’m not gonna fucking just fucking leave it all now. Youre gonna let our thing simply crash and fall down? Youre well out of order, this is way out of town.” At times, id refused to let it go, id clung on to the point of humiliation, and so had he at other times when id fucked up. But now, input was all I wanted. Just an understanding and a healthy, happy balance. He said he wanted me to be happy; and he sounds like he feels worthless. That wasn’t what I wanted to achieve; I was just trying to get you in gear. Looking to give you motivation to find passion; find direction and see sense. It was the only thing I had left to try; I didn’t want to be mean; I didn’t know what else to do and I only did it out of anger. I still don’t know what else I should (or could) have done to help us get our act together; maybe I should have apologised more. I can’t go back, and I can’t move forward, so the best I can do is say sorry now.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/james-the-curse-of-the-ex-3945549/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/gallivanting-3945450/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:26:52+01:002008-03-26T20:26:52+01:00 <p>Gallivanting. That was the only word I could use to describe things this week. We had been gallivanting around and just about everywhere. Whilst it had been a lot of fun; alcohol was everywhere, as was nicotine. Men were also very much central to the happenings of the last week or so. There had been the constant, the occasional and the rare. All in the space of about 3 days. The constant was fine and dandy, a source of happiness. The occasional had been a source of fun, of confidence, of butterflies and a hint of anger. The rare had been a source of excitement, alcohol and passion. I knew which I wanted; underneath. The constant. If I didn’t then I wouldn’t be in the present with the constant. I did, however, want to keep the occasional around for occasional benefits that it brought. The rare; I wasn;t fussed on. Besides, I always had been possessive. And I didn’t think it was a habit I was going to break now, or easily. I had, however, managed to let go of the past..but that was just because I didn’t care anymore. I did care about the constant in the present, despite how it seemed. Bear in mind, that in any situation, as far as priorities were concerned, he would always get number one. I would always put him at the top-the occasional and the rare just wouldn’t do-in the entire entirety I had with them; it just wasn’t worth it. I’ve always said I never loose at anything; and no matter in what situation; that most definitely wasn’t going to be the case with any guys I knew. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/gallivanting-3945450/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/battling-your-parental-conscience-3945443/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:26:04+01:002008-03-26T20:26:04+01:00 <p>It’s hard to battle your Dad, or any other close relative, for that matter. It’s on a parallel with battling your conscience, like fighting yourself; but only marginally better with a brilliant feeling of satisfaction and the closest thing to fulfilment some children have ever felt.</p> <p>To fight something, you need to hate it. This is your incentive; or your motivation. It becomes complicated when it’s a parent, because they’re under your skin. You’ve trusted them most/all of your life, and there lies this awful, terrifying idea that they’ve helped make you who, or according to them ‘what,’ you are. Because these parents in question will, of course, be adamant that they are always right, without failure, and you have always been wrong, and will always be wrong. You loose total trust in yourself and your opinion; because this God-like figure knows you’re wrong and reminds you of it, frequently. So, if you battle this God, you basically have to put all your trust back in yourself-you’re denying them that glint of satisfaction they gather from belittling you constantly. However, this game plan is fundamentally flawed-if you’re not quite strong enough to do this, if you have remotely weak moments, then ‘FamilyGod’ will verbally reduce you to a crying splodge of putty, calling you “useless, pathetic, unorganised, incompetent etc.” In these times, you may actually believe that you are all of the above, or that one or more apply to you. (They don’t; it just take a while, and quite a bit of distance, 250 miles to be approximate; for the younger, littler person to have this big revelation.) </p> <p>If so, then you are beginning a part-time battle with yourself. That’s why some people, hate themselves sometimes, some days. “I don’t deserve to like myself” is common reasoning of the subconscious. You win some, you loose some. It becomes complicated when you don’t actually feel like you ‘loose’ some-he wants you to hate yourself; so, if you hate yourself, not only has it meant you let him win, but it turns out you share something in common, with a sick twist. Well; you are related, after all.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/battling-your-parental-conscience-3945443/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/stand-by-me-3945437/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:24:31+01:002008-03-26T20:24:31+01:00 <p>I just wanted you to stand by me; so we could grow together. I had tried to stand by you, but I felt it was all thrown back in my face; and had gone unappreciated. I had decided I wanted to help people; to work in social Policy when I graduate. I think its because I felt this connection; back to home; to where wealth was; in financial terms; but it was surrounded by hardship when you went 10 minutes in one direction. It was just so close by. I knew that I had changed that night I realised I was over you. Because for the first time, I felt that you weren’t good enough. I hate myself for it; with a passion because it was so good and could have been so much. But theres more to life than living in a daze. Maybe im being a snob; but like I said to him, it was all relative. In my case I wasn’t a snob because I had seen so much more since I had come here. You were still there, and I longed for you to realise. This is how the world works, and this is reality. This is the means of achieving success; those who have reason for why it is a bad thing simply cannot see and cannot understand the signs; or enter themselves into the context. And Here we go again, Im starting on my own. Im staring it head on; but that it what it takes. I was trying to bring you up to make you see; help you understand because I know I cant go back to how I used to be. But I know that you can come up; because I did it. All it takes is independence and a lot of realisation. Im grateful to my parents for giving me the means to achieve and see reality; but at the same time I regret leaving you behind because it means I cant come back to be with you and to be in us. The only way it could work would be if you met me, and that’s all Ive tried to do. You say that ive shown were not worth it and that ive convinced you, but I know that the fact that im still sitting here, trying to make you see, shows how much I still want it to work and be. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/stand-by-me-3945437/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/my-story-3945432/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:23:31+01:002008-03-26T20:23:31+01:00 <p>I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t met him. I was actually with someone else at the time, someone who gave me anything I wanted and more. I had gone away for a weekend with my girlfriends from home, it was one one their birthdays I think, I think that was why I was there. Her parents had a holiday home there, by the sea, and we had all piled in two cars and made a girlie roadtrip for the weekend. But that wasn’t where my story started, I was 20 by then, and a lot had happened.</p> <p>I grew up in a nice house, in a nice suburb. I had a nice mum and dad, and two younger brothers. If I had said to them that I was a perfectionist, they would have laughed and my dad would have made a joke. They don’t really know my story. I learnt, at about 14, that no-one talks about feelings in my nice house, with my nice family, in the nice suburb of London. I went to an okay primary school, it was our local one, and all the local children went there. I was an only child until I was 6, and having someone else, my new brother, a new baby, in the house meant less attention for Sarah. I was excited at first, I know that because I remember really wanting a brother or sister, because I was always bored by myself. I had a nice childminder, a devout Christian, a really nice lady. I didn’t like going to her house, her nice house. Both my parents worked, and I recall feeling like I was putting them out by my existence. I went to my childminder every day, and was picked up later when my parents finished work. In her house, I was only allowed to watch Playdays, no other TV was allowed. I drank orange squash, and ate digestive biscuits. No chocolate ones, just plain because they were wholesome weren’t they? They were healthy, weren’t they? I was allowed to drink tea, from a very early age, because we were a nice English family, weren’t we? My childminder let me have one sugar in my tea. My mother has always been against this, it was the one thing she wasn’t happy about. She had vetted all of the local childminders, and decided this one was best. I know now that she felt guilty about leaving me with this nice woman while she was at work, and so you see, picking the right woman to do her job as mummy was very important to her. </p> <p>I hated being left alone then, and that is something that has stuck with me for my life. I would refuse to do anything by myself. I used to dread the mornings, where I would get taken and left at her house. I used to have naps then. I hated those too. I used to lay in the travel cot, looking up at the ceiling in her nice, suburban house, wondering why I had to sleep when I wasn’t tired. I hated being put to sleep, or even to bed. Once, in my own room, I was sent to bed, and climbed back out, onto my windowsill, but then realised I couldn’t get back down. I sat there for hours, frightened to call my parents up to help, because I thought they would be angry at me for being difficult.</p> <p>I wouldn’t do anything by myself, ever. Even if I was at a restaurant and needed the toilet, if no-one would come with me, I would hold it. I didn’t want to get up and for people to look at me. I hated people looking at me, even if it was just a glance. Things would have been much better if I could have been invisible, and i used to wish I held this secret power, so that I could hide away, just not be noticed. I didn’t want to do anything, I just wanted to observe what everyone else was doing, without the world seeing me.</p> <p>I wasn’t the sort of person who would draw attention to myself, quite the opposite. I was the quiet, well behaved one at school. Underneath, I was very competitive, I still am. Throughout my time at primary school, I made aims, I made targets for myself, which I had to reach, without failure. Failure wasn’t an option. I would pick someone, a girl, and I would make it my goal to beat them at absolutely everything. In class, I would sit near them, and I would do better, I would win. I was going to be better than them at everything.</p> <p>My parents always emphasised the importance of doing well at school, not just well, but better, the best. Be the best, win at everything. Grades meant everything. I wanted to please them so much, and I was terrified of failure, and letting them down, because that made them angry. Be Better Sarah, you need to do better, as well as you can possibly possibly do, they would say. I would show them my work, thinking that I would prove to them how good I was, how clever and good a daughter I was, wanting to prove that I was everything they had wanted, and they would tell me that what I had shown them was not good enough, ‘its good, sarah, but it could have been better’.</p> <p>My fear of failure was something that I carried with me. In hindsight, I hate it, but where I would be without it, I don’t know. It has pushed me to achieve. My mum always said that ‘a little bit of stress is a good thing.’</p> <p>When the time came to move to secondary school, I took the entrance exam of the good school nearby, and missed it by two marks. I said I didn’t want to go there anyway, and to be honest, that wasn’t a lie. I didn’t mind about where I went in terms of environment, or who else was there, but I did care about failing the test. I had failed. I think that was the first thing in my life which wore me down. That one time I failed when I was 12.</p> <p>Only 3 or 4 kids from my class got into that good school, out of 30. Most went to the bad school, and about 10 went to the school that was okay. That was where I went too. The popular girl in my class at primary school had long blonde hair, and was skinny and pretty, although I never noticed her skinniness at this time. She also went to the okay school.</p> <p>On the first day, the girls from my primary who were at this ok school all huddled in the cold September morning, waiting for our first day at big school to start. I was dropped off by my next door neighbour, my parents were working. One of the girls said I was pretty, she looked me in the face and said ‘you’re so pretty, Sarah, you have a really striking face. You could be a model, you know. You look like that Sophie ellis-Bextor, and she’s a model and a singer.’ I don’t remember what we were talking about before that, all I remember is her comment. The popular girl looked up, taking her head out of the shelter of her collar on her new school coat, and said ‘I think that sophie ellis-bextor looks like the Aliens out of men in black.’ Giggles, followed, and I remember my face heating up as I looked at the tarmac of the big, new-school playground. There were people all around us, new people who would be in my year, going through secondary school with me. As the bell went, I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and as I looked up, and the huge blocks of classrooms, I felt incredibly small. I wanted to go to the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle and hide. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/my-story-3945432/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/ironic-3945425/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:22:06+01:002008-03-26T20:22:06+01:00 <p>Ironic; I sat in the shower shaving my legs. The music from next door played on. It was our song; from the past. We had a talk; resulted in laying our friendship to rest. I talked with the present too; about many things; including sex. I had wanted to there and then. The door was banging although shut, and the wind howled around the 8th floor; hugging the windows and seeping inside. It was irritating. Silence should have been all around, except for the sound of kisses; meaningful kisses. But it wasn’t the case. I was in Indian Rose jeans and nothing else but skin. Ironic; the past has paid for them. He had himself push me up against the door, stopping the banging. Kissing became the only sound breaking our silence. He said he was worried. I wasn’t; for me it had been a week now; right there where we were standing. Ironic; it was a place of the past. The present filled the shoes of the past perfectly; although they were tight. His ambition exceeded the priors. He had brought about good changes, yet stepped into the role, naturally gracefully. I had tried before, and failed. We had persevered through much, but patience ran while we walked together. Now, the present was trying to run, whilst patience walked slowly behind. “Good things come to those who wait” I had told him. He agreed; but it wasn’t agreeable with him. When did patience stop being a virtue? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/ironic-3945425/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/another-episode-of-score-3945415/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:20:28+01:002008-03-26T20:20:28+01:00 <p>Why’d you feel like sorrow, with the words you’d borrowed from the only place you’ve known? It had become our downfall; we could have spent all night blaming one another, and everyone else for that matter, but to no avail. I had tried on Tuesday; shown you how low I can go; I had sunk further than before for his sake. It hadn’t worked, of course. It never really has. Oldest trick in the book. Useless. So the story goes ; we had drank on Monday, argued until Tuesday, Broken up before Wednesday, ignored it all through to what was almost Thursday, but hadn’t quite succeeded because we’d drunk throughout. Starting small, growing with time. We all seem to need the help of someone else, to fill that void. I had wanted to go to somewhere else, to find the help. But the community that is here made it hard. Impossible, infact. So Score it was. Wednesday night and the early hours of Thursday, brought further drama. Tuesday I spent a while crying down the phone to him, but once again to absolutely no avail. “You’re flogging a dead horse” he had said when I tried to force his emotions to flow. I had sunk to the depth of my emotions to ease his stubborn streak, hoping to pull him back to our level. After that I gave up. I cried a little longer than I wanted, but Wednesday night I was ready and willing to go on a ‘break-up-with-one,make-up-with-another mission’. And by 2 AM Thursday morning, the scoreboard read 2-nil to the home team. There was further independent drama involving the extra two additions.</p> <p>I stumbled down the dark streets of Bath; with far too much alcohol in my system. Three guys were following me; one group of 2, followed by a single one. I was almost paraletically drunk thanks to an hour of playing “I have never..” in Rev’s with my fresher Norwood family of Level 8. I had been annoyed since we’d been to Morrison’s the day before. It hadn’t been what I had imagined; colder, harsher, distant and unknown to me. I left it at that until I walked back to his following our usual Monday night. It had been Rev’s, before a walk to Caddies, which I still have no recollection of. So, if I was bad at that point, you can imagine what I had been like later on when I called him saying I wanted to see him. I left the club, took off my heels, and attempted to find his house. I was aware that there were some guys following me, and I quickened my pace. They were shouting at me, and being “silly” (that’s his word, not mine) I turned to face them. Luckily for me (perhaps God liked me that particular day) they were merely concerned and asked if I was okay by myself. I had told them I was, but they insisted on walking behind me until I found his house, “just to make sure I was okay.” I had gotten to his, eventually, and the world was still spinning through my eyes. He was sober, which suited me fine. After a while of comforting amongst other things, we had a chat. “We want different things” was the jist. I refuse to write what was said, because it hurt. So unsettling infact, that I got back out of the comfort of his bed, and got dressed again. I had felt marginally more sober, but the fact that I had my dress and my jumper on inside out, and the way I couldn’t work out which shoe went on which foot, screamed otherwise.<br> “Im going back up to campus. Is that okay?” “What if I said I didn’t want you to go?”<br> “Tough shit.” “What if I said I wasn’t going to let you leave?” “Well I don’t see you getting out of bed and standing infront of the doorway, so it looks like im going.”<br> After that, nothing else filled the air, except for me desperately feeling my drunken way about the spinning room. In the hall way, after four very challenging flights of stairs, I called the cab. Impressively, I remembered the number off the top of my head. (Thank fuck because it wasn’t in my phone book.) Cab arrived, and I cried up the hill.</p> <p>I pulled into uni, and saw the others getting off the orange bus. I paid the cabbie (who must have been in a state of shock after seeing me wearing my labels on the outside) £6 for the delights of the evening. A high price to pay after the amount I paid in tears. There was no txt or call with regard to this drunken girls welfare, but it didn’t matter because her soul sister was there, fabulous as ever. They picked up the pieces together, before the events of the next afternoon blew it all away again. He had come round, sat in the chair. I had my duvet draped over me, like some kind of shield from any words said. “We want different things” arose again, a few times, mostly from my mouth, and that was that. I had cried a bit more, and then attempted to bring him back around on the phone. I sunk as low as I can go, trying to ease his stubborn streak, but to no avail. “Just stop it” he said. “You’re flogging a dead horse.” And again, that was that. I had gone as low as I can go, but his stubborn side was stronger than my persuasive talents. So once more, her soul sister came upstairs, and once more, she picked up the shards, gave out Marlborough lights, while I glued them back together and smoked every single one all too willingly. That was the worst day since I had come to Bath. Not only was I hung-over beyond belief, I also had 3 hours sleep. </p> <p>Despite it all, I made the 9.15 that Tuesday, for the first time in a long while. Wednesday morning, we went to Twickenham to scream “I’m team bath til’ I die” whilst getting slightly drunk. He sat in front of us, which is absolutely typical. Of a good few thousand seats, It would be the one almost directly in front of me. I swear that would only happen to me. After a while, we exchanged a few mouthed words, and didn’t see each other until Score that night. I was fully prepared. I had done all the crying I needed to do, all the talking, and all the smoking. So we went, I was already wasted (thank you so much girls). It was nothing but fun; I had had 3 years of putting on a front in a situations worse than this, so I figured he was damn right when he came up to me and said “you’re playing the game very well indeed.” I had asked him “what are you trying to do?” to which he replied “I’m flogging the same horse you were.” Unnecessarily, I spat “Well, like you said, It’s a dead horse. And its decaying.” Oh the comedy caused by alcohol..</p> <p>By the end of the night, from what I can recall, the score board still read something around 2-nil to the home team. That in itself had brought some individual drama all of its own, but that wasn’t revealed until Thursday afternoon. There had been one guy, followed by another later on. I had no idea of the consequences of my (and their) drunken antics. I went home that night wearing one of the shirts of the first team; but I went up the stairs of Norwood alone. My phone rang a few times in the next few hours. It was a blast from the past, nothing to do with any of the events of this week; this blast from the past was just drunk. We still exchanged words now and again, but nothing more. I had left that past for the present (or ex-present now), and now he wanted me to go over to his. I said no, and told him I was sleeping. I woke up the next morning; I got off lightly considering the amount I had drunk. Minimal headache.</p> <p>Next day, (Think we’ve reached Thursday now) I had a meeting with Chris, about the fashion show; and so spent the afternoon drinking archers and trying on Bikini’s. It eased the hangover. I had seen one of the 2 points scored the night before at Score walking down the parade, but hadn’t said anything. In contrast; I practically ran away. I left him a message later, apologising for my appauling behaviour of the night before (and for running away).<br> It became comical then, as he claimed didn’t know what I was apologising for. Having dug myself a ridiculously deep hole, I then was forced to explain that I was sorry for pulling his best friend, 20 minutes after him. Try admitting that and keeping a straight face. He didn’t seem to mind though; I hadn’t even known that they knew each other. It wasn’t until Thursday morning that I had surfaced from my bed, and spoken to Howwie that the extent of the compromising position I was now in was revealed. Howwie had sarcastically congratulated me on my achievements of the night before, and told me they were best friends. They also knew the very recent ex. Quite well it turned out. “I have never seen anyone kiss anyone else so passionately as you were last night..” “Do you know if (the ex) saw?” “Oh yes. I was standing next to him..He didn’t look too pleased..” Uh oh. I wasn’t sure whether he was annoyed at me or not; until he later called me a name I shan’t repeat, then told me I was a “rugger Hussy” which led me to hang up the phone on him. He called back, apologised. I apologised. Then saw him Friday morning, and ignored him. </p> <p>Later that day, the girls and I were sitting by the lake in the sun. The boys were playing twister. One of the points scored from Wednesday night came down to meet me. I had bought him a pint and had been sitting and waiting. He came, eventually, and we had talked. 5 minutes later, his best friend (& the other point from Wednesday night) also arrived at the lake. That was not meant to happen. As if things weren’t comical enough already.. I knew how bad timing always treated me. He hadn’t come over to us though, he had gone and sat somewhere else. In sight, but not in reach. </p> <p>After that, I had returned home when I bumped into Boyd. He lives with me.” Oh, Sarah, were you okay walking by yourself on Monday night? I Saw you walking by yourself leaving Caddies, obviously you were very (Very) drunk. There were these two guys following you; did you know? Well, I was a bit worried about you so I walked behind them a little way, just to make sure you were okay..” That was the third mystery walker. Oh god. If I hadn’t been so wasted, I’d have probably felt and resembled the leader of a Girl Guide (or a Scout) pack. You have to laugh really.</p> <p>Friday night we weren’t going out. I was still recovering from an over-exuberant first week back. But we went anyway. And, once more, we poisoned ourselves with excessive amounts of alcohol amongst other things. I had heard from both points from Wednesday night, but one more so than the other. And we were still talking. I had hoped he wasn’t annoyed at me for my actions on Wednesday, and as it turned out he wasn’t; he stayed on campus Friday night. He had driven up at half 3; and I had met him. It was easy going; and talkative which is always a good sign. Were still messaging now. And it’s all happened bloody quickly. Within 6 days, I had lost one and gained one, possibly two. I had had 3 hangovers which had all blended into one big mess, and had done minimal amounts of work. If it carries on, there probably wont be much done…its all in the name of fun. I could begin rambling on about priorities now, but I won’t. Im fully aware that that would be incredibly hypocritical, and well, personally, I think I’ve dug myself enough holes this week. The next one I dig will only serve one purpose. And that will be for me to hide in…</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/another-episode-of-score-3945415/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/confusion-tension-and-addiction-3945407/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:18:45+01:002008-03-26T20:18:45+01:00 <p>Confusion. It was everywhere. We had been watching Sex and The City. We had tried to give up smoking today, and had failed again. We ordered pizza; I was in Arsenal training shorts, Uggs and Chris’ T-shirt. As we walked to pick it up, he was just there. Just standing there. My heart sank. I was unsure as to why; whether it was because I had no make-up on, or because we were so complex. We had ‘agreed’ to just be friends. I wanted to. He said he wanted to. There have been so many words unspoken, yet it was so unclear. I had thought it was clear; I had wanted someone else who I was meant to still want. I had then given him up, for someone else. Someone else who I was now meant to still want. It was all a state, was all a bur of confusion. She returned home from the pub to us; claiming her ex had asked her back. I offered her a cigarette to stop the shaking of her hand. Tension; a result of confusion? A denied confusion led to an admitted tension. Her denial had seemingly ended, and her confusion replaced with certainty. It was a product of excitement, not the answer she was seeking out. It was an emotional high, gave butterflies so harsh you find it literally hard to breathe. I knew what always followed such an emotional high; it was such an emotional low. </p> <p>It was a window of the past. This time it was me, sitting, listening. Watching someone else’s hand shake; cigarette propped between two fingers whilst picking at the nails on her other hand. Offering opinions to someone, desperately seeking some kind, any kind, of approval. She had butterflies and a racing heart; making her anxious. It was a sure sign that her mind was in an irrational way, yet a happy one. In situations like this, you feel you should offer rational threads into her ears. I tried, and failed myself and my conscience again. I believed in her; her ideas and her butterflies. I wasn’t so sure I trusted him enough to lay them to rest; for him to stop the beating of their wings against her stomach lining. Passion; it should be acted upon and a feature of anyone’s relations. But uncertainty was always intertwined with the passion I saw here and the passion I’d seen through my own eyes. Passion was all about wrongness, danger; and spontaneity was the product of this. Was this really an example of passion or was it just lust? That would depend on whether lust was just an appreciative measure of someone finally coming round and giving in to what you want. He was forbidden, and the passion had been slowly brewing up inside. It had been for months. He had made her cultivate passion, just like a cocoon inside; now ready to hatch. As he confessed he wanted her back, they did just that. After months of hatred, forbidden danger, and uncertainty of feeling, the cocoons had enough energy to hatch and beat their new found wings against her stomach wall; matching the rate of her heart and the speed of her shakes with ease. She was going to see him in the morning, she had decided; and I knew that no matter how many hours we spent talking her against it, no matter how many cigarettes she smoked in this time, she was hell-bent on going. She had cried panic at Two-Thirty in the morning, and we all know that when one person cries panic, everyone around does too. We were, quite rightfully, worried. Highs and lows constitute an addiction. Addiction leads to habit; and the habits of my past were something I was still working on. Whilst one battle was ending here, another was about to begin for her.</p> <p>The Aftermath came the next morning. There it was. The emotional low. Black and white, on a piece of paper tucked under my door. It turned out she hadn’t gone after all. “Phil=Bastard.” That was all it said. She was still out, so the result of her panic was yet to be revealed to us. Perhaps she had listened to my rational threads after all, but her note begged to differ; it was clear that whoever had been the rational ‘threader’ for the opposition had done a better job than I had. My rationality hadn’t rubbed off on her; but Phil, whether it was his rationality or someone else’s, it had stopped the butterfly farm inside her stomach. Why does love mean irrationality? Is life too boring without irrational behaviour? If this is true, do we create our own emotional drama to spice it up for ourselves? We sleep, we work, we eat and we sleep again. Is modern life so mundane that we will go to the extent of fucking ourselves up, just to create some kind of drama in our lives?</p> <p>Paranoia, for example. The worry that someone you care for is caring about someone else whilst caring for you. It is ironic; in doing this, you often result in pushing them away, whilst the very reason you worry in the first place is because you care too much; so much that it hurts. It’s the strange irony that arises when abuse attracts you rather then repels you. The cheating actions of your other half lead to your paranoia; stemming from you being too scared to loose them to, maybe to ‘another.’ If there is ‘another’, for them, whether in the past or suspected in the present, this is where paranoia leads to isolation. If ‘another’ is a pretty girl or a beautiful boy, the paranoia artist looses trust in people around, meaning their inner-circle becomes limited to that cheating, abusive, yet deeply loved, other half. Throughout this whole process, the friends who are continuously trying to thread you with rationality get fed-up and resent brews from all sides; you for them not being accepting and them for you clearly being stupid. The emotional drama of your dependency on someone else, i.e. the abusive other, has its highs and lows, becomes an addiction, and, after the addiction dies, the irrational habits live on, reminding you off the emotional kicks you think you need, but no longer have.</p> <p>You know it reaches time for rehab and move on when you feel that you may as well search for those highs, no matter how bad the lows are; because, if you don’t, life will all just be one big low. This is the problem for many recovering addicts, to have to force themselves to remain rational, and level headed, long enough for the longest, and last, low to pass. Especially when you can’t remember what rationality is. All you can see is the rationality of those around you. You have also forgotten boredom, because, to you, rationality is masked with boredom. Why boredom? Because they are living between the highs and lows- they are living in a balance. There is no addiction. There is happiness; self-induced happiness. Not false, not planted there by an abusive other. Not dependant on the actions of someone else. Perhaps only some people will create their own emotional drama in order to overcome the mundane. If you think you could be one of these, stop. Look and listen. Those around you are being rational. You, on the other hand, are being irrational. It’s black and white; happy highs and awful lows? Or just happiness?</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/confusion-tension-and-addiction-3945407/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:secretsofawag.blog.co.uk,2008-03-26:/2008/03/26/game-day-3945403/tangoqueen2008-03-26T20:17:28+01:002008-03-26T20:17:28+01:00 <p>Game day changes week to week. Sometimes it’s a Friday, others a Saturday. People always ask if I get nervous beforehand. “Not really”, I say. Its only when he’s nervous that I get a bit twitchy, and he’s pretty good at hiding it so it’s not really a problem for us. It’s a big game today, and 30 of his friends and family have come over to watch, so that adds a bit to the pressure. The pressure to perform is the biggest hurdle. If you’re good, people expect higher of you- that’s hard to sustain; arguably impossible. It is exciting; I normally have no finger nails left after a game- which for someone in my position is seen as a bit of a no-no; ‘wags’ are supposed to have long, glossy nails aren’t they?? They do in the magazines I read anyway. I never really watched rugby before him, my ex boyfriends weren’t the tough sort (or so he’d say). I do miss him on game day. He’s there physically, but mentally he’s elsewhere. That’s the con of being with him. If I didn’t love him, I couldn’t hack it. It’s the quiet times; when were at home, watching Jerry Springer, when I get to snuggle in my little nook between his shoulder and his neck whilst he eats his way through a family-sized multipack of walkers crisps, or when I curl up in his xxl jumpers on a cold day, when I make us supernoodles. I’ve always been a bad sleeper; I suffered from insomnia, have always tossed and turned all night until my anger tired my body out that I could fall asleep, then was unable to get up until 3 in the afternoon. So I always sleep in longer than him. It’s when I wake up early In the morning with the feel of his soft skin all warm on my back and he kisses my head and squeezes me. That’s when the cons become worthwhile, the press interest, the fans comments, all fade. The snobby middle aged men at the game the previous week, who sit in leather hats (which smell highly offensive when wet) and bitch about his game, whilst I have to sit and listen to their ignorant opinions,. On a Saturday night, if you were out at a bar, if someone said something negative about your partner- that’s how fights start- people will stand up for their partners and quash those comments, sometimes with their fist. I have to sit and listen, not saying a word. At the end of a game, when the jolly men leave the Rec to go home or to the pub, I wait, patiently, for my man to come to me for comfort. They will take their leather hats home, and forget all about their comments, but I remember. They may even have the nerve to share their nasty thoughts on the internet. Whilst they forget all about it, and head off, go home, to their wife, their kids, their job on the following Monday morning, I am still in this life. If you’re good at something, people expect higher of you- that’s hard to sustain, arguably impossible. The men and their hats are successful, good at what they do; but they wouldn’t have always been so. There would have been bad days, weeks, years, even, when their careers weren’t quite so glossy. They wouldn’t be able to sustain success indefinitely either. But are they still remembering? I take the cons, because our own pro’s make up for it. They wouldn’t, if I didn’t love him, and it’s that balance that gives me the strength to be with him, day in day out. You can’t help who you fall in love with, although, believe me, I tried. It took him a while to convince me that this was for me, that he was for me. Too many of them are for a number of girls; not just the one special one. There are also more than enough girls to go around when you’re built like that. Mind you, there is definitely enough muscle on them to go around all of the girls, but there is also enough stress and pressure. It takes time and effort to find somebody, just the one person, who can deal with the exceptional stress that comes with the welcome amount of muscle. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://secretsofaWAG.blog.co.uk/2008/03/26/game-day-3945403/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>