Annus Mirabilis

Well. Where to start? How do I write this final blog for Project: Life Changing? I am not feeling broken or dejected, nor particularly witty or amusing or bitter or sour – all emotions that I have relied on in previous entries to rinse something vaguely interesting out of the keyboard and onto the page.

No, dear readers - and excuse the rather large assumption that I might still attract enough of you to warrant the use of the plural – today I am feeling just plain unusual, something I have been getting used to for some weeks now but that has proven quite difficult to describe.

Today was also the first day in a long time that I have spent alone with no plans or chores or expectation of action. My first New Year opportunity to quietly reflect on the past twelve months. I shed a few tears. Just the little sad sort that many of us have when we ponder awhile on the past and realise how blessed we are to be looking forward to another year, a brand new year stretching out before us.

New Year has always given me the same feeling I had on starting a new school book. All empty and clean and white, drawing promises of hard work and neat handwriting. This year it also makes me feel like the snow made me feel … an untrodden blanket of soft brilliance that I simultaneously don't want to disturb and yet can't resist walking on, fundamentally thrilled at the sight of my own footprints being the first.

And somehow, today's reflections have just sort of fallen into place with a semblance of coherence that I might just be able to write about, to sum up what 2010 has meant to me and how 2011 looks. Because be assured, I have never felt like this before – at least not as an adult. Not right at the core of my being, deep, deep in my heart in a way I can comprehend.

Some of my close friends and family may recall one of my little 'parlour games' (for want of a better description) has been to ask them that if they could relive any of their life experiences again, what would they choose. It is tempting to suppose that it would be the big, joyful or exciting experiences – big days such as births, weddings, graduations or personal successes. And indeed, initially it often was. But I now know I was asking the question with a hidden agenda, trying to seek reassurance because my moment of choice was nothing so grand. Because I didn't really understand why my choice was what it was, why it presented itself as such an insignificant event yet felt so powerful to me. I was inadvertently trying to compare moments to see what I was missing out on.

My moment of choice was just for an hour or so to be at my grandparent's house, sitting on the carpet in front of the coal fire, drinking tea and eating cake. Just me, Nanny and Grandad. Strangely it could be either set of grandparents and strange too that in the reality of all those occasions there would undoubtedly also be a parent or sibling present. But in my head those perfect moments are just the three of us. I now know that those moments are so powerful to me because they are the memory of total and utter contentment, love and happiness, the memories of childhood ease, safety and comfort where the rest of the world and its attendant cares and worries melted into nothingness.

Whether or not they ever really happened as I imagine they did is irrelevant, what is relevant is that I could recall the feeling. And through recalling the feeling I could learn again to experience it. To learn again how to let go of fears and troubles and just be myself, in the moment, in the here and now and no longer giving anyone else the power to destroy my sense of self, safety, contentment or happiness.

Of course there might still be difficult times, sad times, days when staying under the duvet is a good option. But there will now always be that better place in my heart that I can go to, where I know that so long as my values are intact no-one else can hold me to emotional ransom. And that means I am where I am now.

So if you asked me what 2010 would be remembered as, perhaps twelve months ago following the death of my closest friend; or eleven months ago when I was told I was being made redundant; or ten months ago when I was suffering from anxiety and depression; or eight months ago when Him Formerly told me he was leaving me after 15 years together; or six months ago when I discovered Him Formerly had been betraying me for so long; or five months ago when it became a reality that I would have to leave my beautiful home; or even two or three months ago when finances hit rock bottom and job-hunting seemed to be going nowhere fast; if you had asked me at any time I am sure you would understand why 2010, with all its pain and hurt and desperation was clearly my annus horribilis.

But. It wasn't. On the contrary, 2010 has shown itself to be my annus mirabilis, my year of wonder. Because throughout all those troubles I have been accompanied by a host of angels … angels disguised as family or friends, as professionals and experts, as strangers with kind words and acquaintances with kind hearts. And of course those angels disguised with floppy ears and smiley bums.

I also talked to robins and watched jays from beneath my tremble tree, I saw my first ever woodpecker, enjoyed coffee and laughter in Starbucks, sipped tea and slurped jelly in Ikea, relaxed with a glass of wine and the scent of rosemary and jasmine in a beautiful garden, picnicked with flat coke and Walkers cheese and onion in glorious sunshine on a penthouse balcony and guzzled one too many gins on nights out with the rockabillies.

I have laughed in the rain and kissed in the moonlight, marvelled at sunsets and delighted in snowfall. I have read many books, written many words, met new friends and old friends, my first love and the love of my life. I have experienced epiphanies, road to Damascus moments, gestalt and renaissance and I have discarded the useless and discovered the valuable. And yes, I have learned to say yes. Yes to new things, yes to opportunities and yes I am looking forward to the future. (Yes Juicy, you read that right.)

And so here it is. The final installment of the Project: Life Changing blog at blogspot ... with high hopes of a sequel in the not too distant. In the meantime dear readers I thank you. Thank you for your kind words, your blessings, your magic and your support and all the inspiration those things have afforded me.

A very Happy, Hopeful and Prosperous New Year to you all.

Yours in hope & happiness, AJ xx

Misms

I think I may be boring Mr TGTBT. During his last visit we exchanged a few words of the 'words' type and experienced a little of that irritability that healthy relationships sometimes do. As opposed to the aggressively quiet silences of unhealthy relationships (last sentence delivered of course with a wry smile).

Now some of the words caused instant little 'ouches' in my heart and, having learned of late not to let the ouches go unheeded, I duly declared them. Drawing himself up to the full height of his acronym, Mr TGTBT lived up to his name and apologised for ouching me, looking quite mortified that he had done so. Not to be outdone, I in turn apologised for being a little over-sensitive and felt mortified that I had been the cause for such mortification on his part. I think he may well have then apologised for something else, with me following suit. And so on. And so forth. Until we ran out of things to apologise for. It was of course all conducted with the kind of sugar-coated indecency that left us both clearly at risk of hyperglycemic coma, covered in candy coated sweet nothings.

There were however some other words. Not ouchy ones, but 'mism' ones. Words that don't insist on an immediate reaction but that sit around in your head waiting for you to pay attention, having rang a little bell on their way in. They are perfectly happy sitting patiently, humming a little now and then to while away the time ... until a time comes like now, when they have to be processed.

Now Mr TGTBT is, as I have discovered, quite capable of belligerence in his expression but it is more likely the belligerent delivery that causes ouches than any genuine desire to offend. The belligerence is only a result of some momentary emotional chaos, no different to my caustic attitude when moodiness takes over from common sense. With Mr TGTBT, as with me, anything we want to say that we really need the other person to take heed of but that may also be liable to upset them will be delivered with a great dollop of 'mism'ness. You see, Mr TGTBT didn't want to actually say I was boring in case I got upset.

I recall one of my apologies was for talking too much. Which I had been. And with the best will in the world - bearing in mind the emotional turmoil recently experienced - Mr TGTBT didn't stand a chance of understanding my excited gabble. So he merely smiled gently at my apology and said I did sound a little like a 'reformed sinner'. He also kissed me just to be certain there was sufficient mism'ness. Because he's nice like that.

Now. Whilst having a little housekeeping of the mind while relaxing in the bath tonight I came across his mism and picked it up for processing. On doing so I was struck by it's familiarity, the strangest sensation of having coming across this mism before.

Of course I had. In a not very successful attempt at self-delusion I had given the mism to Mr TGTBT in the course of my apology. I may well have apologised for talking too much but deep down knew full well I had been banging on about the benefits of something I have learned (and am in fact still learning) in a desperate attempt to convert him too. Banging on like a reformed sinner. As I was unable to admit to myself the fact I was being boring I gave Mr TGTBT a mism for an apology. A euphemism.

Mr TGTBT just picked up the mism, dusted it off and sent it right back from whence it came, with some care, some love and a desire to be honest without offence. It worked. I now know I was boring but I don't mind. A man with a penchant for misms is a man with a heart ... as seasoned readers will know, it's those with fizms you have to worry about.

Yours in hope, AJ x

Tantrumette

I enjoy blogging best when I am riled up. My blogging muscle seems to come over all re-energised when prodded into action by a bad temper. And tonight I am a right royal grumpig in the foulest of moods, one that has been brewing steadily for the past 48 hours and one which through a variety of techniques I have tried to quell.

Quelling was unsuccessful and in fact seemed to exacerbate the foulness of mood, leading to temper tantrums being directed at various inanimate objects (one book yelled at for falling off the bookshelf, two doors kicked for closing when I wanted them to remain open and a t-shirt that came within in inch of a new life as a duster after getting tangled up with tights in the wash basket).

During a slightly more reasonable moment I tried to establish the reasons behind bad mood. At least I thought it was a more reasonable moment until I produced the following spectacularly ridiculous reasons: -

1. There is no chocolate in the house.
2. That Mr TGTBT lives some annoying 40 miles away so someone to send out for chocolate totally inaccesible when required.
3. That Mr TGTBT is evidently not TGTBT otherwise he would have known I would need chocolate and hidden some in a cupboard for me during his last visit.

The next reason was actually quite reasonable:-

4. That I have horrid abdominal cramps and a pain that feel like rats are gnawing away at my insides.

And then I returned to the ridiculous reasons:-

5. Mr TGTBT lives some freakin' annoying 40 miles away so I will have to get my own hot water bottle.

Reason number 4 gives the game away. The only reason any of the reasons seemed even vaguely acceptable at the time is because nature decrees that PMT and logic are incompatible so you can't have both at the same time. A clear case of either or. Which is evidence enough if needed that our creator is indeed of the male persuasion. No female would have dreamt of creating such a foolish - and dare I say scarily dangerous - combination.

Unless of course there was no chocolate in the house and she had to get her own hot water bottle.

Yours in hope (with a little bit of 'grrrr' thrown in for good measure), AJ x

Type Cast

It appears I have regained some blogging mojo and I have been having endless discussions with myself about what to write about and what not to write about. It seemed easy to write when driven by a somewhat maniacal urge to try and make sense of what was happening to me but now I have arrived at a place where my sense of things is more peaceful I feel quite shy. Very self-conscious. I have a niggling concern that a more contented blogger may be a more boring blogger.

Nonetheless I will persevere - at least I will tonight, for my fingers are itching to dance on this here keyboard. And for those still reading now seems a good a time as any to deliver an update on Project:Life Changing. Well. Here goes:

Learning to drive? On hold.
Thinking thin? Plateaued.
Considering a career? Downsized to get a job.
Getting out more? Dwindling now the nights are drawing in and the money needs drawing out due to career status.

From that seemingly disappointing scenario it suggests Project:Life Changing has been abandoned, or at the very least is languishing in a corner somewhere, awaiting further instructions. And with such an apparent lack of progress it is perhaps no wonder the blog hasn't been anything to write home about either.

There have been voices of discontent; Mr TGTBT has dropped gentle (and even not so gentle but still sweetly delivered nonetheless) hints that it might be about time I got back into the blog; H has all but given up on asking me diplomatically if I have any updates; Pagan Queen went one step further and even began working on his own blog. But one voice was louder than them all and much less encouraging. That was the voice in my head that was smugly pointing out I have just reverted to type.

That nasty little voice was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort, sniggering at the fact I had failed, failed, failed and failed. In that order. A little jeering "told you so". And until yesterday, I thought that voice belonged to me. But it doesn't. It was put there by someone else. So I punched it's lights out.

Now my holding, plateauing, downsizing and dwindling may well be reverting to type. But 'reverting to type' is merely a crass attempt at using words to wound, implying that the 'type' referred to is somewhat less than desirable. So no, I haven't 'reverted to type' I have finally however, thankfully, rediscovered myself. And myself has been slogging away on achieving objectives fundamentally more important and definitely more elusive - belief in my own values and my right to apply them not only to others but to myself.

It is easy to look at others in trouble, pain, fear or sadness and reach out to comfort them. If you discover someone who is trembling and disquieted because they have received some upsetting news, your natural instinct is to reassure and calm them, offer them some tea and sympathy and encourage them to rest, reflect and regroup. Strange how we tend to treat ourselves differently.

I have found myself in just such a situation on numerous occasions in recent months and whilst those around me speak kind words, that nasty voice in my head just berated me for being silly, weak, ineffectual and plain old-fashioned no good. Which is why the voice had to go.

So now I am filling the vacancy. With me and my values. The practical aspects of Project: Life Changing still need addressing ... they may have been initiated for all the wrong reasons but they are still valid for a whole bunch of practical and healthy reasons. Only now the only person I have to answer to is myself. And I am far more patient and understanding than that recently departed little voice.

Project: Life Changing is still on track, only now it is following my directions, no-one else's.

Yours in hope, AJ x


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How Do You Like Them Apples?

Now this blog could perhaps be as dull as dishwater for many of you. Or perhaps it might make you grimace and cringe. But just maybe it will resonate with someone, just enough to prevent another soul going through the same self-loathing and self-destructive patterns I have experienced. Perhaps even those that Him F. has experienced too. And those of Mr TGTBT. Maybe even FEW. Or even Her. Because whichever side of the following equation someone may have the misfortune to be on, it is not a happy place.

I have been seeing a counsellor. Trying to get to the root of my sometimes almost crippling lack of self belief. And I've always regarded myself as reasonably emotionally intelligent, dabbling here and there trying to understand what makes myself and other people tick. Usually quite forgiving of other's behaviours in the end, and particularly so if I deduce an emotional reason for them. I understand - albeit to date quite inadequately - that most of my bad behaviours also spring from some emotional well or other so I find it easy to accept it is the same for other people.

Today's session with my counsellor was indeed a revelation as she mentioned a term that I have heard of but never understood, never felt the need to. Never seen the need to because I have been blinded and side-swiped by its very existence. The counsellor began by asking if I felt I had been the victim of abuse. I laughed. I began to think 'uh-oh' here we go, liberal-lefty approach to everything being someone else's fault and no-one taking personal responsibility for their situation or actions.

I most certainly had no desire to play the victim in any greater way than I currently feel, as the victim of a horrible set of circumstances. Anyway, Him F. wasn't that bad. Was he? I well know, as many of you will have heard me state, much of the failure of my relationship with Him F. was my fault.

But. I am polite. Willing to learn. So I listened to what the counsellor had to say. And as I listened and questioned I experienced one of those OMG moments as more scales fell from my ever widening eyes, along with more tears. I have struggled to understand how and why Him F. did - and continues - to treat me so spitefully and coldly. No compassion, no residual affection for anything we had in the past 15 years.

The reason I couldn't understand it was because I persisted in looking to myself for the answers, blaming myself for so much while remaining unaware of exactly what I had been up against and subjected to. I was up against - and here comes the term - someone who suffers from a passive-aggressive personality disorder. And the passive aggressive is a master of covert abuse.

Two major issues I had in my relationship with Him F. were a) lack of physical intimacy and b) his inability to express any anger or dissatisfaction. Now if you pootle off and Google passive-aggressive (as I did) you will discover (as I did) that those two issues are symptomatic of such a personality. Their inability to express (b) results in them using (a) as a punishment.

Passive aggressives are masters and mistresses of a particularly underhand kind of deceit and emotional abuse. Most likely also deceiving themselves as convincingly as they do their partner. These masters and mistresses project satisfaction and will happily spend the day with their other half, appearing as if all is well with the world. On special occasions there might be days out together, eating, laughing, visiting places of personal interest and meaning and generally having a quite wonderful time.

With so much apparent happiness in the air it can be quite confusing when, at the end of a beautiful day, the most affection the passive aggressive can stretch to is perhaps a cuddle and a cat-bottom kiss. So what is the problem?

The problem is, things were bothering the passive aggressive. But their inability to express them, to spell out whatever had upset or angered them - be it the expense of the day, something their partner had said or done or just something they themselves felt inside - means that instead of confronting their partner with the issue they will instead mete out some kind of punishment. A punishment that is arguably difficult to declare as such and punishment for something they themselves weren't willing (or for the benefit of the doubt, able) to express.

Towards the end of my relationship with Him F. it is likely he was perpetually punishing me for all the perceived slights and wrongs and injustices he had received from me over the years. He had been unable to address them in a healthy way because he was too frightened to confront his own deep-rooted fear ... his inability to express his negative emotions, like anger or distress. His inability and unwillingness to communicate his feelings adequately.

And what's more, the passive aggressive punishment is so covert, it enables them to display quite believeable astonishment if anyone should suggest they were engaging in such unpleasant behaviour. Punishment so underhand, so reliant on the complicity of the one being punished that they can retain their 'good guy/sweet girl' image, once again avoiding the need for any emotional honesty.

A lack of physical intimacy from a passive aggressive will be dressed up under the titles of 'too tired', 'a little unwell' or 'stressed from work' And not once in a while - we all get tired, unwell or stressed now and again - but persistently. In my case about 8 years of persistence; me asking what the problem was, him saying there wasn't one. So of course, I did what I am sure thousands of men and women have done, and continue to do. I made it all about me. I was too fat/too ugly/too demanding. And when emotionally shattered from that continual self-abuse I would give myself a break by accepting his excuses and be all understanding about how tired/ill/stressed he was.

The passive aggressive will usually form relationships with people who have low self-esteem or those who find it easy to excuse other's bad behaviours. Playing the role of committed, adoring and loving partner but in reality unable to form a real and honest emotional connection with their significant other.

Absolving themselves of any personal responsibility, when finally forced to confront the problems in the relationship they will have prepared their escape plans and just withdraw completely. They will leave with their skewed sense of reality allowing them to deny any wrong-doing and lay the blame at someone else's door. In a slippery distortion of the facts their dysfunctional emotional behaviour has probably driven the other person to bad behaviours too, and to distraction, to distress, and to displays of anger and irritation. All of which neatly ticks a box in passive aggressive's warped view ... 'look how awful she/he is. Look at what I have had to put up with. Is it any wonder I am leaving them?'. Tick.

My former passive aggressive has withdrawn so wholly, extricated himself so completely from the familial and social settings he was part of for 15 years, that it is unlikely he will ever have to face the true reality. No-one will be able to hold up the mirror for him to take that long, hard look. A look at the hurt, pain, sadness, confusion and distress his actions and behaviour has wrought. Not just on me but on many others who welcomed him into their world to share in their lives and all the celebrations and heartbreak the years have delivered. Those many others to whom he has shown neither the courtesy, kindness or grace to offer even the smallest of goodbyes to.

This may all sound a tad unbelievable ... it does to me and I have lived it, so I can fully appreciate the sense of disbelief others may have. But Him F. has indeed walked away and closed down 15 years of connections in the blink of an eye and continues to blame me for it. I know he has managed to convince himself - because he has told me so - that he dealt with things in the best way possible. And yes, for the passive aggressive it was. No confrontation, no emotions to deal with, just (self) justifiable actions. Those of us he left behind had just a sense of shock and so many unanswered questions. Until today. Now I understand that while all may appear well with that passive aggressive's world view, I am as lucky as I am relieved to no longer be a part of it.

But above all, though I have some serious personal issues to address as to why I allowed myself to accept such behaviours for so long and with such devastating consequences, I am happy to have finally discovered that I am not such a bad apple after all.

Perhaps a little bruised but certainly not rotten, I am now the apple of someone else's eye. A delightfully, delicious, emotionaI windfall. A little bit sweet and a lot bit fruity.

Yours in hope with fear gone, AJ x

Girly Swot

Boo! (AJ chuckles to self). Bet you didn't see that coming. But hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder ... evidenced by the fact that Mr TGTBT is perilously close to being accorded the status of demi-God through the geographic/domestic/employment induced absences that are currently an inevitable part and parcel of our relationship. Well. That and his gobsmackingly endless loveliness. And on that nauseatingly enamoured note, I'll move on. But. Talking of nausea....

The tears, snot and nausea stages which Mr TGTBT promised me are now, today, coming to an end. It is a welcome end, albeit to the most curiously painful yet awe-inspiring chapter of my life. One that in retrospect I have enjoyed immensely and in some perverse way will actually be sad to say goodbye to.

Yes. You did read that right. I have enjoyed it. I know as a rule I am pretty down on hindsight, but, coupled with a few tricks picked up from years of working with PR types, it does enhance my ability to put a positive spin on just about anything. Eventually. And getting there - however eventually that may be - is all that matters.

Right now I am feeling terribly proud of me and my eventualiness. I did it. That is me, with a capital 'I'. I have hurt, I have been comforted, I have been given advice, I have listened, I have taken three steps forward, I have taken five steps back, I have sometimes paused. I have kept walking. I have sometimes been blind-sided, I have opened my eyes, I have looked around me, I have searched inside myself. I have turned my back on some things and I have faced the inevitable. Above all, I have learned.

I learned that none of us can ever actually stop learning. We just do so either willingly or unwillingly. Every experience in life - be it good, bad or just downright ugly - is a just a little box of learning, delivered to us at times in our life when we may have ceased to think we need it. I was delivered a whole stack of little learning boxes in one go and my initial reaction was to mark them 'address unknown, return to sender'. 'Twould seem, however, that curiosity got the better of me.

I opened up my boxes and before I knew what had happened was caught up in a desperate and feverish frenzy of swotting. I instinctively knew there was a lesson to be learned and yet couldn't seem to work it out. I was willing, so I thought, but not able. I would be elated to make sense of part of the lesson only to be bought back down to earth with a nasty bump on discovering it didn't fit with the rest of the curriculum.

After much elation and many bumps, slowly, surely - and eventually - it began to make sense. This was no hum-drum curriculum, it was far, far more important. The course I was delivered for 2010 was a key module in my curriculum vitae, my course of life.

Life of course is the greatest of all teachers, endlessly handing out the the most curiously painful yet awe-inspiring lessons we could ever hope to learn from. And like a right little teacher's pet, I am going to keep swotting.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Snort For The Day ...

Blimey. Aren't people emotionally complicated? Me? Generally happy as a pig in doo-doo and yet within minutes can feel my whole world is about to fall apart again. And this would be because Mr TGTBT has a Future Ex Wife (FEW) who decided she no longer wanted him, yet on discovering Mr TGTBT has found someone else, she came over all dog in a manger and threw a FEW titchy hissy fit in my direction.

Which in turn got Mr TGTBT all in a stew (see, he's not THAT good) and griping about FEW even though he says he is generally happy as a pig in doo-doo too. Attempting to reverse Mr TGTBT's stewing tendency was too much like hard work so I skulked off and started a little bit of wuthering, which included wondering on whether Him F. is a happy pig with Her.

And then I start coming over all vengeful and hoping Him F. just has total crap and no cheery doo because my doo-doo is looking a little bleaker than it did before the FEW threw Mr TGTBT into a stew. Which is odd, because I am meant to be as happy as a pig in doo-doo and not care about stuff like that.

Just like FEW is meant to be a happy little hog that she got rid of the man she didn't want (and who incidentally is treating her with ultimately more respect than I get from Him F. so FEW should be like totally grateful).

Just like Her should be a happy snorker at having got her trotters into Him F. but bangs about being bitter about the fact I still actually exist. And Him F? Well, he displays scant evidence of being a happy little grunter because he is so busy still being pissed off at me.

How peculiar. A bunch of people who have got what they want but still being ever such a bit silly about it all. But I guess if you're happy as a pig in a big pile of shit it's inevitable you'll get tempted by a little muck raking now and again.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Fit For Purpose

Mr TGTBT might hate this blog. Might cringe a little. And will definitely have to endure copious amounts of piss-taking from his colleagues. However. The anecdote needs to be shared.

One evening we were sat talking, something we both do very well and that has been a bit of a feature since Talking Shop. When we get going it's not just donkeys that need to keep an eye on their hind legs - ponies, horses and quite possibly even unicorns would do well to give us a wide berth. Anyway, this particular evening Mr TGTBT came clean out with something I had noticed him trying to disguise with self-deprecating comments on other occasions. Comments I told him were ridiculous.

During previous conversations I have told Mr TGTBT that Him played football twice a week - in the context of me griping about having to eat pasta every ruddy Tuesday and every ruddy Thursday, every ruddy frickin' week. The only time off I had from the tedious carbohydrate repetition was during the weeks when Him had sprained an ankle or pulled a muscle or whatever else it is that sporty types do when they get things wrong. And during the conversation with Mr TGTBT on the evening in question, I was talking about Him's visit on the previous day to collect some paperwork and his rowing machine.

Now Mr TGTBT had quite rightly deduced that Him is of the fitness variety and therefore must be 'quite buff and toned', I think that was his phrase. Again, brilliantly deduced insofar as yes, Him is quite obsessive about his fitness. (Fitness for not very much if you ask me, but as an end in itself it seemed to make Him happy.) In some muddled way it spilled out that Mr TGTBT had been doing the math in his head and also deduced that, by comparison, he might not be such an attractive physical specimen.

And yes, Mr TGTBT you might be right. If one wants a physical specimen. (Which sounds a lot like wanting Fizms to me.) But Mr TGTBT you are monumentally wrong if one wants someone who is attractive. Someone whose beauty is more than skin deep. I spent years with someone whose calf muscles were as hard as his heart, whose biceps were as big as the space between his ears and whose legs would run for miles when his soul couldn't take a single step in the right direction. The only person whose breath Him wanted to take away was his own.

I want to spend the rest of my years with someone who will take my breath away. Someone whose arms are strong enough to hold me tight but as gentle and warm as his heart. Someone who can exercise his brain as well as his right to be fallible and someone who can walk to the ends of the earth for those he loves and never look back in anger. Someone whose soul, without fear and without reservation, is fit enough to take on the challenge of sharing itself with another. An outrageously, unconsciously, beautifully, attractive someone. A someone that begins with Mister and ends in TGTBT.

And if - as the case may be - that supremely attractive someone also happens to have calf muscles somewhat better toned than mine, well, I can live with that. Because beauty is only skin deep and my stockings can hide a multitude of sins.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

More's The Pity

I am crying again. For fuck's sake. Analysing it as I do, between sobs, it would appear this is a mixed up session. Some of the tears because I hurt, and some because I am so bloody angry and frustrated at not being able to wring Him Formerly's cold-blooded neck and put him out of his hate-fuelled misery.

I have in the past two days received two communications from Him Formerly. Him Formerly who persists in griping and complaining and bitching about his lot when he is the one who ordered in his lot. Now he has moved on to making side swipes at me, childish, spiteful and unnecessary - all because he is incapable of engaging in a sensible conversation about how to resolve the practicalities of the relationship break-up. At least without having Her in his ear, changing his mind as regularly as the rest of us change TV channels.

Him Formerly is no more. There isn't anything I formerly knew remaining and I actually no longer know who - or what - he is. Though evidently he is an attractive proposition to Her I really don't see what that attraction could be. How can you get excited about sharing your life with a man who is too weak to acknowledge his contribution to a relationship break-up, a man who perpetually blames his ex for all the troubles in his life and takes no personal responsibility, a man who has lied, cheated, deceived and then, when his partner was already just about broken, threw in a few more below the belt punches to try and finish her off.

Him clearly has a default setting of cold. Cold-hearted and cold-blooded. (I am minded to consider the possibility that Her gets a cheap thrill from dabbling with something so dangerous ... she probably snacks on blowfish and drives with her eyes shut just for the hell of it.) And that coldness has imbued Him with the ability to turn hating me into an art form of quite disturbing proportions, albeit leaving me strangely flattered at my own ability to arouse quite so much emotion.

Because for me, hating Him is not something I feel inclined to do. I am angry at the way he tries to make me feel wholly responsible for his pain. I am frustrated by his petulance and inability to address the difficulties created by the break up with some degree of feeling for the times we shared that were good. But most of all I pity Him.

Him was once sharing his life with someone who loved him well and would have loved him until the end of days, even - much to my chagrin at such stupidity - paying the price of her own inner happiness to do so. But Him could never see it. And to be unable to see love when it is given so unconditionally is nothing but pitiful, more so perhaps is the inability to accept it.

So asking myself to hate Him would be like asking myself to hate a blind man because he can't see the stars. More's the pity that Him does it so well.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Birthday Measures

I know, I know - but not hanging head in shame. I have been hanging about in the bubble and quite frankly folks, after what I've been through in the past year I am bloody well entitled to hang about in aforementioned bubble for as long as I ruddy well like. Was kind of hoping I could stay in bubble mode until post-birthday ... head in sand approach to being another year older.

Even at the best of times birthdays have not been one of my favourite things. And after I reached the age when everything became legal I ceased to find anything desirable in being another year older. Only this year, I feel differently. Because this year I am grateful that I have the opportunity to grumble about my birthday, to grumble about being 43, to grumble about hating surprises, to grumble about the fuss. Because one very special woman in particular would have given her everything to see another year.

And I miss her terribly.

My dear, dear friend, Karen. The friend who has shared every birthday with me for over 30 years. Who always made a royal fuss, with ribbons and bows and thoughtful gifts. Who brushed aside my silly, maudlin, nonsense and got drunk with me and partied with me and danced with me and drank coffee with me and ate cake with me and who always made such a special effort to show how much she cared. That flaming haired heart of gold who on my last birthday - the one we both quietly suspected would be our last one to share - determinedly gave me yet more memories to hold on to.

Karen never failed me. Not when it counted. Not when it really, really mattered. She was a woman immovable in her loyalty, love and devotion ... not only to me but to all those who mattered to her. Missing her is so painful that all the other hurts I have written about don't even come close to equalling it. I am blessed to have had such a friend as Karen; the measure by which all friendships will be measured and one that no-one will ever measure up to.

Karen was certainly no angel, but my, how she tried. As we should all try. Try to measure up to such levels of loyalty, love and devotion for those we care about that they can never doubt us. To do so selflessly, in spite of flaws and imperfections, in spite of of petty squabbles, in spite of slights - be they real or imagined - and in spite of our own personal suffering. To do so fearlessly and, more importantly, to do so gratefully.

Grateful that we still have the opportunity to try - every day, every week, every month and every single year we are blessed with.

yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Soapy Stuff

So yesterday it was established that I have a new Love Bubble. A brand spanking new, teflon coated shiny, sparkly Love Bubble of the bigger, better, faster more variety. My 21st century bubble. The Him Formerly bubble is sooo last century dahling. And it's squished. Gone.

Now call me fickle if you like, but there is fundamentally nothing wrong in squishing bubbles. Only I would recommend you do go for the quick, firm stamp at the appropriate time rather than cowardly swiping at the bubble with a cheese slice for days, months or even years on end. Him Formerly went down that route but he failed to destroy my bubble with his first feeble swipe. And indeed his second, his third and so on and so fourth, fifth, sixth ... to the point at which I lost count. Stopped counting.

I just kept patching up my bubble, trying to ignore the pain in the hope it would go away. Because I was committed to my bubble, for better or worse. And with no other experience to draw upon I merely concluded that his swiping was the worse and I was duty bound to stick with it. Never minding that loving someone shouldn't be a duty, I dutifully stuck with it. For far too long.

Because crouching behind my sense of duty, trying to look as small as possible so no-one would ever notice it, was my fear. My fear of being alone. My fear of never finding anyone who would love me even the small amount I was desperately scraping off the remains of my sorry looking bubble. And my horriblest fear of all ... that I just didn't have any more love left to give anyone else. That I had run out of love and my bubble making days were over.

Now. Has anyone else ever noticed how fear makes you stupid?

The human capacity for love is endless. Limitless. People don't run out of love. They might lose the courage to do so, they might even lose the desire to do so, but the capacity remains. Lucky for me that when it comes to affairs of the heart my courage and desire far outweighs my fear. When push comes to bubbles, that pulsing little handful is fearless.

So. As I said. I have a new Love Bubble. And in the best tradition of all new soap sud campaigns, it is not just new but very much improved. Because this bubble I am sharing with Mr TGTBT, and sharing fearlessly. I'm not stupid enough to miss out on an opportunity like that.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Getting To The Bottom Of It

Oscar Wilde found it harder and harder every day to live up to his blue china. I am finding it equally difficult to live up to my blog. It has been waiting for me to attend to its needs for some days now, silently berating my lack of diligence and application. In turn, I berate myself for the same. It has just taken me yet another while and a whole heap of distractions to work out why. It also took a little help from Mr TGTBT, which just reinforces the notion of his TGTBT'ness and makes me feel just a little bit uselessly, drippily, wutheringly overawed by it all. 'It' being the fact I am utterly hook, line and sinkered.

Me: (wuthering) I can't write my blog. I am all blogged out.

Mr TGTBT: (not wuthering) Why?

Me: (still wuthering) Because I can only write when I'm miserable.

Mr TGTBT: (still not wuthering) Well that's catharsis for you.

Me: (wuther diminishing) Why can't I write when I'm happy?

Mr TGTBT: (completely unwuthered) You can.

Me: (feeling the wuther return) No...I can't.

Mr TGTBT: (remaining wuther free) Why?

Me: (wuthering) Because I am worried that by writing about how good I feel now I somehow invalidate how bad I felt before. Even though I did feel that way then. Or that perhaps the bad stuff somehow makes a mockery of the good stuff now. I am worried people won't believe that my feelings can change and have changed. I'm not even sure I can believe it.

Mr TGTBT: (not wuthered in the least) Sounds like the perfect subject for a blog to me.

Me: (frozen in mid-wuther) Bugger. Why didn't I think of that?

Mr TGTBT:(wuthering doesn't come into it) Because you're too busy wuthering?

Now it was noted during a Bank Holiday night out that Mr TGTBT might have some competition on the buns front from one of his colleagues. (And said colleague does have very nice buns indeed.) However, on reflection it has to be said that I much prefer Mr TGTBT and his very appealing smart arse.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Pause

I have no idea what's going on. I'll get back to you when I've had time to think about it. On its own. Because all of a once again I seem to be thinking about numerous things, simultaneously, in that pissed jockey and crap hoss way (see Hoofs per Minute).

In fact, it is worse than that. It is hoss and jockey galloping round Escher's Relativity. Going nowhere. Fast.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

F*cking Fantastic

Hard to believe I know, but apparently I lucked out with Mr TGTBT. All too easily pleased I popped on the rose tinteds and settled for what I could get. Which is what I thought was the jackpot. It transpires that I merely got five numbers and the bonus ball because MR TGTBT is not the hottest bit of tottie on the planet. Nor indeed even in the place of his employ.

How do I know this? Because a colleague of Mr TGTBT told me so. Well, he implied it with his suggestion that three T's and a GB were nothing compared to said colleague's Double D Double G status. "That would be Drop Dead Gorgeous Guy" aforementioned colleague reliably informed me, modestly.

Being a Double F myself I can assure you, that while a Double D may be nothing to write home about, there is absolutely nothing modest about a Double G. Well, not at Agent Provocateur anyway.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Heterographic Confusion

I had to meet with Him Formerly tonight. It wasn't pleasant and there were a lot of unpleasantries, my particular favourite being his comment about my no longer single status. "It didn't take you long" he sniped. I wanted to smack him round his stupid head with one of those pots that call kettles black. WTF? He didn't even wait for the relationship to end before lining up a reserve. Pfft.

I also rather liked the point at which he informed me that I shouldn't call him in the evenings (see Lead Poisoning) because Her is there. I should call him during the day when Her isn't there. Unable to resist I laughed at the fact he has ended up with someone he already has to hide things from. He stoically defended his corner and said it was merely for my own good as she just wants to give me a piece of her mind. A piece of her mind indeed. I think with a mind as small as that she is at risk of losing it altogether.

I do have it on good authority however that my mind is the size of a small planet, which means I have plenty to go around. What's more, as evidenced by this blog, I have no qualms about sharing it. So let me share this thought:

If you are going to fall in love with a man who leaves his previous relationship and isn't even allowed to pass GO before he gets to you I would suggest you make room for a little baggage. I think I mentioned that somewhere before (Nobody Solves a Problem Like ... ). In the case of Him Formerly that will be about 15 years worth of baggage.

Now, many years ago myself and Him Formerly were in a bar where we bumped into my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend. New girlfriend was another of those am-dram green-eyed types and whilst I was chatting to ex-boyfriend she began whining to Him Formerly, "Doesn't it annoy you that she is talking to him?".

Him Formerly replied, "No. They slept together for 5 years, I am sure they have plenty to talk about." Now my maths isn't great but I do know that 15 is 5 x 3. Three times as long. Three times more to talk about.

Aaah. But then I realise the issue isn't the talking. The issue is how awfully, dreadfully, horribly, appallingly, terribly, what-the-fuck-everly, I treated poor Him Formerly. How I ruined his life. All on my own. Because he wasn't there to help. I feel another Pfft coming on. So 'Pfft'. There are two people (sometimes more) in every relationship and therefore two sides to every story.

I think just maybe I should give Her the benefit of the doubt. Just maybe Him Formerly misunderstood. Just maybe she wasn't talking about a piece of her mind but her peace of mind. Something she will find very hard to come by with a man who keeps hiding his baggage.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Lead Poisoning

I don't know why I did it. But I did. I caved and gave Him Formerly one more chance. One more chance to prove me wrong, to prove that I am mistaken. I'm not. He really does have a lump of lead where most of us have some ventricles and an aorta. And I have for too long endured the symptoms of chronic exposure.

Sadly, so very sadly, I am struggling with a decision I don't even want to think about, let alone say out loud. A heartbreaking decision that is turning me inside out as it goes against something I have believed in all my life, made famous by the Dog's Trust phrase 'A Dog is For Life'. That is the closest I can get. I spoke with Juicy and Big Cuz because they have had to go through it - albeit with little sympathy from me because I never believed it was possible to reach such a stage. I mean, people don't give their children away because things get too difficult do they?

Well in a way I guess they do. If things are too difficult for parents the can end up destroying that which they love if they can't find whatever kind of strength is needed to give them up voluntarily. Arguably most people couldn't even begin to understand how a parent could give up a child. I couldn't even begin to understand how anyone could give up their dogs.

I do now ... it is because I want them to be happy. I want to stop feeling guilty that they have missed a walk, or been on their own, or had dinner late. Because those things make me feel guilty and that kind of guilt makes me tense. Which makes me snappish and impatient. Which makes those beautiful, loyal and devoted companions of mine drop their ears and look at me with questioning eyes. And my heart aches because I love them so much.

So. I thought for one brief but monumentally stupid moment that Him Formerly might understand. I called him. Now if you or I receive a telephone call from someone who is clearly distressed do we speak in monosyllables and put on a slightly bored tone? Do we try our hardest to be as cold and disinterested as possible? Do we make sure we don't let one kind word of sympathy, understanding, care or compassion pass our lips? Do we disinterestedly and arrogantly ask of someone who is clearly upset in the here and now, "Can we talk about this tomorrow"? No we fucking don't. Not even if we don't like them.

Because empathy as a rule is such a fundamental feature of being human it overrides our baser emotions, even against our will. That pulsing, warm, life giving, ventricle and aorta thing is one of the reasons we humans survive the onslaught of nature and life as we do. Through cooperation and compassion, our ability to imagine ourselves in someone else's shoes.

Those who reveal they are without it often end up behind bars, labelled accordingly due to their unfortunate nature or nurture which has led them to abuse either themselves, others or the society they live in. Those who manage to maintain a semblance of social integration have very different bars. Barred from the ecstasies of life's deeper connections they live behind the kind of bars you can't see. They live in a prison of their own making.

What was I thinking? Looking for empathy and understanding in a place I know full well to be an emotional Strangeways. I'll never make that mistake again.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Bloody Washing Machines

I think my house is working towards an audition for a remake of Demon Seed as various bits of kit within it appear to be taking on a life of their own in order to make my life a misery. Like the washing machine. Like all three washing machines. Like all three of the buggers who today chucked caution to the wind and and threw a swim party in my utility room.

Number one. Sulking. Obstinate. Reprimanded and placed in the garden to think about its behaviour. Number two waited in the study ready to take centre stage while the Crockabilly and Con-Con prepared the set. On the final unveiling washing machine number two became unbecomingly attention seeking and spewed water all over the floor.

There was, despite there being both Crockabilly and myself in the vicinity, a strange calm. Not a perfect calm as neither of us are famed for our patience under pressure from inanimate objects (and in the case of the Crockabilly that also extend to animate ones on occasion) but there was definitely a gritted teeth sort of calm and even a few jokes. Brave faced, the necessary arrangements were made and Number Two was heaved back from whence it came. In a big white van. Duly exchanged by some animate objects at Tesco Direct that even I felt able to lose my patience with, Number Three joined us for its maiden adventure.

Which comprised copying Number Two. At which point I started talking in capital letters whilst trying to control my wobbly bottom lip while the Crockabilly tackled the floods and Con-Con searched the internet, looking for something that might prove helpful. He should have typed "why are the powers that be still picking on AJ?" into the search engine.

Clearly, all washing machines are in the employ of Him Formerly.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ

Custard

It's been one of those days. One of those days where you emphasise the 'those' with an extended vowel sound and raised eyebrows. After the day. During the day you haven't even the energy to wiggle an eyebrow, let alone raise two of them, because any energy you once possessed has been used to beat the custard. To fill the gap where your brain once was.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Undone

I complained yesterday that I didn't have anything to blog about. Big Cuz suggested that as I now have myself a toy-boy (well, he is nearly two years younger than me) I must "be getting some". So I should blog about it. In keeping with my commitment to telling the truth. I suggested Big Cuz was barking.

Really. Expecting me to hold forth on original sin in public. In front of my family and friends. In front of my Mum. My initial reaction was akin to the response he would have received had he suggested I actually do it in public ... only doing it in public might be less embarrassing as I could claim asylum on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Writing about it demands less diminishment and more responsibility. Only a crazy person would do such a thing. Big Cuz raised his eyebrows and flopped a sympathetic smile in the direction of the crazy person. There was no-one behind me.

So having established I am more than qualified to comment I would like to take this opportunity to talk about sex. S. E. X. It might only be three letters but start thinking about it after some lengthy abstinence and suddenly the French ones loom large in your mind's eye as you begin to wonder if you can remember how to deal with them. That and getting your knickers off gracefully. And whether to fake it or not. And whether to ... gulp ... erm ... well, I am sure you get the idea. S. E. X. suddenly feels remarkably similar to O. M.G. the only difference being that the former is less challenging for an amateur ventriloquist.

So OMG I have of late found myself in the rather unexpected position - and no pun intended - of having to consider getting down and dirty with a stranger. Okay, okay, so Mr TGTBT isn't technically a stranger. But he was. He was one of those strangers that make you go all weak at the knees as you find yourself needing to hold onto something to stay upright. One of those strangers you find yourself making friends with and, checklist to hand, giving extra ticks to in boxes you didn't know existed.

'GSOH' is a prerequisite on most checklists, but I found myself ticking 'GSOH with a smile to die for and come to bed eyes'. Der. W.T.F? Whose checklist have I picked up? Oh and look, instead of ticking 'Good talker' I put a big fat tick next to 'Good talker with lips that demand you kiss at first opportunity'. Not to mention the even bigger, fatter tick next to 'Good looking with a little dip at the base of his throat that makes you want to pour honey in it and ... ' well, I am sure you get the idea. Sometime after our first meeting it was clear I had become all undone. And he sent a text to Little Blister announcing he was too. So undone in fact he sent it to the wrong sister.

Sibling dyslexia aside, I liked his undoneness. It made mine seem ok. It suddenly felt ok to wander around feeling real and sensual and fleshly and human and animal. To feel physically alive and wanting to physically connect with another person. All of those things that all of us are, from where each and every one of us came.

SEX in upper case is in fact not an acronym. It is just a headline, there to attract attention. Something for some people to laugh at as they try to hide their embarrassment at needing something so fundamental. Something for some people to cry at as they try to cover the deep wounds received when it is used as a weapon against them. Something for some people to be shocked at as they try and deny the existence of such an instinctive right with prudishness and intolerance.

If those are the kind of headlines you are looking for I suggest you move along now, because for me sex is more precious and more primal. It is dark, it is mystery. It is light, it is life. It is our human birthright and without it we cease to exist.

The best headline you'll find here is one called Undone, because that's how I want to be. And preferably by Mr TGTBT with his smile to die for and come to bed eyes.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x

Shiny, shiny

I saw someone in the pub tonight. Someone who was once very dear to me and whom I knew from the moment we met would always hold a very special place in my heart. I heard my name being called by a voice that was at once intimately familiar and yet somehow so very distant. A sort of life, flashing, eyes moment.

That someone was my first love. The first person I wanted to give the whole of me to and who for a short time I think I did. That someone was also the first person to break my heart. Into bits. Tiny bits and horrible pieces that I thought at the time would never, ever fit back together again. But those first bits and pieces did in fact mend quite well. Well enough that to see the cause of that heartbreak again was a joyous moment. A moment to delight in that seemed filled with genuine warmth as two people reconnected through the shared memory of something once so very wonderful that even the pain of its loss couldn't destroy.

And it was pondering on that moment that brought clarity and calm to some vaguely upsetting thoughts I have had of late, namely the mulling and pondering and dallying over the question of why, in spite of having spent 15 years of my life with Him Formerly, I can't scrape up even a hint of a tickle of fondness for shared memories. Not a smidge.

I do try because evidently there was a lot of fondness in the relationship for it to last 15 years. A lot of love at some point too, a lot of passion, a lot of laughter. Yet while I am able to recall that those emotions happened I can't relive them, I don't feel them. I feel just kind of empty. Wasted. It's like I am watching a film and failing on the suspension of disbelief: as if all the mechanics and techniques are to the fore, the plotting too contrived and emotional engagement therefore impossible.

Of course I hope this feeling too will pass, as all the others have done. Yet this feeling has been accompanied by some of those doubts they call nagging that constantly suggest it just won't happen. And if it doesn't ever happen I now understand why. An understanding reached through the memory of my first love and my first heartbreak. An understanding of honesty.

My first love broke my heart. Yes into tiny bits and horrible pieces. Yes it was painful and yes it hurt terribly. But it wasn't broken with anything other than honesty. I grant you that in innocence and youth relationships are perhaps less complicated, but we only know that through the benefit of our useless hindsight. At the time of our experiences they are as real and hurtful and complicated as we can ever know or ever imagine. And the imprints stay with us always.

With my first experience of heartbreak there was no malice aforethought ... no sly deceits to tarnish the memories and no spite or cruelty to taint them. When in time all the bits and pieces were finally put back together my heart was able to shimmer forever in the afterglow, having been buffed by experience and polished with the truth.

Sadly my most recent experience of heartbreak bears little resemblance to my first. It started off with a glimmer but then slowly but surely each bright moment was pinched out by the discovery of another lie, each new lie extinguishing the flickers of truth I still held onto. Finally I reached the point where the lights went out on my memories and they seemed real no more.

So if the time comes when you know you must break another's heart, dust down your conscience and do it honestly. A heart that is honestly broken honestly can get better. And your memories will shine with more brilliance if able to share in the reflected glory should you meet them unexpectedly in the pub one night.

Yours in hope & fear, AJ x