Been having a different emotion every 5 minutes. All this isolation is taking its toll. I always find a well selected tune can help me ride whatever feeling washes over me. Thus my recent listening has been a seesaw.
Patsy Cline has been featuring in my playlists fairly frequently. She’s the perfect accompaniment to a melancholy mood. Her voice manages to be sad & comforting at the same time. Strange is a particular favourite at the moment. The wistful cynicism feels familiar.
On a more sanguine note is I’ll Be Your Mirror. I’m not a huge fan of The Velvet Underground, but this is one that gets my insides swishy. I think we all have times when it is difficult to see the good in ourselves. Having someone believe in you enough to reflect them for you is beautiful. The vocals are so gentle; listening feels like sinking into a dream.
Meghan Tonjes is a Bopo Queen. I love her work, so I don’t know why it took me so long to discover her music. Turns out she is a talented songwriter too. Habits is one of those heart wrenchingly honest break up songs that still manages not to be depressing. I’ve definitely had loves I struggled to get out of my head. There’s nothing worse than that everything reminds of you the loss stage. Maintaining an avoidance high sounds appealing (& entirely I’ll advised).
I’m late to the party with Catfish & The Bottlemen. Which isn’t unusual for me. I often discover music long after it has ceased be novel to everyone else. I’ve fallen for them all the same. It’s probably a little cheesy to select Glasgow as my favourite, but it extracts happy sighs me. The slight rasp in the singers voice chills me right out. The lyrics take me back to being young & drunk on sauchiehall st. Days when I never knew where a night out might end. Ah, the glory of misspent youth.
Sexual by Neiked is a surprise fav. I just can’t resist its ebullience. It is impossible not to bop around to this tune. It feels like a summer fling. All the sexy fun & carry on with none of the long term issues. After months in lockdown I am more than ready for this summer to get heady. I hope to soon be turning this one up loud & enjoying it with someone yummy.
I hate to be obvious, but I’ve played If The World Was Ending to death. How could I not? There has been a touch of apocalypse hanging in the air. So many sad stories surround us all. I can’t help but think about who really matters. Of course, part of that will always be the one that got away. It’s impossible not to be swept up in the plaintive request at the centre of the song. If the world really was ending none of the details that couldn’t be worked out would matter. I can’t be the only one tempted to curl up in the arms of Mr I wish he were right.
There’s nothing like a nation wide quarantine to really hammer home the fact that you’re childless. All anyone can talks about is their kids. How the silver lining of all this chaos is extra time with their cherubs. How being stuck in the house with them is driving folk crazy or all the creative ideas for activities to keep them occupied. It’s a non stop child frenzy. Unless you’re barren.
I hate that word. It feels accusatory & cold. It is, however the descriptor that keeps pushing itself into my head. Being alone in my house for over a month has contracted my world. There’s nowhere to hide. I’m content in my own company, but I’m accustomed to regular interruptions. Being unable to see friends, family or get involved in any outside work projects is tough. Those are my escapes. Adventures with little people. Laughs with big ones. Putting my skills towards something worthwhile. When you take all that away the only bit that’s left is empty.
There’s too much opportunity to be in my head. I’m not sleeping well, which facilitates bonus peak anxiety hours. Plus all this stress & uncertainty has opened the door to nightmares. Mostly relating to being pregnant & threatened by various dangers. With little snippets of real flashbacks thrown in for extra distress. When I’m not feeling powerless, I have a sense of being robbed. This strange, crazy time has necessitated hunkering down in family units. I don’t have one.
I have plenty of amazing people. I’m grateful, believe me. Lockdown has reinforced my belief that a husband is so not for me. With a little help from folks who are allowed outside I can manage my life just fine. If anything, it’s people to care for I want. I can’t stop myself from thinking how old my children would be now. I unintentionally look out for age appropriate lockdown activities. I imagine baking my Gran’s fruit loaf with tiny helpers. I caught myself constructing a home school lesson plan in my head. Fantasising about passing on one’s insights of the works of Lewis Grassic Gibbon is a lonely pursuit.
I have this sensation that I spend my life trying to squash. Hollow and raw. It’s as though someone scraped out all the essential parts of me with a dirty, jagged instrument. I occupy my time trying to keep the chasm sufficiently full. Packing in as many beautiful moments as I can find to prevent an inward collapse. Now my world is on hold, that void is ever present.
I know I am fortunate in many ways. I am able to stay safely at home. My housing is secure. I can video call the people I love. I will have access to healthcare if I need it. Life will resume. I do know that. I’m just struggling with the realisation that I’ll never fully heal this. Every time I think I have accepted my situation the wound is reopened & it feels fresh all over again.
Sunrise is rather pretty this morning. I’m trying to revel in the beauty of nature, but I’d happily skip it for some sleep. I’ve not had more than 3 consecutive hours slumber in an age. I’m tired & sore & grumpy, damn it. I want to do the whole gratitude thing, but I think a big old moan would serve me better. Indulge me.
For starters, it’s Sunday. The sabbath has always been my least favourite day. I think it’s probably a remnant from childhood. That weekend’s almost over & I have to go to mass vibe was not a winner. The dreaded Sunday feeling clung on past horribly hungover Monday morning uni lectures & into the days of 9-5 grind. Even now when I can structure my week however I want, the downer remains. Sundays make me blue.
The next item on my pointless gripe list is scents that aren’t scents. This one has been getting on my wick this week. Probably because I have too much time on my hands & am seeing tv ads. If you’re naming a product & its smell is a selling point, pick something that actually has an aroma. Diamonds don’t smell. Bright copper kettles do not have recognised scent. Silk is not an olfactory delight and no one wants their bedsheets to smell of secrets. Please stop it.
Another whinge stemming from lack of a stimulating life is my hatred of bangs. Too much social media has resulted in over exposure. Americans are all desperate to cut their own ‘bangs’. Fringes are cool upon many a forehead, calling them bangs is not. It makes no sense. A fringe describes exactly what it is. It’s a wee fringe of hair for your face. Perfect. What the fuck does the word bang have to do with it? And why is it plural? I could almost get over the nonsensical name, but not the pluralisation. One fringe per head! What are you playing at Americans?
I return to you after dealing with the bane of my life; the dishes. I hate washing dishes. It is such a con. Dirty dishes are basically a microcosm of adult life. No matter how many or how quickly you wash them, there will always be more. Fuck those filthy little bastards.
All of which brings me to the biggie, sex. How the hell am I supposed do without a shag for months on end? Sex would mitigate so many of the problems corona has created. Bored, stressed lacking exercise, a vigorous shag is just the trick. An orgasm will defeat your insomnia & improve your immune system. Scared and angry distract yourself with a nice bit of cock (or whatever takes your fancy). Getting it on would take the sting right out of this isolation. Alas quarantine doesn’t permit ‘conjugal’ visits and I would most certainly throttle any man I had to be locked down with. So, in conclusion I definitely won’t be getting any for the foreseeable & I’m a whingeing nightmare as a result.
This month I was inspired (influenced?) to support a charity by one of my fav instagram accounts. I saw a post about Smile & felt compelled to make a donation. Which goes to show that social media isn’t all bad.
Smile Train fund drs, clinics etc to perform cleft palate repairs on kids who would otherwise not have access to the procedure. It’s a fairly routine op in more privileged parts of the world, but one that is outwith the means of many. Failure to correct a cleft palate can have far reaching implications. From an inability to feed properly and resultant dangers to exclusion from society. The facial difference can cause children to be shunned be communities. Leaving them unable to access education, build relationships and leading to permanent isolation.
This is a problem that can be fixed and you can help. You can give a child a smile & a chance a better life. Please donate if you can.
Miscarriage is lonely. When it happens you’re on your own. No matter how much support you have it’s still just your body failing. Your dream dying. Even if you have a loving partner who shared that dream, they’re not bleeding. Their body isn’t an empty husk. Yes, I know this isn’t necessarily true, but believe me, it’s how it feels.
That sensation continues. The loss is isolating. For all the reasons we’re starting to talk about and for others that will surprise you when you thought you were ok. It is an uncomfortable topic. No one really wants to talk about your unsuccessful pregnancies. Often most people in your life don’t even know about them. Those that do will forget the dates & details. That’s not a complaint, just fact. Your baby wasn’t real to them. It’s hard to feel anything about a life that never tangibly existed; your baby only really lived in your world. That’s not to say your people don’t care, they do. Perhaps they just don’t want to upset you. Or they genuinely don’t have the words. Time goes by. Life is lived. The only evidence of your loss is an absence. But the missing party was never there to anyone other than you. It’s a crime without a witness, but it isn’t victimless.
To a certain extent you adapt. You carry that lonelines. It’s occasionally acknowledged that once upon a time your life was almost something else. You quietly carry your grief and you carry on. Along the way you find new challenges. You discover that there are a bunch of seminal moments & experiences that you have to put away. You aren’t really allowed to tell those stories like other mothers do. You aren’t even allowed to call yourself a Mum out loud. The title doesn’t make sense to the world when you have no flesh & blood children to show.
So, you learn to smile & say nothing. Just nod and ask questions when others share the tale of how they discovered they were pregnant. You can’t join in with a silly story about peeing on a dozen sticks. You can never say how you somehow knew before it was ever possible to do any test at all. Your stories aren’t cute. That’s someone else’s lot. You won’t be thanked for ruining the mood. Likewise you mustn’t share pregnancy tales. No friendly bonding over how tired you were or sick you felt. Cravings & aversions will remain unknown because, again, you have no happy endings. The tone of your reminiscing isn’t light. You can never empathise with a pregnant friend. To do so would be to draw attention to tragic realities. There isn’t a guilty party. You aren’t being maliciously excluded. It’s just life. Your child didn’t make it. Reminding everyone of that turns warm-hearted conversations into sad, awkward exchanges. You can’t broach the subject because you don’t want to spoil other people’s nice time. They won’t include you because they don’t want to hurt you or because they forget (or never knew) that you are part of that gang. You’re missing the vital component required for membership.
That hurts. The silence is painful. Biting your tongue & standing on the perimeter takes effort. Not letting any of it show can be torture. Not fatal though. You’ll find yourself in these situations repeatedly. You’ll realise you can survive them. You will nod along & take your sadness home. Unpack it when you’re alone. Go over your own pregnancy chronicles in the privacy of your head. Then you’ll have to take a deep breath & face the new hush.
You have nothing to add to the next part. The trimester you didn’t reach. The birth. The nights the baby didn’t sleep. The trials & triumphs of breastfeeding. Words and steps and sobs and kisses. You’ll have nothing to share. All you have is second hand information. When you help your experience isn’t really yours. Just borrowed. Never actually a mother’s wisdom. It’s still no one’s fault. You don’t wish they wouldn’t share. Don’t want to stop being a part of the whole wonderful process.
To feel like a mother & never have anyone call you mummy.
To shake your head no when you mean yes.
I know other people understand, but I’m still on my own.