Sunday 25 October 2020

Baby mine


 

I couldn't quite decide whether to post this on my main blog or my bpd blog, then I realized i didn't give a deep-fried shit and carried on typing. 

I've touched upon this topic before, but never really talked about it much. It's always been something I'd brushed off, pretended it didn't happen. But I have a lot of feelings now, so maybe I'll deal with part of it, but I probably won't. 

When I met Rob, it was through a guy that lived below him, his name was Jake. Dancing around the facts, eventually I ended up meeting his friend Olly who, unintentionally, got me pregnant. He didn't know, I didn't know, and no one found out until months later when I realized that the inexplicable bleeding I'd experienced the night after I took the morning after pill as a result of sleeping with someone else was more than just a bad period. There'd been a baby inside me. 

Now I've never wanted kids, I've always said I'd be a terrible parent, but the baby that I'd been pregnant with would have been turning 8 or 9 now. In my head, they either don't exist, or they're still a new born.  Hallucinating earlier, I thought they were in my arms and I placed what I thought was them in the back of my closet and taped the door shut, desperate to keep them safe. I still don't know how I should feel about, that's just it, I don't know what it's about. Do I say it? Do I say, child? The person I was with at the time I miscarried told me he'd kick a baby out of me if he found out I was pregnant and, at the time, I thought it was funny. Looking back, that wasn't funny, that was just an example of the kind of person he was. 

I'm tired now, and I don't really know how to feel this evening. But, whatever happens, I know that when I close my eyes I saw my baby, and when I wrapped my arms around them I wanted to keep them safe. 

xXx

Tuesday 20 October 2020

Fancy a cuppa? Tea with Rasputin by Rolf Richardson


As a kid, I was obsessed with the movie Anastasia. I saw it god-knows how many times at the cinema, had all the toys I could possibly get my hands on, and even sported an Anastasia lunch box at one point. I also think that my love of the film is what spurned my all-consuming adoration of the iconic Angela Lansbury, who played the Dowager Empress Marie in the film. 

Aside from this, I have very little experience with anything even remotely Russian, unless you count the reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in 7th grade, which I don't because I remember nothing about it. That is until I was sent Tea with Rasputin by Rolf Richardson to read last month. 

The book begins with Terry, a low-ranking member of a flight crew, being sent to locate missing pilot Gregory who disappeared along the Alaska-Russia border. Travelling to the US state, he investigates the pilots unexpected vanishing, meeting his future wife Coral along the way, and eventually discovers the pilot was killed and buried in Russia. 

Unconvinced by this explanation, Terry continues to investigate the pilot's disappearance only to find that he had faked his own death in order to start a new life in his native Russia, leaving behind his wife in the UK to whom he left a large life insurance policy. 

From then on, the novel recounts Terry's relationship with the former pilot, both personal and professional, and he and his family's own time spent living in Russia. With details about corruption in the country, Grigori as becomes known is killed by a suspected poison dart whilst attempting to flee the country for England with his children and Terry's family. 

What I liked most about the book was that I had very little experience with reading literature focused on Russian heritage. Whilst the story of Terry's life and how it became intertwined with Grigori's was the main focus of the plotline, there were also pieces of information regarding the development of Russia during the 1990s that I did not expect. Turning against the traditional form of fictional text, elements of interesting non-fiction were included to both entertain and educate the reader. It was also unlike anything I had ever read before, which is always a bonus when being sent texts to review. 

However, my understanding of such events was not always what it could have been, and a little extra information about the influencing Russian politics may have been useful as a means of expanding my understanding of the text. Plus the title had absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the book unless you count the two of so pages towards the end where Grigori is found dead at an installation depicting Rasputin's meeting with the Tsar at a popular museum. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its title, but it felt very much as if the connection had been tacked on unnecessarily because the author liked the title. 

Overall, this is definitely a novel I'd recommend. Both interesting and unusual, it was unlike anything I'd ever read before and I'd happily read someone of the author's other texts. 8/10



xXx


Tuesday 6 October 2020

Hell hath no fury, Dead Woman Scorned by Michael Clark


Let's talk sequels, shall we? 

When I got sent this book, I was told the first one was absolutely amazing and found it attached to the accompanying email. Normally I would have read the first novel before diving into the second, but time limitations prevented me from being able to do so and, for the most part, it was pretty easy to club together an idea of what the first text had been about. 

Dead Woman Scorned by Michael Clark could very easily be a standalone text. Slipping between time periods, it talks of a man renovating a house haunted by a murderous ghost who murdered her son, the story of how the murderous ghost came to be, and the actions of a man obsessed with the aforementioned ghost and how her appearances have affected his family. Interwoven with other days of her actions and the occult, it's one of the few texts I have encountered recently where the time-hopping was not only beneficial to my understanding and enjoyment of the text but also incredibly clear. 

The only problem I have surrounding the idea of the book being a sequel is how it prepares for what the third text in the series, that I have not and, if I'm honest, have no desire to read. The text could have ended perfectly without the inclusion of a shorter storyline involving the death of the owners of a funeral home in a drunk driving accident, and the subsequent journey her children take towards carrying on working for the company. Eventually leading to the death of their daughter, their fuck-up son has to take over the business and is inexplicably visited by the ghost of his parents when he continues to run his family's business into the ground. 

Ground, funeral home, get it? God, I'm a hoot. 

Anyway, this part of the text is included incredibly late in the narrative and leads to the novel ending rather abruptly, an attempt to encourage the reader to pick up the next book. Thing is, there was so much going on otherwise that this part felt almost pointless to me, and served no purpose other than to slightly spoil something I'd really enjoyed. The author didn't need to add this part in, it would have fitted perfectly in a book all on its own, and it seemed to me to be an almost underhand way of baiting readers into buying his future work. 

The reason this annoyed me was that the text itself is absolutely great, and unlike anything I would normally pick up. I've had mixed feelings towards some of the works I've been sent to review lately. Some of them have been great but others have either been over-the-top, miserable, or just had far too much going on. The main characters are well created and I connected with the protagonist living in the 1970s, who's dealing with the repercussions of a divorce that is leading to his ex-wife preventing him from seeing his children and altogether being a dick about visitation. 

I'm a child of separated parents, I get it

In addition to this, it was very easy to tell which time period I was reading about due to the clearly titled chapters and changes in narrative voice and tone. They also linked and flowed together well in a way that I have no seen many texts of a similar style do. If you are into books about the occult, or even if you aren't, I would definitely recommend this text. 

xXx

Thursday 1 October 2020

Hmm, how about no?

Hands up any woman who's had sex with a guy to shut them up. To stop them complaining or to keep them happy when you had absolutely no desire to. Sadly, I can guarantee that there are a few arms being raised. 

Last month I briefly dated a guy who I thought was a decent human being, only for him to ghost me. Which, of course, I blamed myself for. Pretty average in bed, he asked if I was up for sex one night and when I said no, he told me that I "wouldn't have to do anything". 

Ah yes, because there really is nothing sexier than being treated like a hand. 

To give him the smallest amount of credit, I really think that he thought what he was saying was appealing. In his head, he would be pleasuring me as well as himself which, given my lack of interest in sex at that point, would definitely not have happened. Thankfully, he didn't push it, but I really don't think I should have to be thankful for someone not pushing to have sex with me when I say I don't want to. 

Sadly, this wasn't the first time this has happened, and on many occasions, I have given in, done something I really wasn't up for just to appease them. Lying on my back in pain, because being used as a fleshlight can be incredibly painful when I really didn't want to be. I'm not blaming myself entirely, I did say yes after all, but the people in question should have taken no as my first answer. As I said in my post To the guy that drove me home, no doesn't mean try harder, it quite simply means, no. 

xXx

Wednesday 30 September 2020

So much more


Don't you just love it when you think you've met a genuinely nice guy and then he ghosts you out of no-where?

I know, it really gets me going too. 

A few weeks ago I met a guy. He was sweet, kind and we had a series of amazing dates. We'd planned another date today which seemed to be all systems go, until Monday when he randomly started ignoring me for no reason. I've texted him checking in, asked if he is okay, and been left on read both times. It seems he really was too good to be true, and I'm not going to lie I'm kinda bummed. 

Part of me has been blaming myself, blaming my condition because I ran out of my meds and wasn't able to get them until yesterday because the chemist I collect them from is closed at weekends (if you're looking for the line of people blaming me for this it starts around the corner btw). Without my meds, I'm not myself, but I feel this is a given. I have an incredibly serious and rare condition and my medication keeps me alive, without it I'm simply who I really am. 

As a result of my unusual behavior over the past few days, I assumed that he did not feel comfortable around my BPD and therefore didn't want to see or speak to me anymore. Leading my brain to lay the blame on myself once again. But now I have my medication I'm changing my thinking. Or trying to anyway. 

The fact is that, although I may have BPD, I'm so so much more than my diagnosis. I'm kind, hardworking, brave and a good person, no matter what I may tell myself. Or what other people may tell me for that matter. It's not simply a case of his loss, that's a given, but more a case of that it's sad that people don't see that, that I don't see that. 

One of the things I'm refocusing on working on is building my self-esteem. I say building not re-building because in order to re-build something it has to have existed in the first place. Yesterday I stood crying by the pastry display at work because of how much I hate myself, and I've blamed myself for every break-up I've ever had. I'm ready to date again, want to date again, but am tired of being with people who ghost or break up with me. I am so much more than my BPD, and it would just be nice if people could see that. 


xXx 

Thursday 27 August 2020

Witches of Vegas

                    


I have a confession to make, I'm a shitty British person. This may come as a shock to everyone I've encountered whilst living in Canada, but I Jessica Howard, a fully-fledged member of the Queen's England, have never seen, or read, Harry Potter. 

I have spent a lot of time in the Harry Potter shop in Kings Cross Station, but that's because I spend half my life there and it's a good place to browse while I'm waiting for the queue to the loo to go down. 

This lack of knowledge reared its head when I began reviewing the latest novel sent to me, The Witches of Vegas by Mark Rosendorf. The novel centers around a family of witches that use their power to perform a magic show in Las Vegas. Struggling to compete with the supernatural, the owner of a neighboring show agrees to spy them for a woman that turns out to have ties with the family. 

The woman who hires them turns out to be a witch herself, as well a vampire. Having been turned by the family's token blood-sucking relative, she seemingly went rogue and was banished by her former lover. 

Quite a straight forward plot you would say, Straddling the line between reality and the supernatural, but pretty easy to follow. 

Oh, how wrong you would be. 

You see, whilst a good book, there is a lot going on within this text. We have reality, we have witches, we have vampires. We have time travel, exorcism, abuse, death, portals, illusions, channeling the earth's energy, and the use of crystals. Quite simply there is far too much going on within the novel. For me, at least, there was little chance of escapism and relaxation given that every 3 pages seemed to lead into a new trope that could have been the focus of a novel in its own right. 

Don't get me wrong, it's a well-written book. The characters are well developed, the description was great and it was fun to read about a topic that I'd never really explored before. Maybe that was the issue, maybe it was owing to the fact that I have little experience reading about the topic that I found it hard to enjoy. Regardless, whilst it may be a good choice for people who enjoy books about magic and the language itself was easy to read, I don't think it's something I will be picking up again. 

xXx

Tuesday 25 August 2020

Dead after Midnight



As I'm sure a lot of people did, I read a lot of books during the monstrosity that was quarantine 2020. As I prefer to find books to read by browsing bookstores so I can flick through pages and read blurbs, an activity I was obviously prohibited from doing during lockdown, I chose to read a lot of books for review posts. Mostly because having someone else choose what I should read next is significantly easier than trying to decide myself and, let's face it, I did not really have the mental capacity to make choices other than what episode of Miss Marple to watch each day between the months of April and June. 

One of the books that I read was called Dead after Midnight, by C. P. Daly. Admittedly a bit of a downer, the text had a potentially interesting storyline as it centered around the actions of a woman who was working as a prostitute in a prison after finding her "co-worker" dead. 

As I said, a bit of a downer and quite a dark subject matter. Definitely not one for those looking to pass their time during the remaining days of summer mulling over a relaxing beach read. 

The text itself is really good, and it follows the protagonist as she attempts to flee her old life and create a new identity in another state. However, as with so many stories of this kind, the people and situations she was trying to run away from end up finding her, and she must do whatever she can to keep herself safe. 

There are a couple of twists in the text that I did not quite expect, the true identity of her murdered co-worker being one of them. However, as with so many of the books I read and review for these types of posts, there just wasn't enough substance for me to truly unpack and enjoy these surprises. The book is very short, and a lot more could have been said about this and many other aspects of the novel that would have allowed me to engage with it further. 

Whilst it would have been nice to know more about the protagonist for instance, why she became a prostitute in the first place, it was nice to read a text where a female character working in the profession was able to leave it behind and find something new. So many novels featuring these types of tropes depict women as being stuck in situations such as these with no chance of ever escaping. 

In short, I really enjoyed the text. Whilst I believe that some parts of it served no purpose and therefore could have been removed, her sleeping with her boss's engaged son, for instance, it was very enjoyable and had the potential to be an even better text. All I wish was that it had been a bit longer to allow me to find out more about the characters. 

xXx

Friday 3 July 2020

The Memories We Bury by H.A. Leuschel




I don't tend to read a lot of thriller books. I have nothing against them, they're just not something I gravitate towards. However, after making some terrible mistakes in regards to personal reading, now when I look for new books to review I simply ask for a surprise. The Memories We Bury by H.A. Leuschel was one such book. 

When I first started it, I didn't think much of it and was tempted not to finish it. There seems to be a style for authors writing pieces that vary from one narrator's perspective to another and back with each chapter, and it's not something I'm overly fond of. Although it can be helpful, I sometimes find myself getting lost in the narration and not quite knowing who's perspective I'm reading from. Regardless, I carried on and finished the book in one sitting. 

Unlike the book I previously reviewed, the plot line for this book is relatively simple. A young woman, Lizzie, and her husband Markus move in next door to an elderly woman named Morag, who carves a place for herself in their lives as a means of satisfying her need for grandchildren. What starts off as a friendly relationship becomes toxic and manipulative as Morag attempts to convince Lizzie's husband and friends that she is suffering from post-natal depression and is incapable of caring for her young child Jamie. 

As I said, I don't normally like books that write different chapters from different narrator's perspectives, but in this instance, I feel it really benefitted the text. From Lizzie's perspective, you can see how she is initially grateful for, and then comes to depend on, Morag's help, especially as her husband becomes more and more absent as the text progresses. Her sections of the text also draw on her relationship with her own cold and withdrawn mother and show us how Lizzie comes to see Morag as the mother she never had, as is her intention. Reading her narrative also allows us to see how Morag's behaviour becomes progressively more manipulative and shows us how she becomes a danger to Lizzie and her newborn son Jamie. 

Reading from Morag's perspective, however, allows us to understand why Morag is acting the way she is, at least to a degree. From the beginning, we know that she craves grandchildren and that she is a widow living alone who's children seldom come to visit. By seeing how she portrays herself as the kind and considerate neighbour, we see how her actions are entirely based upon her desire for grandchildren, and how she sees becoming a part of Lizzie and Jamie's life as a way of giving her the relatives she craves so badly. Whilst her actions start off as well-meaning, we soon see her actions becoming more and more dangerous and manipulative. 

It is as the book progresses that the divide between the two narrators becomes more and more effective in aiding the progression of the plotline. We not only see Morag's behaviour intensify and Lizzie's doubt begin to grow, but we are also given an explanation for why she acts the way that she does. 

As I said, at first I didn't have high hopes for the book and I do not think I will read it again. However, I did finish the book in one sitting and am sat here writing this review immediately afterwards with what can only be described as a severe case of the heebie-jeebies, and I think that makes it a very good thriller indeed. 


Sunday 21 June 2020

Sorry not sorry


    This image has absolutely nothing to do wit the contents of this post, but it appeared on screen when I type No into Pixabay and who doesn't love a picture of a goat? Also, this post is a tad rambly. 

You know those people who never, ever, seem to be wrong? The ones who, whatever happens, they always manage to get an apology out of you? Yeah, I'm not like that. Somehow, whatever happens, I always feel like I need to apologize. I don't know why it is but, for whatever reason, I always feel like I'm in the wrong and, if I'm completely honest, I'm kind of done with it. 

There was an incident with the magazine yesterday in which I realized I had been working a job that I didn't actually have for four months without being paid. It wasn't the greatest, but it wasn't the worst. What got me the most though is that, when I sent my notes over my (ex) editor, he had a problem with how I phrased them. Apparently, he didn't respond well to my bluntness, and this is something I'm really tired of apologizing for. 

I'm blunt, I have always been blunt and I will always be blunt. Whilst I never deliberately try to hurt someone, I always try my best to be direct. I respond to direct, and I feel no need to sugar coat something just to make someone else feel better. An example of this comes from when I met a friend's boyfriend a few years ago. She repeatedly told me how horrible he was to her, but she had a problem with the fact that I didn't welcome him with open arms and immediately want him to be on my Christmas card list. I will be civil, but I won't fake my emotions if someone is mean to my friend. 

Another example of this was when I was with River. He was living with me at the time, and came home from a night out, got into bed with me and proceeded to tell me how a woman had been grinding up against him all night and told him she wanted to blow him. Unsurprisingly, I was not overly jazzed about this, and when I finally responded with an, ever so, disgruntled "DUDE", he got offended and I ended up apologizing. 

That's right, he felt the need to tell me that he spent his evening being offered oral in a public bathroom and I was the one that apologized. Let's just let that sink in. 

I seem to apologize a lot for being blunt, worrying that I struggle with being tactful when really what I should be worried about is the fact that other people feel the need to react in the way they do. One of the few things I've learnt from my, many, experiences with therapy, is that someone's reaction to your behaviour has nothing to do with you. You can't control how they feel about your actions, and so attempting to modify your behaviour to change them is completely pointless 

Whilst this post may seem as if all I'm saying is "poor me", that's really not the case. What it is saying is that I'm finally realizing that I apologize way, way, too much and it's finally time for me to stand up for myself and accept that I'm not always in the wrong. Yes, there will be occasions where I cock up and I will obviously apologize for those, but I'm done saying sorry for reacting in a way that is perfectly understandable for the situation in hand. I really am over it. 

Lolita, Literature and Cancel Culture


I'm a self-certified member of the planner community, and while researching an incident involving a prominent member in the community I came across an article describing how singer Madison Beer had been "cancelled", due to her opinions on Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. 

For people who haven't heard of/read the novel, Lolita recounts the story of pedophile Humber Humbert and his obsession with prepubescent girls, or "nymphets" as he calls them. When in a relationship with a woman his own age, he becomes infatuated with her pre-pubescent daughter Delores, aka Lolita, and he forces himself into a sexual relationship with the child. There is no sugar coating the topic of the novel, it's about pedophilia and rape, end of. 

The reason that people took to social media in an attempt to "cancel" the singer, was because of her feelings towards the book. Describing the piece as one of her favorite texts, she said that she "romanticizes" the novel, causing a plethora of shouts, screams and opinions from people hell-bent on destroying the woman's career with a few tweets. 

Personally, I love Lolita. It was one of the first texts I studied whilst at university, and I spent hours ploughing through it in bed when the combination of Canada's ridiculous winter temperatures and the fact that my room had no heat was enough to shove me under the covers, whenever I wasn't traipsing across the city to work. It's a seminal piece, provocative and intense and it's meant to cause a reaction. Although I'm pretty sure Nabokov didn't bank on it being a catalyst for a social media campaign. 

Just to be clear, in case anyone was wondering, I obviously do not support pedophilia. There's nothing else that needs to be said about this, but it's not just the controversial subject matter than makes Lolita such a beautiful piece. It's stunningly written, bold, brave and shows Nabokov's daring nature as a writer. One of my favourite books is American Psycho, arguably one of the most controversial texts of the nineties, but my love for Bret Easton Ellis' book has nothing to do with my supporting the gruesome deplorable behaviours the protagonist Patrick Batement engages in, it's because it's a really good book. 

They say that no publicity is bad publicity, and this can mean the same for literature. Just because the subject matter of a text makes the reader uncomfortable, doesn't make it bad. If anything, it's a good thing. We witness events every single day that makes us uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean that we have to water-down literature, particularly literature written in 1953, just because the subject matter is taboo. Controversial and shocking content has amassed millions in the film industry, and few would make a bid to "cancel" anyone if they enjoyed films that affected them in a similar way to Lolita, so why should literature be any different?

Although, the whole thing where brands use sexually provocative names to sell their products (I'm looking at you Kat Von D. and your Lolita lip colour) is lazy, unimaginative and just plain boring at this point. That really can be "cancelled". 

xXx

Thursday 11 June 2020

Rome




Whenever I've talked about my first, and only, visit to Rome in my blog, I've always discussed in a way that only notes the "terrible" decision I made to eventually leave my home and move to Vancouver to be with a man that I barely knew. A decision that didn't end the way I wanted to, but that I made none the less. 

This time, instead, I want to talk about the good in those moments. I'm re-reading Call me by your name again and it's made me think about that particular trip. The trip that was only meant to last a few days, the trip that really hadn't gone the way I'd planned at all, the trip that made me take such a risk. 

I met Jacob in a hostel. I'd been asleep all day, as per usual when I travel, and he was brought in by the hostel receptionist during his tour of the building. They walked in, waking me from my day of slumber, and commandeered the bed closest to the door. I was on the back left, he at front right, and we got to chatting casually with one of the other people staying in the room. After a few beers and the exit of the other guest, a drunken and flirtatious discussion ended up with me being topless and, as moved to his side of the room to retrieve the Deadpool t-shirt given to me by an ex-boyfriend, we kissed. 

I'm not going to say that it was a world-shatteringly romantic moment, it wasn't. Feverish and passionate, we were two drunk strangers making out on a single bed in a hostel. Making out that eventually led to us having silent, secretive sex while the person in the bed opposite pretended to be asleep. 

I'm very sorry about that by the way, who and wherever you are. 

The plan was for me to leave the next day. I was travelling by train and had another destination planned. Instead, he asked me to stay with him for a few days and, in a fashion that was incredibly unlike me, I agreed. We'd planned on meeting later that day after he'd booked us a private room for the next two nights, and spent the day travelling around Rome independently of each other until I eventually sat waiting for his message at the train station. 

I won't lie, I nearly left there and then. I couldn't get through to him and, as I sat exhausted crying on the floor of the station, I simultaneously craved his contact to prove that I hadn't changed my plans for nothing, and wanted more than anything to get on the next train out of Rome. I was tired of being attracted to people that didn't feel the same way, and being led on by a promise of something more than a one night stand. Fortunately, just being I was ready to give in, he messaged me, and I carried my bags back to the hostel and we settled into our room. 

It would be false to say that these were the most romantic of my life, there was an undoubtable connection and I knew I wanted to be with him at that moment, but that caused me a discomfort that I'd felt countless times before. I was scared, scared of how I would feel when I left, assuming that he wouldn't reciprocate my feelings of wanting to meet again. My past experiences and insecurities lead me to think I'm not worthy of love, and so I carried a tension around with me that giving into would have changed my path completely. Shortly after, I told him how uncomfortable I felt at the thought of continuing our journey together if we would never reconcile. In response, he simply asked, as he had been doing since the first night we spent together in our own private Italy, if I trusted him. 

I said that I did, I had no reason not to. 

It was our penultimate night in central Rome when he finally revealed why he was asking. Come to Canada, he'd said, this was serious. To many, the thought of travelling across the world to a place I'd never been, leaving my entire life behind, would have seemed insane. After all, not many people are willing to leave their homes, friends and family behind them. Me? I didn't see the problem. Yes, I'd miss people, but they were in no way going to leave my life. Travelling around so much, I'm used to not seeing the people I love on a regular basis and find it easy to maintain relationships over the phone. I said yes, of course, immediately contacting my friends and parents to tell them about our conversation. Did I know much about this man? No. Did I want to no more about him and be with him in Vancouver? Yes. 

That was our last night together in Europe. We spent our evening curled up next to each other in an Air BnB. Parting at the train station, I kissed him goodbye as he travelled to his next, and final, European location before leaving for Canada, with a plan to see each other soon. 

As we know, my journey to be with him didn't work out, as many people knew it would. But during that trip, in those moments, I was given the possibility of falling in love not only with a new person but with a brand new country as well. 

As I said in the beginning of this post, I often brush over my brief relationship with Jacob as a mistake, a choice that may have led to my eventual emigration to Toronto, but had also brought me an ungodly amount of pain. But, looking back, I now know that I'd make the exact same decision over and over again. I often think that, as a borderline, I'm not worthy of love. Not entitled to romantic happiness as I regularly so crave to be. But, in that moment, during those three days, I had a chance. Whether I reaped the benefits of my risks or not, I was given an opportunity to fall in love and, for that, I shall be eternally grateful. 


Wednesday 10 June 2020

Between Love and Murder, Chris Bedell



First of all, happy pride month. There is no doubt that things are pretty terrible in the world right now, but that doesn't diminish the importance of pride. Pride matters, the LGBTQ+ community matters, we matter and there's nothing in the world that can change that. 

Seeing as it's currently pride month, it seems fitting that I review a book that involves a bisexual protagonist. What's important to note in this novel is that, while their relationship is relevant to the plot of the text, the fact that it's not a heterosexual relationship isn't a defining factor. Yes, there are sections where the sexuality of the protagonist is important, but the relationship between Chad and Archie is not sensationalized just because they aren't straight. Which is kind of nice, I'm not going to lie. 

The novel begins by introducing us to the three main characters and revealing the main focus of the plot. Mallory, Chad and Archie. Mallory is a long-time friend of Chad's who seconds before we the text begins has admitted her feelings for him, feelings he tells her he does not reciprocate. Immediately after this the plot is revealed and we find out that there is a missing person in the school named Tommy, and then we are introduced to Archie. 

There is a lot going on in this book, a lot. Bedell takes us through a journey of manipulative friendships, bisexual love triangles, blackmail, murder, threesomes and even incest in a way that really does seem to come out of nowhere at times. Given the short length of the text (I managed to finish it in an evening) sometimes the plot points came out of nowhere without ever being explained. The incestuous relationship between the murder victim Tommy and his sister Gemma is never really explained other than as a way of escaping their feelings towards their abusive father. Not only that, but the discovery of two other murders is touched upon but never really expanded on as well as it could be. 

There are also parts that I really don't think needed to be there, and that could have been explained by relating back to previous sections of the plot. The threesome between Mallory, Chad and Archie really doesn't seem relevant to the storyline, and the reason behind Mallory suggesting it and Archies subsequent reaction could just as easily have been related back to the fact that Mallory was blackmailing Archie into dating her, rather than adding in a sexual experience that seemed to spring out of nowhere.   

One of the things I liked the most in this novel, in the most cliched of ways, is how much I recognized my own behaviour in Chad's. Chad's main floor is that he self-sabotages his own happiness, believing that good things simply won't happen to him because that's just how he is. He doesn't believe he deserves to be happy with Archie, which is why he struggles to reveal his feelings, automatically assuming things will fail and that he will be rejected. 

Hmmm, who does that sound like?

The book is a nice and easy read. I managed to finish it in an evening and it's quite easy to follow the before and after style of the chapters as you move through the text. While there is a lot going on, and I feel the novel would have benefitted from expanding on certain areas of the plotline, it's an interesting exploration of relationships, blackmail and friendship that allows an LGBTQ+ couple to play a central role in a text, without the entire focus being placed on the fact that they're not straight. 

xXx 

Monday 11 May 2020

Time




Just before the lockdown was set in place, and we were blessed with the freedom to leave our houses for reasons other than emergencies and a series of walks that no one would ever have taken before quarantine began, I went on three dates with a guy I met online. He was great, treated me nicely, pulled my chair out for me when I sat down and paid for my dinner when we went out to eat, he was a nice guy. Thing is, there just wasn't anything there for me and, whilst I enjoyed his company, I knew I didn't feel any kind of romantic or sexual attraction to him.

He, however, seemed to feel the opposite, and at the end of said third date slipped into the conversation that he was my boyfriend. I freaked out, panicked, and ran into my house whilst messaging my friends who thought it was really great that I'd met someone. They were happy for me, but I just wasn't feeling it and, in turn, was kind of scared.

The freaking out amped up a notch when, after returning from a trip, he turned up at my house uninvited at 8pm wearing rubber gloves and a face mask to give me a gift he'd brought me from Italy. Now, I don't like people knowing where I live, never have done. I don't know if it's because I move around so much or because it takes a lot for me to feel safe and comfortable somewhere, but my house is my house and, for the most part, I'm happy being there alone. To some it would have seemed like a romantic gesture, it's a scene straight out of every teen movie after all, but for me, it was too much, and I had to end it.

In contrast to this, I put up with being with my ex on and off for three years without us ever admitting we were together. He never told me he had any form of feelings for me, but we were a couple. Our "arrangement" as he called it began on odd terms where he misunderstood how I felt about him, and we carried on in the same vein until he finally got a girlfriend a few years later.

There are some days I think of that sentence in my head and rephrase it as "someone he wanted people to know he was with" which really says a lot about my self-esteem.

When I was with River last year, he would never put any labels on our relationship because it made him feel uncomfortable, despite the fact that he was essentially living with me at one point. He would only see me once a week, often tell me that I was supposed to be a one night stand and all in all make me feel like crap. In spite of how unhappy I was, in spite of how many times I told myself he needed to go, I refused to end things. I don't know if it was in fear of being alone, or because I am used to the one being left and, subsequently, hurt, but I just didn't feel able to do it. As it turns out my refusal to end things myself became irrelevant, as he broke up with me via text anyway, citing my BPD as his reasoning.

Not a nice guy in the end.

What I'm struggling with at the moment, and by struggling I mean inexplicably trying to unpick as a way of deflecting from being governmentally required to stay alone with my thoughts 24 hours a day during the anniversary of the worst month of my life, is trying to work out why I do this. Why do I freak out when someone who treats me well and wants to be with me, but allow myself to be hurt by someone who treats me like garbage? For a long time, I thought it was purely because I thought it was the treatment I deserved but, lately, I'm wondering if there's more to it than that. Am I really as afraid of getting close to someone as I seem to be?

I don't know if it's a BPD thing or something else, but right now I feel completely overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and somehow scared of getting close to anyone whilst simultaneously emotionally drained as a result of being alone.

Ah, quarantine brain, you got to love it.

xXx

Sunday 10 May 2020

Will I?



The night I was raped, I came home, laid on my bed and listened to Will I from the Rent soundtrack whilst eating Mini Eggs. It's been 6 years, and each and every time that moment clocks around I have the same response to those questions.

1) Will I lose my dignity?

Yes. Your dignity will disappear the second you need your friend to hold a glass of your pee because the police officers you called will be in vague search of the DNA of the man that raped you. That feeling of loss of dignity never goes away. It's gone, you don't get that back.

2) Will someone care?

They will, for about a year, They will care from the moment you report the rape until the end of the trial that sends him to prison. After that, you're fare game. People don't care anymore, but you carry it on day after day.

3) Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

No.

xXx 

49 thoughts on 50 shades of grey



I'm halfway through watching Fifty Shades of Grey for the first time and, to be quite honest, I have thoughts. So. Many. Thoughts.

Here are a few of them

1) I don't care who you are, what supposed college student with a 4.0 GPA turns up at an interview without having done the tiniest bit of research? Yes, it's very nice of you to be covering for a friend but all you're doing by not preparing is making her look bad. You're representing her by carrying out the interview, and you're making her seem incompetent.  Furthermore, the fact that she turned up to an interview without a pen makes my blood boil. Admittedly she's not a journalism major, but she is a student. This might be the writer in me talking, but the thought of leaving the hour without a pen when the soul purpose of your assignment is to ask written questions seems really fucking dumb.

2) Who, I repeat, WHO introduces themselves to someone's mother the first night after they sleep with them? This may be my raging aversion to forming lasting romantic connections talking, but surely you should at least discuss it first before waltzing out like it's date number 50 and you're on your way to brunch rather than having just boned her son for the first time. I was with my ex on and off for three years and do you know when I met his parents? Never. Absolutely never, and I was more than happy with that.

3) When the 2010's answer to Bluebeard revealed how he was first introduced to the dom/sub world, he tells her that it was as a result of becoming involved with his mother's friend when he was 15. FIFTEEN. Regardless of where in America he is supposed to have grown up, from my 30 seconds of googling I can not find a single state where the age of consent is lower than 16. So not only was he seducing her friend's son really, really creepy, it was also illegal.

4) "I don't make love, I fuck hard."

There are no words for that little gem, other than, who the fuck got away with writing this script?

5) This is a very specific one, but there is nothing in the start of the contract that he gives her that identifies himself as the dominant and her as the submissive. For all she knows, she could be giving written permission for his window cleaner to go to town on her with Love Honey's full back catalogue, but that's just a minor nitpick.

6) Still on the contract. When he says she agrees to take the pill, is she agreeing to let him choose the doctor or the brand of the pill she takes? What if she doesn't like the pill? What if she goes past a sign one day and gets blood-boilingly angry because a sign is too orange and then decides she can't take it anymore WHAT THEN WRITERS WHAT THEN?

7) Is she searching Getty Images for her research into the term submissive? Because they're really not that educational. Surely introductory research requires at least a 5-second glance at a Wikipedia page?

8) Back to the contract. If his sex dungeon or whatever he wants to call it is red, surely it would be clearer to have a safe word that isn't, red. Slightly pedantic one may say, but safewords are meant to be something completely unrelated to the situation you are in, in order for those involved to know that they are being said. The word red could be misconstrued as a comment on the color of the room. Safety first people

Moving on.

9) I'm impressed with the fabric of the shirt she wears that he is able to roll over her shoulders and use as a blindfold without getting tangled in knots. Looks comfy.

10) Did he bring a wine glass of ice cubes with him? What if she'd said no? Who does that? While we're here, why do her bedsheets match the shirt she wore when she first interviewed him? Is it a nod to how their relationship has changed since the start of the film, and that instead of representing her inexperience by covering her up the sheets now represent the freedom she feels with him given that she lays on them naked while he dominates her? Or did they just have extra fabric lying around?

11) I get that she's meant to be passive, but does she talk like she's nervously introducing you to the relaxation room at a spa through the whole franchise? Does her increase in confidence strengthen the tone of her voice or is this just how she's going to talk? Side note, I'm glad she's finally brushed her bangs.

12) I take back what I said about the bangs, but those chairs look comfy. Think the lighting team might have gotten a tad too excited with the symbolism during the contract confirmation scene though. We get the reference to the red room and the indication of the sun setting on her innocence as she signs herself over to be his submissive, but it's really hard to see what's going on.

13) She just asked him what but plugs were. Let's just leave that there.

14) Very nice of them to bring snacks in, although it would probably have been better if they'd have been there before the meeting started. Also, they're discussing a contract, not a non-disclosure agreement.

15) Much like myself, Mr G. has reiterated throughout the whole movie how he doesn't do dating but is buttering her up by saying they can go on a date once a week? Isn't this a tad counterproductive? He's rewarding her for being happy with the fact that they are engaging in these acts whilst not being a couple by acting like they're a couple?

That one struck a nerve.

16) This may be the first part of the movie where I actually like her character, props for standing by your guns and leaving girl. Although I really don't think anyone actually does that lip-biting thing.

17) Hell yes, girl on the return of the patronising platonic kiss.

18) He's holding people up in the queue to get off stage, this is a big auditorium and they have a lot of people to get through. Also, the fact that he's now begging her completely contradicts the rest of the film.

19) Okay? OKAY? After all that she just gives him her answer whilst shaking hands on the way off stage after collecting her diploma?

20) GET BACK TO YOUR SEAT WOMAN

21) That's a really pretty dress she's wearing for drinks after the ceremony.

22) This man is the king of mixed messages. He doesn't do the "girlfriend" thing but walks over to her and her dad 30 seconds after she agrees to sign a contract to be his sub? And what's with the friend saying he's her boyfriend?

23) Just casually introducing yourself to your sub's father. Because, why not?

24) It's really rude to sell someone's car without their permission, and I don't even know how they did that. Isn't there paperwork involved in these sort of things?

25) Along with her friend, I'm not the biggest fan of her mother. Crapping out on her daughter's graduation because her husband somehow managed to hurt his foot playing golf, and then guilting her for not telling her about her boyfriend when she'd have met him had she turned up at the graduation like she was supposed to? Shitty behaviour my friend.

26) I'm really not sure why she's crying.

27) I like that dress though

28) Does he keep that key on him all the time?

29) I just got annoyed with her taking her arms down without his saying so but I'm well aware that's an issue that's entirely on me

30) What is it with the lip biting? I know this thing was based on Twilight fanfic but sheeesh.

31) Aw, he braided her hair for her, that's quite sweet. If a little personal.

32) The hair braiding is dragging now. Kind of seems like it took him way longer to do than it was meant to but they couldn't be bothered to re-shoot.

33) He had a hairband on him, that's convenient.

34) I don't feel him in jeans.

35) Those are some hella delayed reactions

36) She looks like she's about to begin a rendition of "I'm a little teapot"

37) Side note, what the fuck is the purpose of that song?

38) I don't really understand the point of that exercise.

39) If nothing else, this film is an ASMR dream.

40) She has nice boobs

41) I could have gone my whole life without having seen him smell her underwear and I'd have been a happy woman. Now I feel the same way I did when I accidentally my head chef without pants on.

42) Those jeans are at a really weird height.

43) Here we have another cover of Crazy in Love because, apparently, we didn't have enough of them.

44) I get that she was supposedly exhausted from the fucking but was the awkward carrying her to bed thing really necessary? Surely she could have walked. And why are we now going straight from an intro round to his red room to dancing together before they go out to dinner with his family? The dancing, song choice and upcoming dinner arrangements really don't fit with his "I don't do girlfriends" ideology.

45) Now I know what I look like when I dance, and it ain't pretty.

46) Early on I thought the her-friend-his-brother thing was just casual but apparently, they're also a couple and are also sat comfortably around the dinner table. Cosy.

47) She's just revealed that she's going to Georgia to visit her mother, a decision that seems to have been made within the final 10 seconds of dinner, and he's "palm-twitchingly mad' (the film's words not mine) to the point that he carries her over his shoulder to give her a "you're mine, all mine" speech. I didn't realise the not a couple thing prevented her from seeing her family. Was this in the contract? Must have been somewhere between anal fisting and cable ties.

48) I'm actually on her team at this point. He is confusing as hell and, although I don't get her obsession with sleeping in the same bed, I do get her frustrations. I feel there's a whole other nerve being triggered here though so that's a subject for another day.

49) I've had enough now. He just used the phrase "I had a rough start in life" and now it's time for me to wash my eyeballs until the image of the underwear smelling goes away.

xXx


Thursday 23 April 2020

I don't know what to name this post so I'm calling it Love Will Tear Us Apart because I love Joy Division



Try saying that with a mouthful of dick.

Yeah, I'm in one of those moods.

There are some things I don't post about because I'm worried it'll make my mum worry. Today I need to get this out so, on the odd chance you read this muvva, I'm sorry.

When my Farver (my dad's dad) died, I was sad, obviously. But, aside from the expected sadness, I didn't really feel much. Past the age of what, 10, he hadn't really been part of my life. I see my Dad's family so rarely that my uncle and aunty didn't know I was at the funeral when I was stood next to them. It's nothing personal, it's just the way things are.

When my mum's dad died, it hurt, it hurt a lot, but I knew it was going to happen. I hate hospitals, so when I decided against going to see him and instead spent the evening with my lovely Grace Face I remember telling her that he'd given up. I knew he had, I knew he was never coming home. Losing him hurt, but it wasn't the kind of hurt I"m feeling now.

There's no denying my nan had been ill for a long while but, when she last went into hospital, I expected her to come out again. Despite my selfish desire for her to get better, she was ready to go. She wanted to go.

My nan's funeral was today and, obviously, I couldn't go. My nan was so so beautiful, I got my balls out honesty from her and she never took any shit from anyone. When my brother wasn't doing his college work I asked my nan to tell him to get his act together, because I knew he would listen to her. It didn't matter where I was or what I'd done if my nan said jump, I jumped.

So the fact that she's gone is hitting me more than I thought it would. In theory, I know that she's gone but, in practice, it hasn't quite registered yet. Her beautiful face is still in my mind, sat on her chair in her flat the same way I saw her the last time we face-timed. The last time we spoke when she told me she wasn't feeling well and I couldn' do anything because I'm so far away. I'm sure it'll register more when I get back to England but, right now, it really doesn't seem real.

Denial, the first of the five stages of grief, am I right?

xXx

Sunday 19 April 2020

Boarderline grief


Monday morning my nan died, there's no way of sugar-coating it. She's dead.

It's the thought process I have around this that got me thinking about how I deal with grief as a borderline. About how I'm able to process something I have such little control of when my desire and obsession with control is often what drives me to engage in the sort of self-destructive behavior us borderlines are known for, as a way of giving myself a break. 

When Matt died, it was sudden. There was no way of knowing it would happen and it seemed a cruel irony that it happened in the midst of such a bs time. The fact that I wasn't able to attend his funeral was, if you'll pardon the pun, the final nail in the coffin. I know I made the right decision, I wanted to go to the sentencing, but it still hurt. 

With my nan it was different though, I knew it was about to happen. As strange as it may seem my dreams predict death. When I dream of dead animals, or sometimes animals in general, someone, be they human or animal, is about to die. On very rare occasions I predict these things when I'm awake, and on even rarer occasions my strange affinity with animals predicts a good thing. Regardless of whether I was conscious or awake, I'd been dreaming of dead animals since the very end of 2019, and I knew it was her time. She was ready to go, and my brain was preparing me for it as best it could. 

As humans, whether we choose to admit it or not, we're inherently selfish. For the most part, we prioritize our happiness over that of others. I wanted more than anything for her to "recover". To escape the virus that is smothering the planet and, once again, come home from hospital. But I eventually realized this wasn't the right way of thinking. There's a video by YouTuber Molly Burke that talks about the difference between praying for others and praying selfishly. I'm not religious, but even I have a vague understanding of trying to communicate with something more in a bid to get what you want, even if it doesn't necessarily benefit the individual in question. 

In this instance, she's talking about how her first guide dog died, but the sentiment's the same. 




As a borderline, my perspectives on selfishness and grief are blurred. Don't get me wrong, I feel bad about my nan and it hurts that she's no longer here, but my temporary inability to feel the way I think I should be feeling is still playing around. In the same vein as when my friend got engaged, or when my mum's boss died, my feelings aren't constant. I know I should feel sad, but I'm dancing between sadness, happy sadness and not really feeling anything at all. As with so many things, it is what it is, and there really is fuck all I can do about it. 

Aside from the obvious question of how I deal with grief as a borderline, this whole situation has got me thinking about how that compares to the way other people deal with such events. Do other people feel grief in the same way? Or is my inability to maintain a steady path of emotions what's keeping me from dealing with my grief? 

To be continued. 

xXx

Sunday 5 April 2020

I can't find anything else written about this so I'm going to write it my God damn self


I thought we could all do with cheering up, so I typed Pupper into Pixabay and this is what I found. 
Enjoy 

It's been posted in passing, but I've yet to find anything I had even the slightest desire to read that discusses how utterly shit the state of the world is if you're a) alone and b) living with mental health issues. We get it you're stuck inside, but given that I have at least 17 different personalities rattling around my brain at any given time it's really hard for me to muster up the energy to give a shit about the fact that don't have anything to do and that Tesco has run out of eggs.  

Right now, I'm feeling it. Not only is this a hella shitty time but I'm also going through it and completely alone. I see people around me complaining about being bored when they're at home with family, pets, and access to a garden, but given that I'm living through this bullshit whilst simultaneously being constantly reminded of the fact that the guy who raped me is in prison living a life void all this crap and, once again, that I wasn't able to say goodbye to my friend Matt who died five years ago because his funeral fell on the same day as the sentencing of aforementioned rapist, I have even less ability to care than usual. 

Things would be bad my end if the world was on lockdown or not, but the fact that I can't distract myself by working or seeing friends is making it worse. I'm living in a permanent state of intense guilt at the moment,  and there's nothing to distract me. Whenever I eat, drink or spend even a cent I feel nauseous, and I find myself searching for something to feel bad about when I wake up each morning. There aren't many symptoms of BPD that I struggle to deal with, but the pain the guilt causes is indescribable. It sits on my chest and curls itself around my fingers, wraps its coils around my throat and slides into my ears where it sits blissfully next to my thoughts. Running down my neck and caressing my spine, I have no idea why it's there and really thought I was done with it once I realized in a long-ago therapy session that the reason my mumma's bf didn't like me growing up really wasn't my fault. 

No shade, we get on like a house on fire now, we just hated each other when I was a kid. 

This post was meant to be about how it feels to be on lockdown when you have mental health issues but it isn't really about that. It's about how there is no way of putting into words how I'm feeling at the moment, but that the tapping of keys and the thud of my fingertips against my laptop is the only thing providing a sound loud enough to even touch the constant drumming of guilt that's been playing in my ears for the past few weeks. 

So who knows.

xXx

Monday 23 March 2020

#OverheardInWilliamsburg





The world is incredibly miserable at the moment, so I thought I'd make a post that, at the very least, makes me laugh.

I spent Christmas in New York with my "sis" Laura, and one night she introduced me to her friends that lived in the flat opposite. There's no real way of describing them, other than by relaying sound bites of what they said that night.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, #OverheardInWilliamsburg


"They didn't let me play the music I wanted I just wanted to play techno"

"That's okay I snort Panadol sometimes"

"When I'm asking for a bag of ket I ask for some whizz fizz and they know"

"Boots, it's a statement"

"Makes you pretty unique in the office"

"and I got that drug money because you better believe we sell pinks"

"I'm just a quirky like a child"

"ket is now the Wallstreet party drug"

"If you go to a music festival they're just selling for caps and weed"

"Medical-grade ketamin"

"Oh your whole fits like 3 grand"

"Yo I'm really fucking feeling it"

"You did not come prepared for the sesh"

"Nothing like taking a couple of caps and bro-ing with the boys"



Friday 31 January 2020

My future


I've been feeling like crap this morning and I couldn't really work out why. That was until I realised what day it is. The day England leaves the EU.

When I think about my future, there is only one constant, and that's Berlin. The only thing I can see when I think of when I see myself settling down is moving to Berlin, once I decide it's time to find a place to live. I'm not sure when it will be, but I know that it's end game.

As of today, my future isn't quite seeming as easy as I thought it would be. The uncertainty of what is going to happen, regardless of what our government is promising us, is suffocating. The level of confusion that has come from the destruction that the Tory government has caused is intoxicating and I have no idea what to do next.

My future, and that of my brother's generation, my family's children's generation and all of those ahead of them, has completely changed as of today. I don't know if I'll be able to move to Berlin now, don't know if I'll be able to work there and support myself now that we've left. My future has never involved marriage, children or a mortgage, but it has involved travel and being able to sustain myself why I do so.

As well as not wanting to cement myself to the ground with a mortgage or family, I also know that I don't want to return to England. I mean, how could I? How could I willingly return to a country run by a government that thinks the opening of thousands of food banks across the country is a good thing, instead of focusing on helping people break out of life below the poverty line. As I said in wrote in my post Why I'm not moving back to England, it was suggested by the government that pension age should be raised to 75. My grandad died at 74, life expectancy in the North East and West of England is also 74. The government is suggesting that people are expected to work until after their death to receive any type of state pension. Why would I want to live under a government that thinks like that?

Theoretically, I still have a plan. Australia is on my list, as is New Zealand. I want to take advantage of my visa opportunities while I have the chance. While I was happy with the idea of never having a definite future plan, knowing that one day I'd end up living in my beautiful Berlin brought me the comfort I didn't know I needed.

And now I don't really know.

xXx 

Thursday 30 January 2020

My experience with PTSD


Of all the mental health issues I discuss openly, there are few I mention as little as my PTSD. Mostly because I don't really believe that mine exists. My brain rationalises it differently compared to other things. I was raped, but I managed to put the man that raped me in prison and it's over, so I can't still be experiencing things related to in this far in the future, can I?

I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was 24 I think, I don't really remember the exact time but I remember I was living in Essex with my Dad and working in London. I had no idea what it was, only that I was suffering from intense paranoia. My attitude to my symptoms is that I'm used to the ones I experience every day and I try to manage them but, when new symptom arrises, I know it's time to check in with my doctor.

As I didn't register with a new doctor when I moved to London, I got on a train back to Norfolk went to visit my mum. It's really difficult to book appointments at my doctor back home and so I turned up, got an on the spot appointment for that day and waited to see the nurse practitioner.

This was one of the only instances where I'd asked my mum to be in the room with me, because I didn't quite know what they were going to stay. As it turns out, I shoved her out within the first 30 seconds of the appointment. Old habits die hard and I didn't feel comfortable with her there. After she left, I fully explained my new symptoms and the back story of what had been going on over the past few years. Long story short, the previous events in my life had caused me to develop PTSD, and the paranoia was a result of my brain trying to deal with things in its own unique way. Like I said I didn't really believe what he was saying, PTSD just didn't seem like a rational connection to what had happened. Instead, I added it to the list of things my brain was dealing with, explained the updates to people at work and got on with things. I'd made it this far without letting being raped ruin my life and I wasn't about to start now.

Since then I very, very rarely talk about my PTSD. I don't think about it in connection with the rest of my symptoms, and instead, place it on a lower rung to everything else. After all this time I still don't still feel that I deserve such a diagnosis because I feel that what I went through wasn't really that bad and that in putting the man that raped me in prison I didn't really do anything.

There is no one on the planet harder on me than I am on myself.

We're currently in January and the start of one of the shittest periods of the year. Not only did I spend that year of University trying to complete my degree while simultaneously putting the man that raped me in prison, but I also lost a really good friend of mine. His birthday is in January, the man who raped me pleaded guilty at the beginning of March and Matt died towards the end. The trial was in April, on a day that cruley landed on that of Matt's funeral preventing me from being able to attend, and I was raped in the last weekend of May. To say things were difficult would be a bit of an understatement.

The only reason I am acknowledging my PTSD right now is because it stops me sleeping. On the anniversary of these events, it starts up once again and I'm unable to sleep. After a few days, it passes and I return to my schedule of near-constant unconsciousness, but will pop back up again until the end of May.

I'm struggling to sleep at the moment owing to last week having been Matt's birthday. That, combined with my experiencing Seasonal Affective Disorder means that, if I could, I'd happily skip the first five months of the year. It's something that I live with every year, and probably always will. If I could say a little prayer to the gods of BPD, it would be to give me a decent night's sleep, because I'm fucking exhausted.

xXx

Wednesday 29 January 2020

Vulnerability



I wrote this post at the tail end of last year when I was on my way back from NYC, I'm just an epic faff and am only just getting round to posting it. Enjoy. 

The guy sitting next to me is writing. If this were a book or a movie he'd strike up a conversation about our shared love of literature, he'd ask me for my number, and in a few short weeks I'd be meeting his parents over brunch whilst secretly thanking the gods that there was only a 0.0001% chance of him meeting mine. 

I'm not a fan of parental introductions. 

Obviously, real life isn't like that. After striking up a brief conversation about millennial cliches, instagramable beverages and the possibility of paying my rent in exposure, I returned my attention to season 2 of You. Attempting to distract myself from the fact that my left butt cheek has gone to sleep and I still have 8 hours of this journey to go. That fantasy is over, the hypothetical spark extinguished before it even had a chance to light. The candle burnt out. 

One of the benefits of this extinguished premature fantasy, other than the possibility of its invading my preference for solo and (semi) isolated living, is that I'm prevented from falling into the deathly relationship trap I seem to find so comfortable. The role of the life time I never auditioned for, the part no one really wants. 

Yes, I finally figured it out. I'm a carer. 

When I was a teenager my mum had an eating disorder. Now, aside from desperately craving and suffering from one of my own, a significant part of my teen years were spent trying to get her to eat. Now I find it impossible to separate myself from the worry that she might have stopped eating again. 

My mum wanted to be thin, I wanted to be thin and loved. In my eyes, I was neither.

Recently I've come to realise that, ever since then, I've fallen into the pattern of trying to form relationships with people that I felt needed looking after. My first boyfriend had no dad, my second had no dad and (ironically) an eating disorder and my ex who had no dad and depression. 

Do you see a pattern forming? 

In total, I've dated four guys who had no father figure, three with mental health issues and at least two who were in love with their exes. Regardless of their personal situations, the majority had two things in common. I subconsciously wanted to take care of them and, in the end they didn't care about me. 

What I'm trying to work out on this obnoxiously long journey, back to Canada is not just why I find myself in situations with people I want to care for but also why I can't find someone to care for me. 

Despite my balls out attitude to personal honesty and my refusal to conceal myself, I'm really bad at letting people get close to me. Don't worry this isn't an "I'm a tortured soul no one understands me" trope, but rather a complete and utter fear of being vulnerable. 

The issue of vulnerability is an interesting one. If we are required to open ourselves up in order to find love, how do we cope with the accompanying vulnerability that comes along? As a borderline, it's ingrained in me that people will leave. For whatever reason, I assume one day they're just not going to be there anymore and so I close myself off from forming new relationships with people to avoid the pain that comes with their departure. The pleasure of having someone near me does not negate the pain that remains when they leave. I'd rather have nothing at all. 

xXx

Monday 27 January 2020

Call me by your name, or maybe just don't call at all


A little travel snap from my Instagram, @thatnomadjess


Spoiler alert

I've just finished reading AndrĂ© Aciman's Call Me by Your Name and the thing fucking broke me. Last time I felt this way about a book my friend had just died and I'd reached the part in David Nicholls' One Day where Dexter and Emma are finally together but then she gets hit by a truck. The two events didn't sit comfortably together, and I've never read the book again.

Other than a few noted absences in the final section of the book, there are no big deaths in Call Me by Your Name, instead, it's their relationship that effectively dies. That summer exists for all of us, me included, and we never really get the love we feel during that year's particular heatwave back. I remember who I fell in love with during my 'summer', remember the moment we met, the first words he said to me and the first time we kissed. I also remember the last time we spoke after 6 torturous years of my being in love with someone who would never love me back. After struggling to let go for over half a decade, I'm pleased to say I don't miss him anymore.

The reason I still crying over the book in question is that, as a borderline, there is nothing I simultaneously crave and fear more than being loved. The loneliness of BPD is agonising. We're known for our temperament and attachment issues to the point that the idea of someone falling for us is impossible, laughable even. The idea that someone could be able to love not only me but the thing that lives in my brain that permeates every thought I ever had seems to be nothing more than a fantasy, a fairytale that will never come to exist.

Not only is it laughable, it's also terrifying. Rightly or wrongly, although seemingly rightly given all the evidence I have on the matter, everyone I ever get close to romantically eventually leaves. I've been broken up with more times than I care to admit and it's suffocating to constantly find myself being rejected again and again and again. Whether it's someone who doesn't love me any more, someone who never did love me but told me they did or someone who was still in love with their ex, I've never been able to find someone to stick around, and I don't believe I ever will.

Just before I moved to Canada the first time, I tried to talk to my ex about how I felt about someone and he responded with "You fall for people too quickly, you can't force love." Now, not only was his evidence of this unprecedented, as he'd mistook my reluctance to sleep with him straight away, unless our connection was going to be more than a come-and-go situation, for my wanting to be with him long term after only three dates, but it also hurt like hell. To me, to a borderline, what that told me was that I won't be able to find someone to love me, that the fault of my being alone lays solely at my own feet and that there's nothing I can do about it. Whatever his words truly meant, what they said was that the only way I would ever be able to find someone to love me was if I forced them, and that is something you just can't do.

I've always been reluctant to admit that I like people, even in high school I found it impossible to write in my diary that I had a crush on my friend, terrified that even by putting my words down on paper I would somehow feel the pain of rejection. There's a guy at work I have a bit of a thing for and today my colleagues were telling me to go for it. I think they saw my reluctance and comments on my chronic insecurities as a joke, but they're not. Being rejected as a borderline result in an indescribable pain I can feel in every pore, something I really have no physical feeling to compare it to. The sensation is agonising and indescribable, but all I've ever been able to envisage in my romantic future is rejection.

As a result of this, I don't talk about my feelings. People know about the crushes I may have on people, subtlety has never been my strong point, but I can never, ever tell people how I really feel when it comes to dating. Truth is, I want so so desperately to not be alone, and ending things with the guy I was seeing seems to have hit me harder than I thought it would. Not because I want to be with him, the guy is a fucking douche bag, but because I'm back in the same position I was before. Of being alone, and desperately wanting to be loved.

There are a thousand more things I can say on the matter, this shit show is only the start of how it feels to trying to date when you have BPD, but I want to start reading something more cheerful before I get to sleep. At the very least so I don't waste any more loo roll trying to get the almighty amount of snot out of my head that has formed in my hour spent crying at this fucking book.

André Aciman, you destroyed me.

xXx