Different.

“You’re different now.”, she said to me last night in a dream. She’s right. I’m on the brink of a breakdown and a self fulfilling prophecy. 

She epitomises everything I look for in a woman and yet I know those things aren’t compatible with me.

I’m all banter and good news face to face and I’m bitterness and sexual objectification online. 

My therapist told me that I don’t like certain things about other people because I don’t like those things about myself.

In which case, she’s a fucking flirt and I have no idea where I stand. Ergo, I’m a fucking flirt and she’s in the fucking dark about my feelings.

Being blunt hasn’t helped so I doubt being sensitive will. Instead I’ll just send her a mixed signal message and get angry when she doesn’t bite.

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I neeeeeeeeed this!

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned Raised by wolves (RBW) on here yet but if I haven’t then I’m disgusted with myself.

RBW is a comedy set in Wolverhampton by the Moran sisters. It’s pacey, disturbing and occasionally moving.

I adore RBW (more specifically, Germaine and Aretha) and I’ve just heard that it’s been cancelled by Channel 4.

It’s not often that I post stuff like this so I hope that shows how much I love it!

We left series 2 on some pretty big cliffhangers but the one I love the most was Aretha coming to terms with her sexuality. I am fed up of shows being cancelled when they’re on the brink of a lesbian breakthrough (Sugar Rush, Lip Service, Faking it – to name a few!) and I won’t let RBW go without a fight.

So yes, I’m going to pledge and I urge you to do the same if you can and if you feel as passionately as I do. At least have a little watch of it first and see if it’s something you’d like to support!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/raisedbywolves/save-the-wolves

For the first time.

No, this isn’t a post about The Script. (However, I do like their music!)

For the first time in my blogging history, I created a post that I could not publish. It’s a post that took only a few minutes to write but will take about £300 in therapy fees to understand.

It’s deep, rambling and extremely hard to read back.

I wrote it in a moment of deep depression.

I’ve been lucky that returning to work and therapy have helped me immensely. Of course, my depression hasn’t gone over night but I have felt better. That was, until the beginning of this week.

I was overcome by the familiar feelings of worthlessness, sadness and despair and it hit me harder than it had previously done. I cannot relate to the person who wrote that post and I cannot understand why they feel that way.

However difficult it is to read, it’s massively helpful. I can do a lot of reflection based on its content and I think I will try and capture my feelings in a similar way in future.

One day, I might feel happy enough to release it out into the world but right now I’m going to protect it; I’m going to protect that fragile side of me. 

Tinderphobic.

Has anyone had any genuine success on Tinder?

I joined Tinder a week ago, mostly out of intrigue, and so far I haven’t been impressed.

Firstly, it wouldn’t let me sign up without connecting to my Facebook profile which is bloody annoying as it shows my first name; which I never answer to.

Secondly, I hate having to crop pictures; most of my pictures (when cropped) are so zoomed in that all you can see are my eyes and porous nose. No-one wants to see my cavern ridden nose.

Thirdly, and probably most importantly, it all feels very synthetic and an awful lot like objectifying. I wouldn’t normally decide whether or not I wanted to talk to someone based on 4 poor quality pictures of them and a 203 character profile. I am the first to admit that I’m not massively photogenic but am I a good catch? Hell yeah! (I’m so modest too, always an attractive trait!) 

Have I had a nice conversation on there with someone nice? Yes. But do I want nice? No. I want that instant spark and connection that I’m not sure I can get staring at my smudgy phone screen.

Sorry Tinder, I’m swiping left to you. 

The importance of feeling useful.

One delightful way I experience depression is by feeling useless. I feel devoid of all emotion and worth and think that people would be happier without me. Of course, I know that these things aren’t true but unfortunately my stubborn brain refuses to listen.

Today, I am returning to work after four months off. I’m nervous, intrigued and extremely excited.

I have no delusions of grandeur; I am well aware that I am a bus driver. I know I’m not a doctor or a police officer or a charity worker (isn’t it interesting what jobs we perceive as worthy?) but people do depend on me. 

For the past four months I have been receiving my full wage under the company’s sick pay agreement. Whilst this money has been important to my lifestyle and survival it has felt like dirty money. I’ve felt guilty seeing my wages on my bank statements. It hasn’t felt right to be paid for a job that I’m not doing.

Now that I’m finally returning to said job I know I will feel like a weight has been lifted. I will, even for a small portion of my day, be feeling useful and worthy and needed. Long may that continue.

Closure.

Closure is a weird thing. It’s refreshing and daunting at the same time. It’s final. It’s formal. It’s such a fucking relief.

A lot of people relate closure to grief or a relationship. My personal closure is a combination of both. I was grieving for a relationship that I could not have.

Ask any of my close friends and they will tell you that, for at least five years, I have been infatuated with a particular woman.

She was my teenage lust obsession, my muse and my adult mindfuck. 

I genuinely thought that one day she would wake up and realise that she had been madly in love with me for years. In reality, she has never looked at me that way and never will. She loves me, there is no doubt about that; but it isn’t the way I wanted her to.

I used to be wide awake at night, crying because she didn’t like me. I’d freeze when I saw her at school and if she spoke to me I’d stutter and stammer and say offensive things so she didn’t think I liked her. I was besotted. It was love. Not just a crush and after some time it became more than lust. That kind of heartache so young was harrowing.

As an adult, our relationship changed. We became closer and my love for her grew stronger and more real. I no longer admired her from her pedestal position; I was realistic about her and what the future held for us. I still couldn’t let go but I managed to distance myself from my feelings.

Until recently.

My feelings, however irrational and pathetic, returned at full force and consumed me. I couldn’t and didn’t want to deal with them.

Until today when fate intervened and I was finally given closure. I can’t explain why it’s happened. Stupid amounts of coincidences happened and they felt right. They were telling me to let go so I did.

This closure lark is great.

I’m incredibly lucky.

It’s nearly 3am and I’m wide awake. I have (and have had for nearly a month now) a dislocated knee. I’ve got hiccups, the ominous signs of an impending period and a whole lot of phlegm; which makes me think that I’m developing a cold.

Fucking great.

My life is fucking great. Seriously, it is.

On Saturday I went to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert in Oxford. It was without doubt one of the campest things I have ever witnessed and it made me incredibly happy. Essentially, the show is based on the lives and careers of two drag queens and their transgender friend as they make their way across Australia in a bus. (We all know how much I secretly love buses so this show was bound to be good!)

There was one moment which stood out for me. It was towards the end of the show when nearly everyone in the audience was standing, clapping and singing along to the song. There were a lot of LGBTQ audience members (as I’d expected) but also some people who I hadn’t imagined would be there. Call me narrow minded but I can’t see many straight people over the age of 70 being interested in it. Anyway. Everyone was caught up in the moment and I stopped clapping and singing for a while and looked around me. I was sandwiched between two of my best friends; a straight woman and a gay man. The same straight woman who had, without being prompted, held my arm and helped me walk up some stairs just a couple of hours before. The same gay man who had ordered my Nandos for me because I couldn’t move about a lot or put weight on my knee. These two people had pushed me in a wheelchair to the theatre. They’d physically aided me. And now I was surrounded my people that I’d never met before who were mentally aiding me.

As a lesbian, it’s hard not to think about Orlando. I want to think about it, I do, but it pains me to. I know that it will pain me to and that it should but I can’t find a way to think about it without relating it to me.

When I say I make it relate to me I don’t mean that in a selfish, egotistical way. I mean that I can be out at work and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. I can have a drink in a “gay” bar and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. I can openly post about my sexuality and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. And that’s wrong. I’ve become complacent.

I forget how easy I have it. I forget how lucky I am. I forget that I have amazing family, friends and colleagues. I forget that that isn’t the case for everyone. I forget that it hasn’t always been like this. I forget that people have struggled, and still do struggle, so that I can have such a privileged life.

Right now I feel awful. I’m low; mentally and physically. I can’t drive at the moment (due to my knee injury and the strong pain killers I’m taking), I’m not seeing my friends very much and I’m unable to work. But I need to stop fucking complaining because I am alive. I am incredibly lucky. My thoughts are with those that aren’t and weren’t.