TEARS AND RAIN
James Blundt...
Trevor has made a choice I can’t support.
He’s taken a path and he’s made the active decision to no longer be my friend. He’s asked, in effect, for me to choose between being a friend and being who I am.
I am who I am, I can’t change that as much as I’d like to.
If I could choose, I would choose our friendship but I can’t because it would mean sacrificing the very fabric of my being. It would mean sacrificing my love.
It won’t happen.
I won’t choose.
That’s my choice.
I understand that he needs to keep that distance between family and friends but it’s killing me that he’s chosen to believe rumour and innuendo to justify his desire to terminate a friendship of 20 years because of his insecurities.
It kills me that he’s chosen to see my love for Tom as a violation of the boundaries of our friendship.
But it’s Trevor's decision to see it as that, not mine.
I know my obligations and my boundaries and I won’t be violating those. I know the difference between the obligations of friendship and the obligations of family.
Tom comes first, he always will. He is my love and the one I will never betray. He is my family but that doesn’t mean I see his family in the same light.
They’re a distant second to my own flesh and blood and the friends who have been granted the same position.
But as for friends Trevor is as close as flesh and blood family. Our history, the secrets we have shared, will stay just that. Nothing changes in my eyes.
I can only assume, however, that in Trevor's eyes things have changed. For the sake of protection he’s fed me to the wolves and I wonder if I’ll ever forgive him for such a violent betrayal.
If I am ever given the opportunity I’d like to think I’d forgive him. Right now I’m too angry to see that day. Right now all I know is that I’ve lost a friend because he can’t see that I’m not the person others have accused me of being.
I’m raw and exhausted. I’ve been crying for Trevor as if he were a lost love. And in a way he is, he’s a brother to me and a surrogate son to my parents and he’s been lost. I pray it’s not for good but that’s his decision.
What are my choices?
I could forgo my love for Tom to appease him. Because from my perspective I see it as that love that’s made him see me as a threat and a liar. Because he refuses to talk I have to take the limited information I have to piece together a picture of what’s going on.
Forgoing my love for Tom is not going to happen.
So I have to wait, God knows how long, until Trevor remembers that of all the people who have known him for the past 20 years I have always loved him for who he is and that’s not going to change just because I’m family now.
There’ s a lifetime to figure this all out. I can only pray Trevor doesn’t wait until it’s too late to mend our friendship, all because he’s afraid of what his family might think.
I don't think of them at all, but I think of him. I wonder when he'll understand that I miss him and need him and that nothing has changed - except that I'm happy now.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
TIRED
“You mean I gave up my weekend of this?” Tom’s mum was livid but it’s not as though we had much of an option.
Miss 8 was hysterical. She screamed and begged us not to leave. Finally, after three hours, we caved and let her come with us.
“Well I won’t be helping you out if that’s what’s going to happen.” She threw the comment in between asking if we’d like a drink and the weather’s kind of chilly.
Like it was our fault. As if we planned this.
Somehow we’re the heartless ones for not forcing a hysterical eight-year-old to stay with her grandmother. As if the favour she was doing this for us and not Tom’s bitch of an ex.
We weren’t even supposed to be having the kids but the bitch was “working” and had asked us to take them for four days instead of the usual two. We said three but that we have plans for Monday.
Bitch called Mother-in-law. Mother-in-law said she’d love to take the kids. The kids didn’t want to stay with her – so rather than forcing her to deal with a screaming child we decided to take Miss 8 home with us.
And now we’re in trouble. We’re in the wrong.
Whatever.
I’m tired. The kind of tired you get when you’ve experienced every emotion on the scale in 48 hours.
I’m not used to this. I’m not used to a family that operates by cloak and dagger. The snide remarks and false face seem to me a petty and unproductive way to deal with conflict.
Nothing’s ever resolved if nothing is ever said.
Still, it’s the way it’s worked for them and they’re welcome to the strategy. Once again, I’m too tired and too confused by it to want to get involved.
It’s not what I signed up for.
When you love someone you take on all of their faults with their strengths but there’s nothing in the vows that say you should tolerate the irrational behaviour of their relatives.
You’ve got to laugh, you have no choice. The other option is insanity and I don’t think that’s the path I want to take just yet.
But give me time and it might stop being a choice and the insanity will swallow me whole.
“You mean I gave up my weekend of this?” Tom’s mum was livid but it’s not as though we had much of an option.
Miss 8 was hysterical. She screamed and begged us not to leave. Finally, after three hours, we caved and let her come with us.
“Well I won’t be helping you out if that’s what’s going to happen.” She threw the comment in between asking if we’d like a drink and the weather’s kind of chilly.
Like it was our fault. As if we planned this.
Somehow we’re the heartless ones for not forcing a hysterical eight-year-old to stay with her grandmother. As if the favour she was doing this for us and not Tom’s bitch of an ex.
We weren’t even supposed to be having the kids but the bitch was “working” and had asked us to take them for four days instead of the usual two. We said three but that we have plans for Monday.
Bitch called Mother-in-law. Mother-in-law said she’d love to take the kids. The kids didn’t want to stay with her – so rather than forcing her to deal with a screaming child we decided to take Miss 8 home with us.
And now we’re in trouble. We’re in the wrong.
Whatever.
I’m tired. The kind of tired you get when you’ve experienced every emotion on the scale in 48 hours.
I’m not used to this. I’m not used to a family that operates by cloak and dagger. The snide remarks and false face seem to me a petty and unproductive way to deal with conflict.
Nothing’s ever resolved if nothing is ever said.
Still, it’s the way it’s worked for them and they’re welcome to the strategy. Once again, I’m too tired and too confused by it to want to get involved.
It’s not what I signed up for.
When you love someone you take on all of their faults with their strengths but there’s nothing in the vows that say you should tolerate the irrational behaviour of their relatives.
You’ve got to laugh, you have no choice. The other option is insanity and I don’t think that’s the path I want to take just yet.
But give me time and it might stop being a choice and the insanity will swallow me whole.
Friday, April 07, 2006
VENTED
On Tuesday night it was one of our neighbours.
He and his family all jumped into our backyard and were swimming in our pool.
Tom begged me to let it slide, to let them swim in our pool, but the idea of this filthy bunch not even showing the common decency of asking to come over made it impossible for me to let it slide.
I was irate and demanded they leave. I first asked politely and was ignored. I then threatened to call
That’s when he attacked me.
The wiry redneck, with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, took long gangly strides up the back yard. He stood less than a foot away from me and then punched me in the nose.
I could taste the blood trickling down the back of my throat and my eyes blurred a little. Out of fear I retreated into the house.
My neighbour followed and Tom was nowhere to be seen.
I was cornered in my bedroom and the slack-jawed creature burned my on my arms with his cigarette. He warned me of “interferin’ with his kin” but other than that remained silent and continued to burn and hit me.
Finally he just left me sitting in the corner of the bedroom cradling my wounds.
On Thursday night it was one of our customers at work.
I don’t normally do face-to-face contact but on this day she’s come to the office to see me in particular.
We talked and I can remember the conversation but it started off pleasant enough. She was a pleasant looking woman in a grey suit with short, blonde hair.
Then she turned on me. She was screaming and yelling so loud that her words distorted. She began kicking and punching me and I decided to hit and scream back.
Eventually co-workers intervened, she was dragged outside and I could see her standing on the other side of the glass doors gesticulating wildly. I was on the other side defending my actions.
The neighbour lives in a house on the cul-de-sac that doesn’t exist and the meeting was held in an office where I don’t work.
Clearly my subconscious is trying to work something out. It’s working, I’m feeling a lot clearer and happier as though overnight all of my anger and frustration and self-doubt has been vented.
But is it any wonder I wake up feeling tired?
On Tuesday night it was one of our neighbours.
He and his family all jumped into our backyard and were swimming in our pool.
Tom begged me to let it slide, to let them swim in our pool, but the idea of this filthy bunch not even showing the common decency of asking to come over made it impossible for me to let it slide.
I was irate and demanded they leave. I first asked politely and was ignored. I then threatened to call
That’s when he attacked me.
The wiry redneck, with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, took long gangly strides up the back yard. He stood less than a foot away from me and then punched me in the nose.
I could taste the blood trickling down the back of my throat and my eyes blurred a little. Out of fear I retreated into the house.
My neighbour followed and Tom was nowhere to be seen.
I was cornered in my bedroom and the slack-jawed creature burned my on my arms with his cigarette. He warned me of “interferin’ with his kin” but other than that remained silent and continued to burn and hit me.
Finally he just left me sitting in the corner of the bedroom cradling my wounds.
On Thursday night it was one of our customers at work.
I don’t normally do face-to-face contact but on this day she’s come to the office to see me in particular.
We talked and I can remember the conversation but it started off pleasant enough. She was a pleasant looking woman in a grey suit with short, blonde hair.
Then she turned on me. She was screaming and yelling so loud that her words distorted. She began kicking and punching me and I decided to hit and scream back.
Eventually co-workers intervened, she was dragged outside and I could see her standing on the other side of the glass doors gesticulating wildly. I was on the other side defending my actions.
The neighbour lives in a house on the cul-de-sac that doesn’t exist and the meeting was held in an office where I don’t work.
Clearly my subconscious is trying to work something out. It’s working, I’m feeling a lot clearer and happier as though overnight all of my anger and frustration and self-doubt has been vented.
But is it any wonder I wake up feeling tired?
Thursday, April 06, 2006
FAT OPTIONS
Do I want to go that far?
Is my desire for something greater than my fear? I’m trying to choose between two equally deadly options.
One option means I stay the same the other means I will be physically changed forever and I can’t turn back.
The problem with being fat is that everyone has their assumptions as to why you’re fat. The list, although blandly simplistic, is long:
Maybe you’re retaining water.
Maybe you eat too much.
Maybe you don’t eat enough.
Maybe you need to exercise more.
Maybe it’s muscle weight.
The woman at the next desk. She’s eating pizza & carrot cake five days a week. If not that then it’s a sausage roll or ice cream. For some unknown reason she’s a stick figure that could be snapped in any forcible wind.
Then there’s me. Piece of fruit for breakfast, salad at lunch, bland lean meat for dinner with double veggies. And I’m a walking barrel.
Maybe it’s gluten intolerance
Maybe you’re glucose intolerant.
Maybe it’s cushing’s syndrome.
Maybe it’s food allergies.
Maybe Hypothyroidism
But despite the current barrage of tests for infertility it seems I’m a glutton for punishment and I want to know why I just can’t lose weight.
The truth is, no one knows why some people are fat and others are skinny even though they live identical lifestyles. But I’m yet to find a doctor who’ll admit that.
I’ve suggested – maybe it’s just metabolism and that I’m just built that way. They’ve suggested maybe I exercise more (and I’m sure I could if I quit my job!) and eat less (half a piece of fruit?).
I’ve found one woman who appears to understand…
“I restricted myself and battled and felt like a complete loser, and had dieticians and everyone else say, "if you do this you will lose weight" and then treat you badly when you don't. Like it’s all your fault that their plan isn’t working for you.
“At that time I did give up, and ate whatever I wanted, which made me a lot worse.”
And then she underwent bilio-pancreatic diversion – a terrifying procedure where the stomach is cut in half and the small intestine is cut in half reducing the absorption of food.
Is this the road I’ll be forced to take?
I don’t know that I’m ready to have my body torn apart without exhausting all of my options – without knowing why I am the way I am.
But it’s an option I have to consider because I have no others.
Do I want to go that far?
Is my desire for something greater than my fear? I’m trying to choose between two equally deadly options.
One option means I stay the same the other means I will be physically changed forever and I can’t turn back.
The problem with being fat is that everyone has their assumptions as to why you’re fat. The list, although blandly simplistic, is long:
Maybe you’re retaining water.
Maybe you eat too much.
Maybe you don’t eat enough.
Maybe you need to exercise more.
Maybe it’s muscle weight.
The woman at the next desk. She’s eating pizza & carrot cake five days a week. If not that then it’s a sausage roll or ice cream. For some unknown reason she’s a stick figure that could be snapped in any forcible wind.
Then there’s me. Piece of fruit for breakfast, salad at lunch, bland lean meat for dinner with double veggies. And I’m a walking barrel.
Maybe it’s gluten intolerance
Maybe you’re glucose intolerant.
Maybe it’s cushing’s syndrome.
Maybe it’s food allergies.
Maybe Hypothyroidism
But despite the current barrage of tests for infertility it seems I’m a glutton for punishment and I want to know why I just can’t lose weight.
The truth is, no one knows why some people are fat and others are skinny even though they live identical lifestyles. But I’m yet to find a doctor who’ll admit that.
I’ve suggested – maybe it’s just metabolism and that I’m just built that way. They’ve suggested maybe I exercise more (and I’m sure I could if I quit my job!) and eat less (half a piece of fruit?).
I’ve found one woman who appears to understand…
“I restricted myself and battled and felt like a complete loser, and had dieticians and everyone else say, "if you do this you will lose weight" and then treat you badly when you don't. Like it’s all your fault that their plan isn’t working for you.
“At that time I did give up, and ate whatever I wanted, which made me a lot worse.”
And then she underwent bilio-pancreatic diversion – a terrifying procedure where the stomach is cut in half and the small intestine is cut in half reducing the absorption of food.
Is this the road I’ll be forced to take?
I don’t know that I’m ready to have my body torn apart without exhausting all of my options – without knowing why I am the way I am.
But it’s an option I have to consider because I have no others.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
ROLLERCOASTER
That chubby little bundle of joy you’re shoving under my nose doesn’t make me smile. It doesn’t make me giggle with cluckiness. I don’t want to watch him coo and gurgle.
It makes me want to scream.
And all your comments - “you’re next” or “maybe you’re pregnant” or “when are you having children” - doesn’t make me excited. You comments don’t fuel my enthusiasm to have children.
They make me want to cry.
Tom tries but he’s no help.
“Have you ever thought the problem’s me?”
He’s trying to be nice and I know that he’s feeling the pangs of failure but not being able to fall pregnant will always be seen as a woman’s failings, not the mans.
“Ah, you’ve got an 8-year-old walking, talking statement that the problem is me,” I bight back.
Every fortnight his progeny comes to visit. Every fortnight I’m reminded that some hideous, undeserving creature has spawned the child of the man I love.
Every fortnight I’m reminded that her deception bore fruit and my honesty is causing nothing but frustration.
“Look, I’m going to get upset and angry and moody a lot. I’m really upset about this and it’s a big deal. But it’s my problem and I just need you to hug me when it’s called for and ignore me when I’m being completely irrational,” I can’t explain it to him. I’m trying to but this anguish doesn’t have words.
Tom looks even more confused. “How will I know when to do what?”
“I’ll tell you.”
So there are more tests and more medications than I can poke a stick at. I’ve had blood drained from my body to the point of making me faint and I’m taking medication that’s made me an emotional wreck.
I’d like to say that it’s all coming to an end but there is a long way to go. We’re talking more tests, more invasions and more medication.
It’s draining and I’m exhausted more than anything else. Tom and I always said that we weren’t trying to fall pregnant but that we just weren’t not trying either. We’ve taken this tack for two years and it’s not working – time for a different tack.
So now I spend a couple of hours a week just waiting in the doctor’s office. I spend nights staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what's wrong with me.
“You know, when nugget does come along we’re going to look back on all of this and laugh,” he smiles.
I, as is my response to everything lately, burst into tears.
“This is one of those hug times isn’t it?” he asks, honestly concerned that the wrong action could have worse repercussions.
I just cry harder.
“So I'll take that as yes.” and he hugs me.
These days, that's the most effective medicine there is.
That chubby little bundle of joy you’re shoving under my nose doesn’t make me smile. It doesn’t make me giggle with cluckiness. I don’t want to watch him coo and gurgle.
It makes me want to scream.
And all your comments - “you’re next” or “maybe you’re pregnant” or “when are you having children” - doesn’t make me excited. You comments don’t fuel my enthusiasm to have children.
They make me want to cry.
Tom tries but he’s no help.
“Have you ever thought the problem’s me?”
He’s trying to be nice and I know that he’s feeling the pangs of failure but not being able to fall pregnant will always be seen as a woman’s failings, not the mans.
“Ah, you’ve got an 8-year-old walking, talking statement that the problem is me,” I bight back.
Every fortnight his progeny comes to visit. Every fortnight I’m reminded that some hideous, undeserving creature has spawned the child of the man I love.
Every fortnight I’m reminded that her deception bore fruit and my honesty is causing nothing but frustration.
“Look, I’m going to get upset and angry and moody a lot. I’m really upset about this and it’s a big deal. But it’s my problem and I just need you to hug me when it’s called for and ignore me when I’m being completely irrational,” I can’t explain it to him. I’m trying to but this anguish doesn’t have words.
Tom looks even more confused. “How will I know when to do what?”
“I’ll tell you.”
So there are more tests and more medications than I can poke a stick at. I’ve had blood drained from my body to the point of making me faint and I’m taking medication that’s made me an emotional wreck.
I’d like to say that it’s all coming to an end but there is a long way to go. We’re talking more tests, more invasions and more medication.
It’s draining and I’m exhausted more than anything else. Tom and I always said that we weren’t trying to fall pregnant but that we just weren’t not trying either. We’ve taken this tack for two years and it’s not working – time for a different tack.
So now I spend a couple of hours a week just waiting in the doctor’s office. I spend nights staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what's wrong with me.
“You know, when nugget does come along we’re going to look back on all of this and laugh,” he smiles.
I, as is my response to everything lately, burst into tears.
“This is one of those hug times isn’t it?” he asks, honestly concerned that the wrong action could have worse repercussions.
I just cry harder.
“So I'll take that as yes.” and he hugs me.
These days, that's the most effective medicine there is.
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