A Fishy Tale

I like to think that I have a lateral thinking approach to logic that embraces a certain amount of flexibility and adaptive freedom. Hubby, on the other hand, thinks I’m bonkers. Not stark-raving lick-the-bus-windows doolally, but certainly disjointedly chaotic. In turn I consider his logic occasionally flawed and often mistakenly rigid, and whilst neither of us is either right or wrong I tend to lean towards thinking I’m the one with a firmer grip on reality. But then I would really, wouldn’t I ?

That said, I do do something regularly every 2 weeks that even makes me wonder if the cheese has finally slid off my cracker, ‘cos it seems to plainly illustrate that I’m not packing a full picnic at best…and at worst I’m a babbling idiot.

Every fortnight I do the “Walk Of No Sushi.”

This is the Sunday afternoon jaunt back from dropping off my eldest son at the centre he’s currently staying in, and it involves a 30 minute torture session where I heatedly debate with myself why I should or should not buy myself a box of sushi once I reach the train station.It goes a little something like this :

Me 1 : Hey ! How about buying a small box of sushi from the station ?
Me 2 : Oh Sod OFF! Do we really have to do this Every Single Time ?!?
Me 1 : Yes. So how about it ?
Me 2 : You know I’m not going to, so just give it a rest and look at the nice flowers or something…
Me 1 : Flowers aren’t as nice as sushi…

And so it goes on for 30 long minutes that ultimately culminates in me pissing myself off with my irritating persistence. And not buying any sushi.

Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some exotic Asian eatery that wafts enticing aromas at hungry commuters, offering them fishy wasabi goodness. No. This is pre-packaged supermarket sushi squeezed into the space on the shelves between the tiny bags of takeaway chopped fruit and cardboard-encased sandwiches. I know it’s not high quality, yet I want it and I want it bad.

So why don’t I just buy some ?
Well, the reasoning behind it is thus ( and don’t bother attempting to make sense of it, you *will* fail.)Β  :
1) For : It only costs 2 – 4 euro.
Against : Money shmoney, a penny saved and all that jazz.
2) For : It’s only a small amount, you’d spend that on a bottle of drink.
Against : Drink doesn’t count. If I dehydrate I get migraines. That pretty much qualifies that bottle of Pepsi Max as medicinal.
3) For : It will stop you being hungry…
Against : I’m only hungry because I’ve been obsessing about sushi for an hour !!
4) For : Nobody will ever know…
Against : I will ! And if I eat some I won’t be hungry when I get home and the dinner Hubby has been preparing for the last 3 hours will be wasted. I might as well throw the plate in his face!
( The voices in my head have a flair for the dramatic )
5) For : You probably have the money in spare small coins at the bottom of your bag right now… go have a look…
Against : True. But this is money that I had to ask for. It’s not mine. It’s travelling money. It’s let’s feed the kids and pay the bills money. If I waste it on sneaky Japanese treats then exactly what sort of thief AM I ??

And so on.

I’m prepared to admit I quite possibly might have a few issues. About practically everything, as it turns out. One thing is crystal clear though, I either need to resolve my money hang-ups or skip the train and start taking the largely pickled-ginger-free bus home…

Or…

I could, as per today’s prompt, “Pick something you don’t like, and choose to accept it.“, let it go, and focus my energy on something really, truly important. Make a difference to my world somehow with all that repressed tension and embrace my newfound liberty.

Nah, I still fancy the sushi. *sigh*

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Poop.

Shit, as the quaint old saying goes, happens.

Black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight… Shit doesn’t care or discriminate. It’s an equal opportunities Bastard.

Like unexpectantly rising rent payments, the sudden appearance of a single smug-looking grey pubic hair, and unknowingly walking out of the ladies toilet with the back of your dress tucked into your knickers ( And not even the good “WhooHoo, I’m gonna get me some, peel these babies off with your teeth!” knickers, no… we’re talking back of the underwear drawer forgotten to do the laundry bellywarmers ) Shit is inescapable and randomly thrown at you to test how long it will take before you snap, buy a sniper rifle, and start picking off the seagulls flying past the balcony at 4am.

Now, before I get into exactly why I’ve been absent recently I think I should make it clear that pain is personal and mostly incomparable. Often pain is put on a sliding scale. You frequently see this in action in online forums where disagreements arise and eventually someone plays the “Cancer” card, which as everyone knows is supposed to trump all counter arguments and send the opposition to the Corner Of Shame. And to a certain extent that’s true.( Not the them having Cancer bit, that’s invariably a whopping big fib and reserves the Fibbee a nice stage-side dining table in the Restaurant Of Eternal Damnation ). You would have to be a Grade A moron to genuinely feel that snagging your tights on your nails and having to buy a new pair in any way or form compares to snagging a leg on some heavy-duty machinery and having to spend the rest of your life shoe shopping and saying to the assistant who is pointedly attempting not to stare, “No, I’ll only be needing the one, thanks.”

However, there’s a huge grey area in between Moderately Crappy and Holy Cow It’s A Diarrea-O-Rama! and those in the middle are at the mercy of perception.
I’ve been wallowing in that grey area for a while now. It’s not much fun.

Firstly, I almost lost my eldest son to suicide. Then I almost lost my youngest boy to diabetes. And a couple of weeks ago I almost lost my daughter to pneumonia.
I’m starting to feel like there’s a bit of a pattern developing here. Someone is definitely tuggin’ my chain.

And tuggin’.
And tuggin’.
And you know how that makes me feel?

I feel lucky.
I could have lost my beautiful, smart, funny, caring children, and Lord knows that would pretty much finish me too, but I didn’t. It was a close thing, and Christ it was painful each time ( and still is ), but it could so easily have been end-of-the-scale pain. The sort of pain you don’t recover from. Deep black not-a-speck-of-grey pain.

So that’s where I’ve been, showering off the excrement and feeling very grateful it was just a light shower as opposed to being pushed into a bubbling hot tub of the stuff. You can thank me for the mental image later πŸ™‚

A confession.

Usually when I’m blogging I write it all down longhand, review, spellcheck, review again, type it out, review, post, review and then spend the next 2 hours looking at my site stats ( yes, I *am* that neurotic ).

This post is not going to be like that. In fact, this post is going to be unlike any other post before or to come, and I hope that after having read it it won’t put too many people off reading any further garbage I may throw at you πŸ˜‰

I have a problem. I can’t post.

It’s not like I have writer’s block, or I lack inspiration. I have loads of ideas and a little notebook full of scribbled bits waiting for internet immortality.

What I do have is *deep breath* Borderline Personality Disorder.

I’ll spare you the details of why I have it, it’s not really important, and I will stress that I have “multiple traits” as opposed to all-out BPD. Only someone who’s lived with someone with BPD will appreciate the distinction. I think it would be fair to say that BPD sufferers are hard to live with, I’m only hard to live with when I’m triggered. Otherwise I’m a bundle of light and joy πŸ˜€

Being Borderline has meant that I’m BIG on starting stuff. Insanely, passionately, obsessively keen on starting. But once it becomes a commitment we hit a brick wall. And it really is like slamming face-first into concrete. You can’t go around it, you can’t climb over it.Β  I have so much in my head that I want to do, my house is full of craft stuff stored away for when I can face actually using it, but I can’t. And I do mean that.. I can’t, rather than I won’t. It becomes a huge battle and I end up doing nothing, or worst still, I end up doing stuff I don’t want to do purely because it’s not a commitment.

I’m hoping with this post I can somehow keep this blog going, cos it’s becoming hard, but I really don’t want to drop it like I have so many other blogs before. It’s important to me that I do this, to see if I can. To show that I can. So some posts might be a lot smaller, but I hope you’ll bear with me cos knowing there are some people who actually subscribe to this nonsense is pretty important. Incredibly scary for someone with Borderline, but very important.

Thank you.

Michelle x

Stress, now with added pollage.

“Are you stressed out right now? ”

Rather surprisingly, no, though I would like to know the difference between your run-of-the-mill “stressed” and the new and improved “stressed out”. The latter appears to imply teetering on the verge of your personal tolerance level, whereas the former just seems to be standard fare for life in general.

However, “no” isn’t the most exciting of answers, so in an attempt to jack this up to “Holy Cow, that’s awesome!!” level I’m going to add a poll. “That’ll whip my 3 subscribers up into a frenzy,” thought I. But then at some stage in my life I thought baby blue eyeshadow looked cool, so what do I know?

Please feel free to de-stress by giving it a whirl πŸ™‚