waiting for the whoosh - badgergirl's journal page 21

[badgergirl]

B: yoghurt, p'nut butter, coffee
L: mouthful of stilton, a dried apricot and a prune; salad of feta, aubergine, cucumber, tomato and red capsicum
D: probably beef curry as there were leftovers, yep small bowl of this; yoghurt; handful of mixed nuts

The work of patch is going great guns! I can see the end in sight, helped today by a 40-minute delay on the train. It's going to be a beauty, she said modestly.

To be filed in the completely odd folder: yesterday my friend asked if I would mind having Julia Gillard at my house for the afternoon to promote the schoolkids bonus. The date she suggested is small boy's fifth birthday. I was very tempted, but husband heard the words 'film crew at our house' and said no.

Train home I also worked on the patch. So. I sit there in a full red skirt and a demure t-shirt combo with sensible German sandals on my feet, barely a hint of what's going on underneath (perhaps the navy polish on my toes). It's the quiet ones you have to watch. The girls I know who do the beauty thing tend towards the asexual. Those of us who are odder looking, gawky, awkward, silent, crafty (in both senses), well, we're strange and twisted in other ways too. I spent the entire journey imagining a sub Anais Nin scenario with the man sitting opposite me.
Skip the inane chat beforehand...

Then I came home and snogged the husband.

[ezk]

Hey badgergirl, i just catch up with your journal.
it is still good and writing does get better.
Your refs make me laugh, Catherine M and Anais N, a way more fun
then the current x literaure.
Read your self sometimes if you dont do already, an internet journal
may turn to a book.. or may not.
Oh, and yeah.. I measure 1,79 , my shoes size is 41 and i had and still do have
a tendency to finish once open bottle of red, gigondas makes it for me,
all of which most probably has to do with the léger understanding and sympathy i got for you.

[badgergirl]

Hey badgergirl, i just catch up with your journal.
it is still good and writing does get better.
Your refs make me laugh, Catherine M and Anais N, a way more fun
then the current x literaure.
Read your self sometimes if you dont do already, an internet journal
may turn to a book.. or may not.
Oh, and yeah.. I measure 1,79 , my shoes size is 41 and i had and still do have
a tendency to finish once open bottle of red, gigondas makes it for me,
all of which most probably has to do with the léger understanding and sympathy i got for you.

I'm a size 40 foot, or shoe I suppose. And I love Gigondas...all the fun of a Chateauneuf and half the price.

[badgergirl]

B: yoghurt, pnut butter, coffee
L: tuna, grilled aubergine (the last of it - sob), mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, balsamic
D: two snags (Aussie barbie talk, since that's where we were); cherry tomatoes, half an avocado; yoghurt

I'm observing my own behaviour. On unstressed, 'normal' days I have impulses, which are easy to ignore. An impulse might be, 'let's have another spoonful of p'nut better, there's not much left, may as well finish the jar!' I can exert willpower, leave the kitchen, pat myself on the back (yes, I now do this as a self-reward - I never claimed I wasn't strange) and do the work of patch instead. If I ignore one impulse my subconscious will often change tack, 'it's hot and you've had a crap day again. Husband is ignoring you, and you didn't succumb to wine. Why not just have a small Frangellico on ice?' Again, it's an impulse, easy to ignore or, if listened to and acted on, the end of the saga.

Periods of binge/unhealthy eating and drinking take a different path. These are compulsions. My thoughts shout at me and there's no quiet until the compulsion is followed through on, often many times. So, I might *try* to divert myself or ignore it for the first half hour or so, but eventually the compulsion wins if only to quiet my goddamned shouty thoughts.

The bit of Harry Potter that impressed me most was the pensieve: ‘One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure’

I want one of those.

My head is large - thanks, hydrocephalus! It stews with thoughts. I think all too much, all the time; my thoughts are relentless and often circular. I like things that silence the thoughts: deeply immersive reading, heavy drinking, binge eating, sex - though it has to take me out of my body to fully answer that need - I need *a lot* to get me to stop thinking...I'm beginning to think that I need to take up either extreme sports or retreat to a Zen monastery.

Speaking of monasteries, I’m full of very dangerous non-food and drink impulses. There seem to be triggers everywhere – music set me off this morning, an article about James Deen had me burning yesterday, not my type (at all) but it doesn't take much at the moment. I actively avoid porn for this reason, my mill doesn’t need more grist, currently I’m a danger to myself and others.

Thank goodness I'm not visiting bars and clubs.

Impulse. Control. Obsessive behaviour. Control.

[cori93437]

RE: "It's the quiet ones you have to watch".

Isn't it though!

No one who knows me, or sees me IRL, would ever guess about me.
Conservative casual jeans and t-shirts girl. (Except for that spat with blue hair last year, because I was a walking neurological symptom billboard and everyone was going to stare anyway.)
When I do dress up I tend towards the conservative but not ultra feminine. Sort of what you might see in a 40-50's's movie... all classic kind of timeless stuff. Including trousers. I'm more Katherine than Audrey.

I mean I had my big tear years in my early 20's in stiletto heels, leather minis, and full corsets, rolling through New Orleans like I thought I owned the place at night...
But in the daytime, casual conservative dress and Bass buck saddle oxfords. I kid you not.

And the ladies I know who go full out ultra-fem all the time... so straight laced. So not getting busy with their husbands. Half of them don't care if they have sex at all I think, or don't particularly enjoy sex when they do have it... Buncha weirdos.

Anyway, I just thought I'd pop in since you've offered support over in my journal of oddities lately.
Now I'll have to read and catch up.

[ezk]

B: yoghurt, pnut butter, coffee
L: tuna, grilled aubergine (the last of it - sob), mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, balsamic
D: two snags (Aussie barbie talk, since that's where we were); cherry tomatoes, half an avocado; yoghurt

I'm observing my own behaviour. On unstressed, 'normal' days I have impulses, which are easy to ignore. An impulse might be, 'let's have another spoonful of p'nut better, there's not much left, may as well finish the jar!' I can exert willpower, leave the kitchen, pat myself on the back (yes, I now do this as a self-reward - I never claimed I wasn't strange) and do the work of patch instead. If I ignore one impulse my subconscious will often change tack, 'it's hot and you've had a crap day again. Husband is ignoring you, and you didn't succumb to wine. Why not just have a small Frangellico on ice?' Again, it's an impulse, easy to ignore or, if listened to and acted on, the end of the saga.

Periods of binge/unhealthy eating and drinking take a different path. These are compulsions. My thoughts shout at me and there's no quiet until the compulsion is followed through on, often many times. So, I might *try* to divert myself or ignore it for the first half hour or so, but eventually the compulsion wins if only to quiet my goddamned shouty thoughts.

The bit of Harry Potter that impressed me most was the pensieve: ‘One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure’

I want one of those.

My head is large - thanks, hydrocephalus! It stews with thoughts. I think all too much, all the time; my thoughts are relentless and often circular. I like things that silence the thoughts: deeply immersive reading, heavy drinking, binge eating, sex - though it has to take me out of my body to fully answer that need - I need *a lot* to get me to stop thinking...I'm beginning to think that I need to take up either extreme sports or retreat to a Zen monastery.

Speaking of monasteries, I’m full of very dangerous non-food and drink impulses. There seem to be triggers everywhere – music set me off this morning, an article about James Deen had me burning yesterday, not my type (at all) but it doesn't take much at the moment. I actively avoid porn for this reason, my mill doesn’t need more grist, currently I’m a danger to myself and others.

Thank goodness I'm not visiting bars and clubs.

Impulse. Control. Obsessive behaviour. Control.

Control.. Really?
But why? And till when?
You need to create, to talk , to drink , to run crazy, or at list that is the impression i get from your writing.
Yeah, sure.. You can drown that part of your self in the pool and walk your life with the rest. Some do.

[badgergirl]

Control.. Really?
But why? And till when?
You need to create, to talk , to drink , to run crazy, or at list that is the impression i get from your writing.
Yeah, sure.. You can drown that part of your self in the pool and walk your life with the rest. Some do.

The answer to that very pertinent question is lengthy, and I will - possibly - answer at the length it deserves in the fullness of time (it's bubbling away in the stewpot at the moment), but boils down to one word: fear.

[cori93437]

I posted today about this to some extent... how some impulse issues are actually dulling in many ways and serve to distract us from the real issues.

[badgergirl]

B: yoghurt, pnut butter, coffee
L: half avo, tuna, jalapeños, lettuce, cherry tomatoes
D: small bowl of beef chili with sour cream and cheese; half avo; apple

LONG POST AHEAD

Control.. Really?
But why? And till when?
You need to create, to talk , to drink , to run crazy, or at list that is the impression i get from your writing.
Yeah, sure.. You can drown that part of your self in the pool and walk your life with the rest. Some do.

How to unpick all of this?
Let’s start with some observations or stories or what you will.

It might be in The Secret or some such nonsense book, but I was first told this at a work training event (a typically rah-rah all-day session, borderline cultish, that the American PR agency went in for): whatever your life looks like now, that’s the life you wanted because you made all the decisions that brought you here.

Well. It seems to me that this will either engender a ‘hell, yeah, baby! I’m great me – I’m a ruler of the universe’ response – if, say, your current life satisfies you and all is well in your own walled garden… *or* howls of rage and an overwhelming desire to lamp the smug chops of whoever delivered this homily of patronising claptrap. You will not be surprised to learn, I think, that I fell squarely into the second camp.

And yet.

I did, to an extent, choose this life. I chose the husband and he chose me – albeit without knowledge of what was to come. I chose my education. I chose my career, up to a point, at least. I made the series of decisions that led me to the here and now: marry, have child, emigrate. Not always with full knowledge (but who has that, ever) and the choices along the way have been both active and passive, but they have been mine. I value my stability and safety. I like the security of a stable marriage and an uneventful emotional landscape.

I choose (within the constraints of cost, sizing and availability) how I dress and I choose to look demure/dowdy. I like camouflage. I like the safety and stability of nondescript. I don’t want to wear my kink on my sleeve. I don’t want the world to read me as different. I haven’t the energy or the commitment to keep it up and, I think, I’m not seeking (at this point in my life) that external validation of who I am. I know I’m different; I don’t need to broadcast it or flag it with any of the (sliding scale of social acceptability) sartorial or body modifications that say ALTERNATIVE. I’m not alternative; there are no alternatives for me. This is it. So, if I’m clean; matchy; everything fits and is comfortable; if I play up the English with florals; if I blend; look nonthreatening and appropriate – life is easier for me and, on some levels, this is me. The silk, the pearls, linen, cotton, shoes I can run in, rather than hobble (as well as the things they signify: the home-maker, crafter, suburban mum) – all this is in me.

However, there is more to ‘me’ than what is seen. Surely we are all icebergs floating through the sea of life? But, having started over in a new country, stripped of people that understand the context and the hinterland, what is seen is what I am assumed to be. It’s very hard to know how to start the ‘actually…’ conversation with work friends, husband’s friends or anyone else. I doubt the wisdom of attempting it, particularly given it might have deleterious effects for husband and/or child...not to mention me.

Now. On to the fear aspect of why I don’t plunge into the life creative. This is two-pronged.

The first is the simple fear of failure.

The second prong of fear is the Hemmingway fear – the fear of what success looks like, what it requires to achieve. Best illustrated by the story of how I became actively bulimic.

In my second year of university many life-shaping things either happened or had just happened. I broke up with my fiance at the end of the first year. I met and fell in love with best friend during second year, which also meant being open with myself, and ultimately her, about my equal opportunity employer status. I slept with a lot of lads, partied, read long and deep, learned, took writing class (this was the most important class of my BA in terms of shaping, enriching my mind) and got myself a part-time job at the local chippy.

At Easter break these confluences came together. I stayed at uni (in town, not on campus) to work on my writing portfolio and pick up a few extra shifts at the chippy.

Trigger one. I was alone.
Trigger two. I was fed carbs – free chips at midnight!
Trigger three. Chippy owners had two children – one adopted girl and one birth son. Mother kept telling me that she didn’t love her daughter; that natural was better etc (she knew I was adopted).
Trigger four. I was writing.
Trigger five. I was convinced best friend would never in a million years reciprocate my feelings for her (she was married, after all) and that I would never find anyone who would love me.

I wrote some really good stuff. Seriously. I did rather lose my mind. Correlation does not equal causation…and yet. I delved depths and dragged up stuff about adoption, but writing wasn’t enough of an exorcism of that emotion and once up it had to be stuffed back down again. With chips and pasta. Later, I learned which foods work and which don’t; but, in case you’re wondering, spaghetti should not be on the top of your ‘I want to vomit this later’ list of things to eat.

So. Perhaps I should be looking to:

create, to talk , to drink , to run crazy

However, at some point fear and/or a sense of self-preservation kick in. I’m very, very scared of what total abandonment to the muse would look like, not to mention I chose to have a husband and a child and I do need to hold it together for their benefit. I have responsibilities in that regard. Responsibilities I love. And resent.

I have yet to work out how to balance all of these conflicting needs, impulses and desires.

[ezk]

Strange. The man i love and who is my husband since 6 years was adopted.
He is also one of of the brightest and troubled human being i have ever layed my eyes on.
But so much for coincidences.
Uhh, i will go straight. i guess that you are aware that naming your intellect a kink, difference or else is
useless form of self protection. You are very intelligent and while taking a lot of hidden pride in it,
somehow you are falling in the usual trap. Which you also might be aware of.
Being on the opposite side, my work is tremendous thing for me, i live rather bohemian life
all while having a ten years old daughter, i do understand and i have to admit that sometimes i secretly
crave the joys and the pains of the life you are living. But this appeals to a part of me i rather let dormant.
trouble is that you dont let go of an intelect which condemns you to fragility.
Alcohol and food, they are
just a messengers of how far you are underexiting or overcharging your spirit.
in any case the news is that there is no peace.
nor on your side , neither on mine. There is just a degree of fultifying some floating idea of destiny you might have
or not for your self and level of of satisfaction you obtain from it.
Back to your fear to let go.. it doesnt seem to work anyway, the control thing. And if you deside to live that life, the one you have choosen do not underestimate the people you are surrounded with. Do not think that their normality can stop them from
appreciating your "kinkiness". Your assessments of your self and the world around are flawed by prejudgments . What do you have to lose anyway? Half baked pretension of normalty? Most probably none believes it anyway.
I have recently started to do some work on my self, a year of trancedental meditation, 10 months of writing 3 pages every morning.. I know, i know.. The knowledge that it will never work for me, the time it takes, the no, the basic no to stuff like that.
But,one thing leads to another.. A director i quite love, David Lynch wrote this tiny book called Catching the big fish, i readed it
and it was hard stretch of my life so i said .. wtf, i will try. So i did and here i am , the most unconsistent person i know
keep on doing it already for year, same for the writing. It did surprisingly work. On invisible and unknown pathways.
I lost the clichė handicape of my dreadful shyness in society, my thinking go places it it didn't go before. It happen without
me knowing it, on some secret level, but it did fucking work
and i am bloody grateful and i keep on doing it.
So badgergirl, 35 years is age like anyother for change.. nevr the right moment.. But a bit of a willed pain pays
better then fultified prayers..