Thursday, August 7, 2008


Dear boys and girls
Thank you for stopping by. If you're one of the kind hundreds (yes! hundreds!) who've been here in the past and liked what you read, and told me so, then I must also thank you for keeping me going for as long as I managed...

Circumstances have made it impossible for me to continue writing, unfortunately - and I didn't think I could bear to have so much of myself out in blog-land mocking my inability to write two coherent sentences. Thus it was that I scrolled down on the settings page today and clicked the little blue button that said "Delete This Blog".
(Permanently delete this blog and all entries?
I'm afraid the blog is gone: all the archives, all the comments; everything. It's a decision that I'm currently glad I took - drastic times, drastic measures. I have no idea if I'll regret it later.
Hopefully not.

If you ever want to talk, or tell me you'll miss my blog (yay!) or that I'm an idiot and should never have deleted it (double yay!!) then please do email me at

Thanks and goodbye.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008


perhaps the time has come to stop telling the world about everything.

truth-telling, secret-keeping

For the longest time, the T has been an endless reservoir of things I could not tell the neighbours. She keeps secrets better than most people we know, except perhaps the dead, and those in the profession of keeping secrets. The T is my way out of madness. The T and all my friends.
Or has been.

I will make my first-ever appointment with a psychologist some time today.
Friends I've told have asked if I'm sure of this decision, and I wonder about it myself. I feel as one might feel who can no longer say, "I never stole.", "I never lied.", "I never cheated.". I feel as someone might who has by a single action crossed an invisible line into being a lesser person. I feel as though I've let myself down; I don't like that feeling. Part of me is afraid of being judged, I think: as though the admission that there are things that bother me that are beyond my control makes me less worthy than I was the instant before I admitted to it. And that is odd, because I have never had a problem with admitting to anything before...

I wonder what the difference is between someone who talks to friends about their issues and someone who pays to talk to a stranger about it. I wonder now, but I won't wonder for very much longer. In all my little life not one of the million events that put me into bed crying ever made me seriously consider therapy as a solution. Not one.
But now I do.
This amuses and terrifies me.

I could talk to friends again. I could call my friends and say, I need you. Please help me. and they would come. I did it, and they came. I couldn't do that now, though. I can't do that again. This is too big, and too painful, and has been festering for far too long for a single two-hour crying-jag over coffee to fix, as much as I wish it could.
Isn't it odd how one single solitary situation has affected everything else about my life?

I could validate this decision. I could break it down into constituent reasons and discover it makes perfect sense.
The simple truth is this, though. I have talked to everybody, and nobody made the pain go away. I tried very hard to will it, push it, pretend it away - to talk, pray, cry, meditate, exercise, work it away - and I failed. And it didn't go away. Well, a person who doesn't know her limitations is a fool.
At some point to solve a problem one must call in a professional.
Preferably before the house falls down.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

a small minded girl

Boys and girls, the T has matrimonial posting on websites. *gasp*
In fact, for the last three months she has had the dubious pleasure of coming home to find the 'rents in front of the computer discussing "occasional non-vegetarian" and "social drinking". She thinks they are very naïve. She also is quite sure that she will not get married for another three years at the rate at which they're going through profiles. While mum takes a minute to at least go through interests to find "reading" somewhere, dad is more likely to take one look at the chap's face and reject him out of hand.
T is pleased at the ancestral behaviour.

Partly in defiance of the whole "we will select a 'good boy' for you" routine, partly because she needed something to do while home sick, and partly out of that old demon curiosity, she created a profile on a site alternate to the ones mummy and daddy have been frequenting. It took surprisingly little time, and was rather fun, all said and done.
In two days, then, she has found only-maybe-perhaps-two interesting gents, but could not help but notice the vast numbers of "simple down to earth guys" out there, and wonders what it means, exactly. She did also find a farmer, in which case simple and down-to-earth might be taken more literally, but she does not think the others had that in mind.

Meanwhile, adventure! As long as profiles like this exist, anyway:
i. m very good boy sinciar and inteligent and hardwarking man. i am a good dancer. and i have a black balt in taekwondo.

Such a bad girl as the T is. It would serve her right if she got beaten up by the black balt.