The diary

The weather has taken a turn for the downright horrible; heavy rain, hail, wind and sleet. When I got home from S’s last night, my mother informed me that she’s still getting headaches and feeling sick when she puts the gas fire on. So now we don’t have any heating in the living room until we can get someone in to sort it, which is more money we don’t need to be spending but heck, it could explain a lot of what’s been going on with my health too, if it is throwing out carbon monoxide.

We also talked about her decision to read up about MS online. She said she wasn’t going to, but found a link and had to see. She looked at me and said, “you have every symptom, don’t you?”. She reminded me of all the times when she thought I was drunk and we got into fights. I knew I hadn’t been drinking, but she always said I was spaced out, vacant and slurring slightly. I have no recollection of this. I admitted how, at a house party last year, I went to stand up and my right leg refused to work; I collapsed and couldn’t walk at all for about half an hour. I put it down to exhaustion, or just sitting funny… but heck, it now seems I’ve been ‘sitting funny’ for a long time, given all the times I get pins and needles or my foot goes entirely numb. I attritibuted it all to fibromyalgia… but so much has never fit with that diagnosis.

She says she’ll go to the appointment with me. I’m glad. Normally I hate having anybody in the room with me at appointments, least alone my mother, but this isn’t something I think I can handle alone, for once.

I met S at the pub on Friday evening. He gave me a kiss and a hug and bought me a drink. Lent me his filters because I’d run out. Told me I looked “pretty” and put his arm around me. We got quite tipsy; him on Kronenburg, me on a mixture of lager and Tia Maria and coke, and talked about the usual ridiculous things; rubbish band names (“Europe” won), crap Christmas presents, songs you get stuck in your head. He drunkenly went off to Tesco to buy some food and wine for the weekend and I got a taxi to my dealers. It’s weird to think I now have a dealer; it sounds so Hollywood. Stayed there for a while and smoked, chatted to his older daughter about Facebook and music, had a cup of tea and choked embarrasingly on one of his joints; he’s a heavy, heavy smoker, far heavier than I am, and even I can’t cope with what he rolls. He mentioned that O had been ’round a couple of times to buy weed, and I just grunted; I’d sort of hoped he’d give it up when he had the kids, he’s never really reacted to it well. It makes him angry or over-emotional.

S and I spent most of Friday night in bed. For once sex didn’t hurt, and I was able to relax again. I still haven’t told S… it’s weird, because we always talk about sex quite frankly and openly. I just feel strangely less feminine and attractive when sex hurts.We had a takeaway, drank wine, and talked. I’d never really experienced pillow-talk before I met S. I was pleasantly stoned and giggly through the night, S was at his soft and cuddly level of drunk; it couldn’t have been more perfect. Before we went to sleep, we lay together, listening to the rain. He put his arm around my chest and kissed my back. Said he loved me.

Saturday was much of the same. In the afternoon, we went to pick a hard drive and some bits and pieces up from the lockup he’s keeping all his furniture in. He found his mother’s diary, which she’d written when she knew she had terminal cancer, a ridiculous photo of him as a child (“you grew into your looks, didn’t you dear?”) and I dug out some PS3 games and a few DVDs. Afterwards, we went to the pub with his friends (his best friends, I suppose) and sat around for hours, talking shit and getting drunk. I smoked a joint in the smoking area; I was having a good night. S’s friends talk to me like an equal… I’m not sure I’ve ever had a relationship where that’s truly happened.

That night, I asked S if I could read his mother’s diary. I wasn’t being nosy; I really wish I could have met her, and wanted to see things from her point of view. Anyone who could produce someone like S… I love her for that. Her handwriting is sloped like mine. She alternates between blue biro and black ink. She loved her children. Every morning, she would read the bible (she became religious when diagnosed) and loved socialising with friends. She forms her “f’s” the exact same way I do.

Her diary made me think about my own writing. I’ve thrown out so many diaries, ripped up so many pages and even burned one or two… and now I wish I’d kept them somewhere safe. Perhaps if I had, I could rationalise things which have happened.

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  1. Progression, progression, progression. Very good to hear about your mother seeing the possibilities of your health, and also glad to hear she’ll be going with you to the doc.
    Also, happy for you that you and S were able to woohoo without it hurting. I’m hoping that allowed you to really enjoy it.
    And are you allowed to smoke joints in bars over there? Over here, it’s illegal as all get-out, which sucks greatly.


  2. Just checking in with you and so nice to read that your weekend with S was even more than you’d been hoping it to be. Love that you found his mothers diary. I too am a diary keeper, although I reference them as journals. I have a suggestion about keeping them. If possible.

    I have a life long girlfriend who I trust with my soul. We have been besties since we were just about 3 yrs of age, our parents neighborhood friends. We have raised our families close by, have our children growing up together, and now their children. 4th generations.

    I have pact, a promise made to me. That in the event something happens to me my friend Lynn will take my journals and she alone will decide what should happen to them. We made this promise when my girls were too young to be reading my journals. Now that they are adults I may rethink the pact. But the important thing is find a way to get them to another generation after you. There is important details and elements to all diaries and journals that should never be lost. Too much wisdom that should be shared down the lines.

    My fingers, my toes, even my eyes are crossed for you to have negative tests results. My prayers are still strongly sent with thoughts of positive vibrations and energy making a huge difference.


  3. Diaries are interesting to read and good for the soul to write (although the benefits only really come when they are re-read much later and we can see how messed up we were at the time:)-I’ve destroyed SO many diaries and I agree with you, it is a shame we did not keep them. It would be a great way to see the patterns that lead us to end up in the same places over and over.
    Back in the day, there is a lot that was going on in my head that I did not want anyone to ever see or know about me. Shame was the motivator to destroy what I had written. Hide the real me. That was the goal.
    Your week-end sounds like it was good enough to direct your mind away from your inner turbulence.
    Wishing you answers with your doctor appointment. And solutions:)


  4. A lovely weekend. I’m glad for you.

    I still have every journal I’ve filled, and I don’t know what I want done with them when I’m gone. Some are full of simple “daily pages” (ala Julia Comeron of The Artist’s Way) – so they are mostly bitching and whining in an effort to get that sort of thing out of my system. Those, I think, should get burned. I guess I should sort through them while I still can.


  5. I’m on my 9.5th journal (it’s #9.5 because I finished my ninth and this one isn’t long enough to be called my 10th) since February of early this year. I love to write. I read my old journals, and sometimes I cry, sometimes I laugh at what I’ve written.
    Some of what I wrote is absolutely ridiculous. I was SO STUPID back then.
    Really, it hasn’t been very long at all since I started my daily writing. But it feels like a lifetime. Weird.
    Anyway, I know if I keep them I’ll be grateful to read them later in life. So I don’t throw them away or burn them, no matter how depressed and Satanic I’ve gotten, and written demonic things on that paper. Cursed myself.
    I’ll keep writing. It’s true, when I write and reread my writing, I feel like I can rationalize my decisions, like you said.


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