I Can’t

A part of me wishes that I could hate. If I could hate then all of my feelings would make sense and then I could go on with my life.

It’s not that I don’t hate, it’s that I can’t.

It all started last night, as Camilla Cabello’s “Liar” slipped through my mind:

“I said I won’t lose control, I don’t want it.“

I don’t want it, do I? We’re done. Finished. Kaput. 

He’s gone. Out of my life. Over.

Well, maybe, except that I could not tamp out that teeny, tiny, last little ember of hope. 

Maybe, just maybe. Who knows? Stranger things have happened. 

They say it takes two to get into these arrangements, which means to say that if you find yourself in one of these said unhealthy relationships, you probably did something to get there. Even unknowingly, it’s some quality you have that draws people with a need to you. You’re unintentionally codependent.

Well okay. Nobody likes to take some of the blame, but I can take it. Learn and grow, after all.

To start with I was naive. I was uneducated in lovebombing or moving too fast or anything, so when the signs of an unhealthy relationship showed themselves then I didn’t slow it down because I didn’t know that it was a problem. I don’t have an expansive dating history like some people do, I didn’t know what the warning signs were until I did some homework. I felt loved right off of the bat by him, swept up in something that best felt like a Disney romance. I still needed to learn that fairytales only happen in storybooks.

Similarly, I didn’t know that “nice guys” were something of a brand that most women stay away from. When I saw “nice guy” on his profile, I thought “oh, cool! He must be nice”. And he was! 

Sometimes. 

Second, I had no boundaries. Boundaries weren’t something that I was taught about or was allowed as a young person, not if I knew what was good for me. I wasn’t allowed to say no to my parents, I wasn’t allowed to ask them to speak to me differently. Those were punishable offences that would have got me grounded and doing manual labour. “Yes” for me meant peace and freedom. 

Third, and related to the above, I’m a people-pleaser. I knew what would happen if I said no, so I didn’t refuse. I knew what would happen if I argued too (anger, drama), so I avoided confrontation. That makes me great for people who want to take advantage.

Fourth, I’m a perfectionist. Tied in with the above, all I need to know is that I haven’t done well enough and I jump through hoops to make it better. Real or imagined, if I wasn’t good enough then I was undeserving.

As an aside, that possibly also ties in with having daily military-style inspections of my bedroom throughout my youth. 

Finally I have a need for approval, and this again ties in with my childhood. I was the black sheep in a black sheep – golden child family dynamic, constantly vying for my mother’s approval until I gave up and decided to find my own credibility (in blogging) instead. Not being approved of is painful for me, not being good enough hurts. I needed to educate myself and learn that I am enough, exactly as I am. I needed to work, still, on my self-esteem – it’s good, but it could still be a lot better. The only approval that I really need is my own. There will always be people who love me and people who hate me, and for as long as the people who love me outweigh the people who hate me, I shan’t worry.

He wasn’t all bad, really.

It’s my mother’s voice, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t annoy me sometimes. 

It’s in the same way as how she once told me that the guy who cheated on me three times was “decent”. No, Mum, he was an asshole. He was “decent” because he wanted in my pants, my virginity, specifically. He even said to me two weeks before my sixteenth birthday “so, not long to wait now then”, almost as though I was a tray of freshly baked cookies. But sure, go ahead and tell me how you want that for a son-in-law, I’ll wait.

He might have been a decent human being, but he wasn’t a decent partner.

The problem was, at least in part, my ex wasn’t prepared to be accountable for his part of the whole drama. He wasn’t prepared to forgive, because forgiveness means letting go of the pain. He wasn’t willing to see and accept that we both fucked things up and the key to happiness, in whatever format, is being able to reflect on rhe fuck up and trying something different to not fuck it up again. He wasn’t willing or able to see that screwing up sometimes don’t lessen your worth, it just makes you human. 

I lose myself by nightfall in Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back To Me Now“. It’s the second time in as many weeks that I have “gone to shit”.

He was flawed, yes, we all are, but he wasn’t that bad, was he? 

No, he wasn’t, but he was stubborn when it did go wrong, and to his own detriment. He was uncompromising, too. That’s the problem. 

It’s not that I didn’t want to love him, it’s that I can’t.

---

The six pygmy corydora catfish turned up on Wednesday, or the “piggies” as they’re now more affectionately known, and oh boy they are cute! Barely an inch long, silver-grey with a black stripe along the body. Look! So sweet!

I think a few of them have started to associate me with food already because when I show up, they swim to the front of the tank. I think the rasboras have been encouraging that, though I think the rasboras have gone and confused everything too. I currently have corydora shoaling with the chili rasboras, and chili rasboras who are feeding from the bottom, like a corydora. Heaven knows what I’ve created, but it’s not what I had planned!

The snakeskin guppies, though? Still nowhere to be found. I’m concerned, so I dropped the seller a message on Thursday.

Friday they replied.

Weather conditions haven’t been favourable this week, so we can send them out Monday or Tuesday next week Special Delivery. Please let us know if that is okay.

Next week? Next week is Christmas week, are they insane? They had three days to message me to say “hey, we’re not shipping fish at the moment because of the cold weather” and I would have fully understood and accommodated it. Instead they treated me like a mushroom. 

No way, I’m set on a refund. 

Hi, that’s no good for me. I’m travelling to North Wales tomorrow to spend Christmas with my family. Please can you cancel my order?

Alright so it’s a white lie, I don’t even have family in North Wales. They aren’t going to know that, though.

I feel sorry for them in a way, that’s £55 in sales gone and all they had to do was drop me a message. That’s a sharp blow and a painful lesson right before Christmas.

---

I’ve promised myself that I’m going to revamp myself in time for the new year. In truth I haven’t had a haircut since pre-lockdown, largely because I routinely put every other fucker first but also because my hairdresser and my mother, shall we say, they get along and they talk. I’m not willing to put myself into situations where I get degraded (again, not without a safeword) and so I avoid the salon because I do not appreciate being ganged upon. It’s not that Nicki is horrible, she’s not, she’s just easily swayed, and then…

That I know of, there is no hairdresser near me. Barber? Yes. Nail salon? Sure. Hair salon? I don’t think so. Even Nicki is 20 minutes away, but she’s been cutting my hair since I was a child and it seems rude to deviate now. Alas, maybe it’s time. 

For now I’m thinking about going for a lockdown-style wolfcut. Something, anything, to take some of the weight off of it and get it all back under control. I used to have my hair layered anyway, and it did used to suit me. Who knows?

After that I plan to dye it red. Not pillarbox red, but auburn/mahogany like I used to. It always turned heads, and so it should. 

In the new year I’m considering getting my nose pierced too, on the side. It’s something that I’ve thought about for a while and think would suit me, but I’ve held off from doing because again I have a world to save. Even if I cop out and only wear a magnetic nose stud instead, it’s still a treat for me and not something that will stick to my waistline.

I also plan to bring back more black, more gothic style, more lace, more leather and more chain. That is me, that is my style and I will be damned if anyone else is going to tell me what I should do with my body.

Not without my permission, anyway.