family

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On Monday evening we toddled off to the Quaint Historic Market Town where we used to live.  We ate good food and drank fine wine in a lovely little restaurant.  I wore my pearl necklace for only the second time (it’s been sitting on top of the wardrobe, tucked up safely in a posh box which has been gathering copious amounts of dusty-ness; I’d forgotten how small and dainty and sweet it is) and got quite giggly.  We were undercharged for drinks, but *ssshhh*.

We did this because it was our second wedding anniversary yesterday. 

Would you have married me if we’d already known about these illnesses?

He’s a daft plonker sometimes.  He breaks my heart and makes me laugh, all at the same time. 

But I’m leaving him this weekend … he’ll have to fend for himself and remember to take his thriftyseventyeighth million pills twice a day.  Or perhaps I shall prod him with a gentle text, or two. 

I will sit on a grubby train tomorrow evening, and take Mumsy to London to visit the Queen so that we can do some family history stuff on Friday.  Oooh, exciting.  I had a sudden spurt of family history stuff this morning; I should have been getting the website for work finished, or getting myself motivated for my photography course, or maybe even … gosh! … cleaning, but no.  My ancestors were banging on the door and clamouring for some attention.  I tried to sneak past them as I only needed my gtgt-grandfather’s death details, but they spied me and begged me to waste my day off doing things for them.  They’re a pesky bunch.  I did find out some more stuff, which was odd because I really thought I’d wrung ancestry.co.uk dry.  I am still not related to Henry VIII, Joan of Arc or Jesus though.  *sigh*

I must do some scanning.  And some packing.  Ack.  And to think I had a more interesting post lined up …

please God bless my blokey as I leave him all on his lonesome xxx Elsabeth

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Am I A Bad Person?

This week has left me feeling absolutely shattered, which in turn has left me highly emotional.  I suspect that the Bloody Massacre isn’t really helping the situation.

I’ve had two bouts of tears.  The First Round on Tuesday evening was probably brought on by seeing The Blokey and realising that he didn’t look any better than he had when I left him on Monday.  The Second Round came courtesy of my MiL this evening. 

I am the dutiful daughter-in-law, married to the dutiful son.  Because of our dutiful-ness [I don’t care, it’s my Xlog] we give up our Saturdays so that she can shop in Tesco.  We drive for about forty minutes [give or take, dependant on the nearly worst road in England] to get to hers, and then we always stay for lunch, for we are dutiful.  We drive home again, taking us about forty minutes.  It works out at a lot of hours, every single bloody Saturday.  I am the one who buys her flowers.  I remember the important dates.  We sort out letters that she doesn’t understand and help her when she needs to visit the doctor. 

I am the only one who knows her son will be on Warfarin for the next six months.  I am the only one who realises that if we had left it any longer it could have been a lot worse than it was [is].  I know that he’s been throwing up blood clots and getting told off for not wearing his oxygen mask.  I am the one who has been up the hospital every day [reliant on friends and buses], seeing him hold back the tears, knowing how scared he is, and having to be strong for everybody else because everybody else needs me to be strong.

And so I feel I have a right to be both really angry and really upset when she says to me, Of course, we’ve offered to pay GiL for the petrol … And when GiL said “Oh, let’s get Alex to come to the pub as well” so they went and got him and we had a lovely time sitting in the beer garden till ten in the o’clock, whilst you pottered around at home trying to forget your husband is ill, and trying to ignore the empty settee!

[Ok, so she didn’t say the last bit … ]

It wasn’t really the petrol bit, although we do spend more on petrol because we have to take her to the supermarket.  No, it was the pub bit.  And it wasn’t just the pub bit – it was the fact that it was BiL’s birthday.  But it wasn’t even really that.  It was the fact that they invited Alex along [“You know, I like Alex, he always comes and has a natter with me in the mornings”].  No, I can’t even blame it on him. 

At the moment I really really need family.  I thought I was family.  I thought that at a time when I might need them to go the extra mile for me [quite literally] they might remember everything we’ve done for them and at least offer me an invite, time away from a place that isn’t home or work or hospital or bus. 

And that made me cry.  Lots.  On the toilet.  With the window open.  I know I’m being over-sensitive, but I really need a hug right now.  And the only person who can really give me what I need is tucked up in a hospital bed … And I can’t even tell him how I feel because he’ll get upset too, and that will bugger everything up.  And I’m not allowed to tell her how ill he really was [is] because that will upset her.  Pffft.

Bah.  I’m silly.  I’ll get over it after a good kip and everything will look fandangly and bright in the morning …

please God excuse my whinging [and sobbing] xxx Elsabeth

[He is better.  He’s pinker and perkier, and he can breathe much better when not wearing the oxygen mask.  Hopefully he should be allowed home at the beginning of the week.  Thank you to those people who sent their best wishes – it meant a lot to me.]

On Being Me.

As a little girl I was an absolute darling.  I would chatter away incessantly, to anybody, about anything.  I had no fear and no paranoia.

I can possibly pinpoint a vague time in my life when that changed, but we don’t need to go into detail, really.  It would muddy the waters. 

Since that vague time, I’ve suffered with what I assumed was just profound shyness and general dislike of the world around me.  It’s actually Social Anxiety.  Most of the time it’s mild [needing a wee in the pub but not wanting to get up and walk past people, or checking that nobody is in the street before I open my front door to put my rubbish in the bin, or psyching myself up for over an hour before using the telephone], always I live with a knot in my chest and a panicky fluttery feeling in my belly, but occasionally it becomes more intense and manifests itself in a very ugly way. 

And by ugly, I mean bitchy. 

Next weekend we’re off to my MiLs caravan in Kent for a couple of days.  We’ll pop over to Belgium for cigarettes and washing powder again whilst we’re there.  We’ll probably enjoy Fish & Chips for tea and I’ll play with my camera. 

The Blokey took my MiL to Kent yesterday.  When he got home we had a conversation which went something like this …

Are we picking your brother up on Friday and taking him?
Nope.
Oh, is he still going?
He’s coming down, but he’s working on Friday so he’s coming on Saturday instead.
How’s he getting there then?
Guess.
Oh.

And at that point my enjoyment of a weekend away – after a hard term at work – was harshly crumpled into a ball and thrown into a metal bin, where it now lies, dormant and scrunched. 

BiL has a new girlfriend.  We haven’t met this new girlfriend.  By all accounts she’s really nice.   

But I don’t know her.  And I don’t like meeting new people.  I find it difficult and scary.  I spend the whole time thinking about what they might be thinking about me.  She’ll be prettier than me, and funnier, and she won’t be quiet and shy.  MiL will love her.  I’ll get a really bad bellyache, because I always do in stressful situations, and no doubt I’ll be horrid to her, but it won’t be because I don’t like her, it’ll be because I’m scared and frustrated and feeling inadequate. 

It sounds ridiculous when written down, I realise that. 

I want to meet her.  I desperately want to be friends with her.  The fact that BiL wants us all to meet her means that he is serious about where the relationship is going.  If she’s going to be my future SiL, then it’s important to me that we’re friends – it’s important to me that The Blokey and BiL remain close as they get older. 

But why the hell can’t we meet up for lunch in the pub?  Why do we have to spend an evening, a night, and a morning cooped up together in a crappy little caravan [which isn’t that little, but walls are thin and stuff]? 

whywhywhy?

So, last night I was bitchy to The Blokey, and next week I’ll appear standoffish and bitchy to BiLs girlfriend, and I’ll spend this coming week with that panicky worrisome knot in my chest and belly growing bigger and bigger … And I expect that at some point I’ll take my frustration and fear out on The Blokey again, and he’ll feel inadequate again, and then I’ll just feel really bad again, and that will make my frustration worse again, and … the circle continues.

I’m an idiot.  I’m aware of that.  But unless you’ve ever been there, you can’t know. 

Pffft.   

Somebody slap me, please.

please God bless my paranoia and anxiousness xxx Elsabeth