annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Day 23 We're almost there, aren't we? By the time I've finished writing this it will probably be Christmas Eve and then it's all downhill and out the other side. I just watched a good documentary about Hugh Grant, who has grown into a bit of a decent bloke. I could watch Paddington 2 again, any day you like. Before that was Traces, on Alibi channel, a crime drama, but classy. Sixth and final part tomorrow. Recommend both. Thank fuck for telly, seeing us through tough times. I still stick to my rule about no daytime TV - it doesn't get turned on before five at the very earliest, more often six or seven, because it would steal your whole life if you let it. Today started badly, again. It takes me quite a while to acclimatise myself these days, or thjese mornings. It pains me to describe what was going on, but I am trying to record this, to remember what it's like. I don't know why, but I am. Today, and quite often, I fall into massive self-pity. Like massive. Am I sad that my daughter has lost her life or that I have lost my daughter? Am I sad that I've lost my daughter or indignant that I'm not getting the attention and support I feel I deserve? Am I scared that actually, this is because everyone in Real Life can see what sort of a cunt I really am? That no one can be bothered to do more than click a crying face emoji onto a social media post because I am just a person who sucks all the joy out of their lives. Sigh.
I do feel better now, but it will probably start again first thing tomorrow. As I'm writing, I'm remembering the theories I've heard about loss, about how one loss sets off others, past losses. At the moment I just want to be mothered - in the fantasy way I always imagine - unconditional positive regard, that kind of thing - a willingness to drop everything to help out a beloved daughter - lots of hugs. Most of the time I can (finally) accept that I didn't have that and manage to be grateful that when it comes to being abusive, my stepmother was an amateur - I know loads of people whose biological mothers treated them worse than I got from her. So, no hugs and very little kindness. Yeah, but no beatings, nothing violent. Just neglect and indifference. And when times get really really hard I still just want a mummy, even at 65. Unlucky. And unbecoming, really, but there you go. Ooh, it's ten to twelve and I was just thinking that I hope D is all right, as she hasn't done her post for today, but there it is, just popped into my inbox. Good. We're both still on track. I was amazed to discover that she had her birthday the other day (yesterday, I just checked - my brain is proper broken ffs) and was twenty-five. I mean, I knew she was younger than me, I'm not a total fool, but that took me by surprise somehow. Wise head, young shoulders, that kind of thing. Proud that she's my mate anyway. (*waving* coooeeee!!!) And Dangerspouse is back - I seem to be consistently a day late with stuff - but thank fuck for that, eh? People do vanish - I can't imagine ever giving up blogging forever, but people do and when they just stop you don't know if they just had enough or if they died. I do see death everywhere these days - I have done for a while - I have my tent firmly pitched in that valley of the shadow of death - none of that 'walking through', oh no, I'm in for the long haul - but I am hoping to be able to pack up and move on soon. So as time passed, I did fret about old Danger, but there he is, blethering on about cooking, most comfortingly. Joistmonkey packed it in, and manfromvenus hasn't been heard from in years, but I am always hopeful. I suddenly spotted that these are all men - I just went to check on women I read who don't post and I think one of them has died, or one more of them, too many dead friends, far too many. Punctuation is getting on my nerves. I write as I speak, which is my choice - I want this to be chatty - but I always end up with so many (grammar police would say too many), dashes. I call them dashes, but others have other names for them, which escape me now - I am a retired English teacher, you know. I've let all that pernickety shit drift right out of my mind. The rules of grammar, spelling, punctuation, vocabulary all change imperceptibly all the time, by people's 'misuse' getting taken up and being used till it's declared correct. No one's marking this with a red pen - I can do what I like - my priority is conveying meaning and hopefully tone of voice, though that's tricky as fuck, but I do still get hooked up on questions of correctness. It's all I can do to not use speech marks in a text message; mostly I just put them in and to hell with those who sneer at my incorrect register, they can fuck off. I can feel like I'm going wild by leaving out the preceding comma. Now I feel totally self-conscious about the punctuation in that last paragraph, I can't make any of it look sensible, I have no idea if it even means anything so I'm going to bed. Today I am grateful for: breakfast with Son, amiable; having a big weep on the beach; visiting my sister, surviving that; good telly; almost there Night night, or good morning, or happy Christmas - whatevs, you know? (I'm suddenly reminded of Ma, the stepmum, who sometimes said, "What do you think this is, Liberty Hall?"
12:50 a.m. - 24.12.19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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