It must be something about the soothing 'tap tap' of the keys on the keyboard and the delight I have every time I see the words forming on a computer screen...they make blogging to you a rich, wonderful part of my life and I'm sorry I don't do it more often.
I had a friend a long time ago who used to say "how is life in your end of the fishbowl?" I would always laugh and think "weirdo" but I guess that's how it feels sometimes - as if we're all in a fishbowl and have our own murky underwater lives encased in glass. Omg. Or am I just getting weirder with age?
I got a wonderful surprise in the post yesterday - a book that Marc made for 'us' in 2009 as a leaving gift for me when I left the UK. We would take turns writing diary entries into it and making each other laugh. When I left, I took 'our book' with me and I wrote about my first few months back here in Australia...and posted it to Marc.
4 years later...and he posted it back to me.
It is wonderful to see how much he's grown and matured since I last saw him. I'm so proud of him completing (or almost completing) Uni and for how mature and wise he is. I hurt that he isn't in contact anymore with a girl he really, really liked and I hurt on his behalf at the bittersweet news of his best friend getting a girlfriend, a huge inheritance and a new home. On the one hand, you feel so happy for your friend...but on the other, you can't help but compare and feel jealous and left out. Marc is one of the most special people in the world. I want nothing but the BEST things for him.
Something Marc wrote really stood out to me in his new diary entries - he wrote "I'm 24 now, Janet - and I'm not any wiser than I was at 17/18". I smiled reading that. I'm 39 now, Marc...and I'm no wiser than you are at 24. Honestly. You have no idea, boyo.
Marc's the age I was when I met Jonathan. At 25, we were married. I think back on that now and wonder if we were really ready?
Is anyone?
Anyway (sigh) here's what I'm up to at the moment:
I'm still in my part-time receptionist job in the city. I love it here. It's quiet, nothing is expected of me, the staff are lovely and I love the peace and quiet this job brings. If I could do this full time, then I would. I worry about the complacency this job brings - it's the job equivalent of staying in bed all day. Warm, cosy, comfortable and without risk. But I need to spread my wings and get a new job!!! A full time, properly grown-up job. I'm just scared to take that leap out of something stable and COMFORTABLE, I guess. I've applied for about 20-30 jobs and take their rejection emails with a pinch of salt because I don't really mind that I didn't get them. I'm incorrigible.
I'm happier than I've ever been when it comes to being married to Alun. He's a nutcase and he drives me crazy...but he's the person I love most in the whole world; and with his every action, spoken word and gentle touch - I know he feels the same about me. He's my soft place to land and my safe place to hide. He's a challenge ("get off your ass, Janet!") when I need it, my cheer squad "you can do it!" and my comfort "I love that you tried so hard and I'm so proud of you". I think that's what all husbands are to their wives...simply everything to them.
I'm FAT. I know it and I hate it but putting down the chocolate cake and taking up a gym weight is something that is so hard for me to come to grips with psychologically that it never seems to catch on physically. And so...the weight keeps piling on. What a vicious circle to be caught in. I hate being fat. Because I'm so heartbroken about it, I comfort myself with high fat/high salt/high sugar foods. It makes me MORE fat. I need more comforting. I get rounder and fatter and more and more miserable. I honestly hate this. A voice of reason in my head says "just don't. Why don't you eat an apple or go for a walk? or both?" but before the sentence is formed properly in my head...I've eaten 10 donuts.
ARGHHHH.
My heart goes out to drug addicts and alcoholics. This addiction thing is so much harder and more powerful than the non-addicted can fathom.
I hang out a lot with my friends Kira and Terry who only live 2 streets away. Their little boy Arlen is my favourite person in the world (only 1 down from Alun). He's 14 months old now and is the most gorgeous little boy I've ever seen. He's just recently been made aware of himself so now he points to himself a lot when he's trying to talk. He can only say a few words "that", "out", "mummy", "daddy" and sometimes "yeah" but now when he's saying them, he's frowning and pointing to himself. It's so cute that he's aware now there's a "me". I wonder when he'll start saying "mine"?
There is something about holding him in my arms that's like a soothing balm on my crusty, dry heart. It's wonderful. He's giggly and bouncy and so soft and sweet. I love him so much. I have come to realise it's because he's the little baby boy of friends I dearly love. If he wasn't Kira's and Terry's - he wouldn't be my favourite.
Emotionally and mentally - I'm not okay. I'm treading a very fine line between "just ok" and "completely losing my sh*t"...because - ALUN'S PARENTS ARE COMING TO VISIT IN 2 WEEKS.
Yes. The Thomases are coming back.
Now; I shouldn't be worried because for the last year or so we have been apart, they've been really, really kind. They've thanked me for looking after Alun and for making sure we didn't get ripped off and bullied when it came to the house. They've both been really lovely. I have been calling them "Mum and Dad Thomas". Mr Thomas especially seems to like it. I'm not sure where Mrs Thomas stands on it...but she hasn't corrected me, so it's going well.
Also, THEY ARE STAYING IN A HOTEL THIS VISIT.
*confetti falls from the ceiling and 'celebrate good times' starts playing on invisible speakers*
That was their decision - according to Alun. I secretly think he asked them to stay in a hotel, but I won't push it. Whoever decided - it doesn't matter. I'm just happy that home will remain the fortress of comfort and safety it is to me (and hopefully to Alun, too).
So really - everything should be okay this visit. Even better than ok.
But my gut instincts and my body are not convinced.
So I'm on high alert.
All the time.
I worry all the time. I don't sleep well. I'm always scared. My muscles ache from constantly being tense - in case I need to run or fight.
(and let me tell you, I'm RUBBISH at both of those).
My mind is constantly on alert - thinking "If it all goes to poo, this is our backup plan" - then presenting millions of irrational, crazy, insane ideas as 'back ups'.
So even before Alun's parents arrive...I'm a mess.
I need to get this contained before they step off the plane.
If you have any ideas as to how...PLEASE EMAIL ME.
Haha.
No really...help me.
I had a friend a long time ago who used to say "how is life in your end of the fishbowl?" I would always laugh and think "weirdo" but I guess that's how it feels sometimes - as if we're all in a fishbowl and have our own murky underwater lives encased in glass. Omg. Or am I just getting weirder with age?
I got a wonderful surprise in the post yesterday - a book that Marc made for 'us' in 2009 as a leaving gift for me when I left the UK. We would take turns writing diary entries into it and making each other laugh. When I left, I took 'our book' with me and I wrote about my first few months back here in Australia...and posted it to Marc.
4 years later...and he posted it back to me.
It is wonderful to see how much he's grown and matured since I last saw him. I'm so proud of him completing (or almost completing) Uni and for how mature and wise he is. I hurt that he isn't in contact anymore with a girl he really, really liked and I hurt on his behalf at the bittersweet news of his best friend getting a girlfriend, a huge inheritance and a new home. On the one hand, you feel so happy for your friend...but on the other, you can't help but compare and feel jealous and left out. Marc is one of the most special people in the world. I want nothing but the BEST things for him.
Something Marc wrote really stood out to me in his new diary entries - he wrote "I'm 24 now, Janet - and I'm not any wiser than I was at 17/18". I smiled reading that. I'm 39 now, Marc...and I'm no wiser than you are at 24. Honestly. You have no idea, boyo.
Marc's the age I was when I met Jonathan. At 25, we were married. I think back on that now and wonder if we were really ready?
Is anyone?
Anyway (sigh) here's what I'm up to at the moment:
I'm still in my part-time receptionist job in the city. I love it here. It's quiet, nothing is expected of me, the staff are lovely and I love the peace and quiet this job brings. If I could do this full time, then I would. I worry about the complacency this job brings - it's the job equivalent of staying in bed all day. Warm, cosy, comfortable and without risk. But I need to spread my wings and get a new job!!! A full time, properly grown-up job. I'm just scared to take that leap out of something stable and COMFORTABLE, I guess. I've applied for about 20-30 jobs and take their rejection emails with a pinch of salt because I don't really mind that I didn't get them. I'm incorrigible.
I'm happier than I've ever been when it comes to being married to Alun. He's a nutcase and he drives me crazy...but he's the person I love most in the whole world; and with his every action, spoken word and gentle touch - I know he feels the same about me. He's my soft place to land and my safe place to hide. He's a challenge ("get off your ass, Janet!") when I need it, my cheer squad "you can do it!" and my comfort "I love that you tried so hard and I'm so proud of you". I think that's what all husbands are to their wives...simply everything to them.
I'm FAT. I know it and I hate it but putting down the chocolate cake and taking up a gym weight is something that is so hard for me to come to grips with psychologically that it never seems to catch on physically. And so...the weight keeps piling on. What a vicious circle to be caught in. I hate being fat. Because I'm so heartbroken about it, I comfort myself with high fat/high salt/high sugar foods. It makes me MORE fat. I need more comforting. I get rounder and fatter and more and more miserable. I honestly hate this. A voice of reason in my head says "just don't. Why don't you eat an apple or go for a walk? or both?" but before the sentence is formed properly in my head...I've eaten 10 donuts.
ARGHHHH.
My heart goes out to drug addicts and alcoholics. This addiction thing is so much harder and more powerful than the non-addicted can fathom.
I hang out a lot with my friends Kira and Terry who only live 2 streets away. Their little boy Arlen is my favourite person in the world (only 1 down from Alun). He's 14 months old now and is the most gorgeous little boy I've ever seen. He's just recently been made aware of himself so now he points to himself a lot when he's trying to talk. He can only say a few words "that", "out", "mummy", "daddy" and sometimes "yeah" but now when he's saying them, he's frowning and pointing to himself. It's so cute that he's aware now there's a "me". I wonder when he'll start saying "mine"?
There is something about holding him in my arms that's like a soothing balm on my crusty, dry heart. It's wonderful. He's giggly and bouncy and so soft and sweet. I love him so much. I have come to realise it's because he's the little baby boy of friends I dearly love. If he wasn't Kira's and Terry's - he wouldn't be my favourite.
Emotionally and mentally - I'm not okay. I'm treading a very fine line between "just ok" and "completely losing my sh*t"...because - ALUN'S PARENTS ARE COMING TO VISIT IN 2 WEEKS.
Yes. The Thomases are coming back.
Now; I shouldn't be worried because for the last year or so we have been apart, they've been really, really kind. They've thanked me for looking after Alun and for making sure we didn't get ripped off and bullied when it came to the house. They've both been really lovely. I have been calling them "Mum and Dad Thomas". Mr Thomas especially seems to like it. I'm not sure where Mrs Thomas stands on it...but she hasn't corrected me, so it's going well.
Also, THEY ARE STAYING IN A HOTEL THIS VISIT.
*confetti falls from the ceiling and 'celebrate good times' starts playing on invisible speakers*
That was their decision - according to Alun. I secretly think he asked them to stay in a hotel, but I won't push it. Whoever decided - it doesn't matter. I'm just happy that home will remain the fortress of comfort and safety it is to me (and hopefully to Alun, too).
So really - everything should be okay this visit. Even better than ok.
But my gut instincts and my body are not convinced.
So I'm on high alert.
All the time.
I worry all the time. I don't sleep well. I'm always scared. My muscles ache from constantly being tense - in case I need to run or fight.
(and let me tell you, I'm RUBBISH at both of those).
My mind is constantly on alert - thinking "If it all goes to poo, this is our backup plan" - then presenting millions of irrational, crazy, insane ideas as 'back ups'.
So even before Alun's parents arrive...I'm a mess.
I need to get this contained before they step off the plane.
If you have any ideas as to how...PLEASE EMAIL ME.
Haha.
No really...help me.
I don't have any good ideas. For the first time, when we visit Aus this year I am insisting we stay in a holiday apartment rather than with our parents. The last time my folks stayed with us Mum & I had a MASSIVE argument... this involved her telling me there was nothing in her life to be proud of, I can't cope with life the way normal people do, and DJ is useless - all of which was in response to me admitting (under pressure, I tried to avoid answering the question) that I really don't find it any less stressful for her to cook for me than for me to cook for her. Families are basically difficult.
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