Well, the posts have dried up somewhat here. I am just, you know, blah. Again. Always.
It was my birthday yesterday, my sixth since D-day. And I am pissed that I have made no progress! I hated yesterday. Hated it. I had made plans to go see a foreign film on my way home from uni.
But I couldn’t be arsed.
Can I have that tattooed on my forehead?
I can’t be arsed.
New record required, this one is stuck badly.
My old bestie got in touch, wanting to do something. Like I don’t hear from her for literally months at a time – and she lives nearby – and when some excuse to drink wine comes along (hey, she drinks wine with someone most nights of the week, I wouldn’t have thought she was short of reasons!) she plays nice. Hmmmm, cynical much, Paula? I should be bigger than this, I should have just accepted her gesture, but that is how I have always operated in this life, letting people treat me like shit, and forgiving them and playing nice. That is not even who I thought I was. I was woman, did you hear me roar! But I have subjugated myself for years, trying to please everyone else. I think it started with getting pregnant “by mistake” and feeling like I had to pull my head in, take my medicine, be a mother, in the traditional sense. I had to grow up fast, and I got to be Ms Responsible, as TOIL was still pretty free to come and go. That is not to say that he wasn’t a good dad, but he wasn’t the one who gave up his freedom to the same degree. All my friends were travelling, partying, getting fantastic, or at least quite satisfactory careers off the ground. I was at home, milking cows, feeding calves, toddlers and babies. Buzzkill much?
So I told her I was busy, that I couldn’t catch up.
And felt guilty. I sat at home, picking gingerly at an antipasto platter. I felt guilty because I was J’s buzzkill. TOIL asked me if I wanted to go out somewhere with him, he made suggestions. I said, no thanks, I can’t be arsed getting showered, hair washed, made up and dressed, then drive anywhere. The effort. He looked at me sadly all evening. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He grabbed my foot on the couch and rubbed it. This is what he does when he can’t fix anything. It drives me nuts that I am not happier. I used to pretend, trying to fake it ’til I made it. I can’t be arsed anymore.
Apathy is an insidious “thing.” I know this, I have fought apathy my whole life, about anything. I was an activist, I stood up for causes, for what I thought, for the people I loved, and for those without a voice of their own. I expressed opinions, I was mighty, and I roared often! Now, here I am, just Ms I-can’t-be-arsed. How pathetic!
So, I am going to sign off with the best of intentions to sit on the can’t-be’arsed-arse and start the first of these assignments!