Thursday, 13 October 2016

The Cure

There are many things I can't do.

I can't play the ukulele, or the bass guitar (despite owning one), or the ocarina (despite owning three). I can't do sports; I can't run without getting tired after a few steps. I can't dance, although I like it; I can't sing, although I want to do so almost constantly; I can't do a handstand, I can't speak Dutch and I can't get past the impossible third boss in Luigi's Mansion 2.

And I can't do self-care.

Kind of. I mean, I want to do self-care, and everything. It's a skill to have, and while I'm very aware that fewer people have it than one may initially think, I couldn't possibly comment (well, I could, but I won't). I go to therapy, but that's a transient solution, at best; I have my bad moments, and those are the moments in which I need care. I prefer to do that alone.

I woke up this morning with tears streaming down my face, shivering from the cold. I had two horrendous dreams in relatively quick succession; they may have even been part of the same dream. In the first, I watched an animal expert put two mice in a blender, and while one was unscathed, the other was bleeding to death; I bawled on the floor while he stood by impassively. The second was not as bad; I was about to eat a large, steaming bowl of macaroni cheese when somebody deliberately knocked it onto the floor. I went into the kitchen and wailed until somebody asked me what they could do to help, as long as it didn't involve getting me any more macaroni cheese.

No, I don't understand either.

The first dream has a root. This comes from a girl I used to flirt with online (and with whom I occasionally had cybersex) who referenced getting rid of (live) mice with a Henry Hoover. I didn't indicate how horrified I was, but I couldn't stop visualising it for days afterwards, right down to the terrified squeaks. As for the second... well... I just like pasta, I suppose. After my accident in Somerset, my first priority was to get back to my pasta...

I can't do self-care...

I got up and went to work.

The morning passed slowly, but without incident; I still managed to phase out a bit in the quieter moments. At lunch, I went to the local pub, put some James on the jukebox and ordered macaroni cheese, which was fine, but it still didn't make me feel any better. I then ordered an ice cream sundae, because I am a filthy beast, but I barely tasted it. I toddled back to work and sat in the kitchen staring into middle distance, waiting for the Chromakey to wear off and reveal that the entire room was just blue.

A woman whom I didn't recognise walked in and asked where the toilet was, which I helpfully indicated. I went to use the toilet myself, then went to gather my documents and return to my room.

At this point I heard her having an orgasm, immediately after which I remembered Red Dwarf was on tonight.

"Maybe it isn't all hopeless bullshit," I said out loud, before going back to where I was meant to be and barnstorming my way through the remaining two hours of work, in my usual way - just as theatrical as my horrendous dreams, perhaps, but with less wailing this time.


Sati said...

I find the second dream curious, because I've had similar ones, though never involving macaroni cheese. It feels strange to try to talk about them to other people, because how can I explain why or how I feel so awful from a dream that most wouldn't even call a nightmare? Yet the sense of hurt and betrayal would haunt me for the rest of the day, if not longer.

I think my own dreams along these lines stemmed from a sense of not being heard; from not having my needs acknowledged. I've felt that way for much of my life, and I feel guilty about it often, because I have so much more than some people do: a roof over my head, a family who care about me, colleagues and friends who enjoy my company. Yet I've never really felt like who I am inside is seen or known. Everything I've ever been given, from education to Christmas presents, has been what people thought I should want rather than what I actually wanted. My parents, my friends, every partner except for my current...they love me, I know that intellectually. But I don't feel like they know me. I know that if I ask for something, it'll be denied or just ignored, and then I'll end up with something else that they feel I should want. Everyone thinks they know what's best for me, and nobody ever asks me. I swing between being sad about this, and hating myself for being so ungrateful.

I'm certainly not saying that this is how YOU feel...I just found it curious to hear you speak of a dream so much like my own.

Innocent Loverboy said...

I think I can kind of identify with that on some level.

I'm quite lucky, insofar as I've been listened to mostly when I request things - at least material goods, in any case. I've not always gotten everything I want for things like Christmas and birthdays, but generally, I tend to get most things. At one memorable Christmas, however, I didn't get what I really wanted (I had built it up in my head) and that kickstarted a spiral of accusations and rage that made for one of the worst days in my life.

But I digress.


When I was very young, as the first grandchild (of six) to one set of grandparents, and the first child (of two) to my parents, I was adored (to a point of reverence once it came out that I was precocious): the second my little sister was born, this all but evaporated. Even with a small baby now in the family, she is still the favourite.

I get anxious and nervous when I feel I'm not being listened to, and even more so when misunderstood, or misconstrued, or accused of being something I'm not intending to be: it puts me on the wrong foot. I end up confused and upset. It doesn't happen often, but it does.

So maybe, in my case, it's the fear of not being heard that upsets me, rather than a general sense thereof. Like you, lovely Sati, I find it hard to explain. But I know my own feelings and - well - if they're bad, they're bad!