When this tunnel ends…

16/05/2013 at 18:43 (Personal) (, )


… do let me know, so I can throw myself out of the door.

Barrel-roll, into something more than the submissive roll-over-for-a-tummy-scratch that I seem to be enacting these days. Two years shy of thirty, and still being made to lie down.

With my previous run in passive-aggression, I could make it as PM of the UK. Cameron’s got zip on me.

Now, I get angry. I get verbal, and am told to keep quiet, to let things settle until we’ve moved. To let the landlord send in estate agents with their flimsy little boards, shark-smiling at anyone who dares trespass into this hovel of swords, guitars and mould. The last, I can assure you, wasn’t an intentional purchase.

I cannot begin to tell you how alienated I feel, in the confines of my own flat. Someone else has been here. Their feet have trod the carpet I’ve eaten Christmas dinner on, been fucked on and sometimes cry on, too, when things get unbearable inside. We have until the end of June. Days tally down, no rooms or flats available within our price range, in this area that we call home. Separation looks increasingly likely – accommodation is but a part of it. Hearts and homes often break under strain.

I am slowly dying, this year. Raging against it, too raging to cheer, happy in ego with the writing progression, drunk on a savage tide of new confidence – and bellowing silently, because no one wishes to listen, to a girl who is almost thirty, and loose with all this change.

I cling to those who have no need of me. Ever reliant on the kindness of strangers, though they have more perplexing faces and desires than even I can credit. Why I feel the need to dump my problems on these people, is something only my loved ones could tell you, since I don’t.

It is far easier to offload to those who don’t care, or care just enough to offer fragments of what they can understand. They can’t hurt me as much as those I had need of, before.

Last night saw me cry in the arms of my partner, minutes after telling him I wanted us to have separate house-shares / flats, freedom and space, in order for us both to grow. The pain in my chest was like a bullet hole. Empty, and burning all at once.

I can’t fathom where this year has come from; where it’ll end. Where I will end up; who with, why and how. Questions are sent to demean us, in the end.

I am tired. And angry, a sullen bitch with it, unable to express myself in a way that will make a difference, because I haven’t the weight of money or class to throw behind it. Just another writer, in a world of those fractured lines nobody wants to read, let alone print; just another flippant child, in a world of studious adults, feigning maturity in heels too high.

But … not defeated yet. I never could walk in heels, bastard things. It’s hiking boots and Converse, or nothing.

If you can forgive me, dear reader, for this tawdry rant – then you’re more of a friend than I gave you credit for, and a kindness.

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