The chaos. The id. Perhaps I could explore it with The Samaritans, but when I phone I can say nothing. I want to set ground rules.
-Do you mind if I swear?
-Not at all, he says. He knows it is not personal.
I feel that he will disapprove of how I express myself, but I am projecting. I want to get worked up, but can say nothing. My own reasonable arguments against what I want to say stop me from saying it. It is merely foolish. Yet he is entirely reasonable when I say I cannot speak. He knows the time needs to be right for me. He should not be this understanding!
When I was living with H- actually, all our seven years together- we never rowed. I am aware that some couples shout and scream at each other and that this can be problematic, but possibly not doing that is bad too. I always felt she was caring for me, looking after me.
Richard irritated me three times this morning. He wanted to tell me how dreadful Mr Trump will be. Actually, I don’t want to condole, I want to look for any brightness at all in the gloom, and I want to understand- what is he like, behind that mask? What are his voters like? I am aware it is bad.
Then he said “Yessuh”. This has been on the trans facebook group. It’s just a sound people make, we are being too sensitive, misinterpreting, no they are not all misgendering us. They are not saying “Yes, sir” (Ooh, aren’t I clever, I read you!) just “Yes”, with some inarticulate sound on the end which really means nothing, or emphasising the “s”. No, Richard said, he said yes sir though he did not articulate it.
And I think oh fuck I should be over this he should not misgender me if my friend misgenders me everyone will it is rude and offensive it should not get to me I have to live with it oh its all a lie everyone sees me as a man I am a man I see myself as a man I am deluding myself I had my balls cut off for nothing…
So, yeah. “Sir” really hurts, even now.
And then he welcomed the Supreme Court ruling against the “Bedroom tax”. I loathe the way lefties and bleeding hearts and the Labour Party and all the fuck get riled against cutting the housing benefit of people in social housing, and don’t say a thing. Not a thing. Not a fucking squeak, about cutting the housing benefit of people in private rented housing. About my housing benefit. Oh, and he took great pains to make the largest possible pool of egg yolk from his cooked breakfast on his plate, while working very hard at the most ineffectual ways to convey it to his mouth.
I wonder if pills might improve things, but I still would have to confront my current situation.
In the supermarket, for the first time this year I hear fucking Perry Como. All from one to ninety two. I hear the sick grimace in his voice and I want to dig him up and smash his fucking simpering skull in. Will we have this fucking shit all the fucking time for nearly two months? The next track is almost as inane, but at least not Shitmas related. I pause, put my basket down, and contemplate my emotions.
It was good to see the lesbian couple, not holding hands but repeatedly touching hands as they walked round together.
I need to get home. I need to keep warm enough for cycling home but I’d really rather not get all sweaty. Well, I got a bit sweaty, I felt hot, and now I feel really cold wrapped in this sleeping bag. I can’t afford heating either, or not as much as I’d like.
So the anger will come out, a bit. It seemed I could get angry but I am angry with myself, perhaps I could say that, you’re fucking stupid, you just don’t make the connections, you make all the wrong fucking choices, you have this huge sense of entitlement and you want to be fucking rescued and you don’t do anything for yourself and you passive-aggressively resist by hiding away and doing nothing and you are miserable but do nothing about it and fucking get on with it…
But I could not say that to the Samaritans bloke either. This is where I am. No idea where I will feel tomorrow, whether there is any sort of improvement possible. I would have said I cling to the hope that this leads to some sort of improvement but I don’t know what improvement would look like so I can’t.
This is where I am now. Toe in the water…
I am grateful to Sibilant Fricative for this quote from Notes from the Underground by Dostoevsky:
“Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better it is to understand it all, to recognise it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable, logical combinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper’s trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.”