Monday, March 23, 2015

Pitchin' Up...

And so there you are. It all carries on, doesn’t it? We survive broken marriages and dead horses. And dead mothers. Of course we do. The sun rises, dragging the moon behind it and you still have to get up, feed the children and go to work. The world keeps spinning and the seasons turn. It isn’t rocket science, you know…   
I don’t think I’ve fallen apart but I gave up smoking. Finally. Quietly. One would’ve thought that after everything, I’d be main lining heroin by now. But no. Instead, I quit smoking. I got sick of it; the mess, the stink, the constant reaching out for a cigarette, smoke burning my throat and chest. Eurgh. When the last 5 were done, I simply threw the box away and gave up. No fan fare. I must admit, the next few days at school were fantastically odd. I felt like I had eaten a few kilograms of magic mushroom. As the nicotine seeped slowly out of my system, I felt far far away and delightfully discombobulated. I didn’t see any shiny purple mountains though, like the time I ate half a magic mushroom with Tam and Bernd. The time when we had tea at the artist’s house in Hogsback who had a hyena head on the wall and we screamed when the tea tray was carried through the ribbon curtains. The time when we nearly hit a cow on the way to swim in the cold river which tumbled sun shot from the shiny purple mountains filled with fairies and hobbits.

This marvelous discombobulated condition generally faded by around six. It would switch, as fast as lightning, into a white hot terrible terrible temper. It was so horrible that one evening, last born begged, wide eyed and cowering in a corner with the all four dogs and the cat, “Mama! Please! Just have a cigarette!” I snarled through clenched teeth, “I. Do. Not. Want. A. Fucking. Cigarette.” Ghastly.

This passed, as all things are wont to do, which includes alcohol. I barely drink anymore. I am happy with this new found lucidity. I feel strangely stripped, crutches snatched away. You have to sit with yourself again. No escaping. I find it taxing. I don’t really like myself very much. Never have. 

So. I am now trying to learn how not to be so sad, angry and fat. I want to be happy, kind and slim. So I have taken up Exercise and given up booze and coffee in the hope that I shall draw nearer to being a nicer person inside and out. Because I have to live with myself. There is nothing else for it. I take myself, on a daily basis, Sundays included, to either the gym, yoga (I do yoga before dawn, people. And sometimes NAKED on roof tops. How bloody unbelievable is that?) badminton or tennis in an attempt to regain a shape of some sort and to sweat away the anger. It works. I stand on the scale at the gym and I am repulsed. My weight refuses to shift. I look at the blobby shape in the mirror and spit at it and throw myself onto various machines with an obvious and embarrassing vengeance. I have also given up carbohydrates (not rice but The Evil Potato) and sugar. Although I have been seen at Rakifa buying M & M’s on occasion. But a girl’s gotta treat herself now and then. Needless to say, none of this is exactly FUN now, is it? In a vague attempt not to become a lentil eating, yoga bending bore, I will succumb every now and then to a Skinny Bitch or three. Google it, Bloggin’ Babies. It doesn’t really do it. At the end of it all, I still have to wake up to myself.

It’s, well, new trying to re consider myself without a horse and a marriage. The horse is six foot under and the marriage in tatters at my feet, waiting for the wind to blow it like confetti into the sky. It’s difficult. My riding boots remain lined up, like old soldiers waiting for Remembrance Day. I should really pack them away.

There are many things that need packing away once and for all.
I’ll get there. Slowly. Soon I'll be able to do a headstand without a wall to balance against.

I just need to pitch up, pot plants and stand on my head.