♫ This is torture, this is pain ♫

♫ It feels like I’m gonna go insane ♫

I’m having a bad day, and those are lines that I’ve taken completely out of context, because they express exactly what I feel. Yes, I feel tortured, because there is stuff that I’m itching to say … but I can’t say it! 🙁

I’m a writer and a communicator, so it’s really frustrating when it’s impossible put something down. It’s bad when I can’t find the words to express myself, but it’s worse when I have the words, but I’m not allowed to use them. I call it growing up.

For most people, blogging was initially an anonymous thing. It never was for me, because that’s how I make my living. I get paid for what I write, so it’s totally counterproductive to do it with an alias. I do ghostwrite sometimes, but that’s different, because it’s not really my stuff I’m using or my story I’m telling. Ghostwriting is more like being a pen to a writer without hands. You’re simply transcribing their genius.

Anyway, I’ve been blogging for a while now – almost five years! I’ve seen lots of other bloggers close up shop. Sometimes they say the fad simply ended. For others, they ran out of time. But for most people, what killed their blogs is familiarity. They got to know the subjects of their stories, so they just couldn’t tell them anymore.

I’ve never had that problem because – well – I’m a blunt little b***h. I generally say what I think, even in moments when I shouldn’t. But as Biko said a few weeks ago, you can never know anyone well enough to be blunt with them. Unless you’re their mother. Smart boy that one.

Anyway, it’s been an interesting few weeks or me. I did the unthinkable and went for a party. Several parties actually. For some reason, I have this sudden positive outlook from God knows where, and it made me think it’s a good idea to socialize.

I can’t seem to stop smiling, and frankly, it’s starting to worry me. It could be reverse PMS, but I think there might be something in the rain. Anyway, I found myself feeling unusually warm and outgoing, so when I received the party invites, I said yes and showed up. It was totally impromptu, so I was barely dressed up. I just went as I was. Three times. Luckily I’m not in the habit of walking in the nude, so yay.

They were really … interesting parties. I have a thousand stories I could tell from every one of them. But noooo. The people at the party read my blog. Some bright spark decided to announce that I’m 3CB, and that didn’t really go down well.

[Please note that I know these people personally, and they know that I write. A lot of them are family and friends. They just didn’t know that 3CB was – you know – me. And since they don’t comment, I had no idea they read. Oopsie!]

Now, it’s easy to look at that girl who was flirting like she was on sale, and to giggle and make jokes about that outfit. It’s a bit harder to describe the way she walked up to me and dissected a blog post in detail. So now I can’t write about the colour of her … cutex.

Or that boy who was sitting in the corner feeling like God’s gift to … well … everyone, and how I had to bite my tongue to stop from laughing as he tried to chat me up. Until he found out who I was and became an instant genius, talking about the hidden message in my poetry.

[Please Note Number Two – that these scenarios are fictionalized, because, you know, I can’t tell you what really, truly happened, so I’m cooking up examples instead. Really, I am.]

The reason I refuse to be honest is I met these people. I talked to them. We had conversations. We remembered our childhood. So suddenly, they’re not just random coat hangers to pin onto a story. I can’t write my opinions when I know I’ll hurt their feelings.

That’s sad, because I think of all the people that I wrote about before. I wonder if they read about themselves and cried. It was different then, because I didn’t know them. I met them once or twice, or sat next to them in a matatu. Back then, I was just talking about some random girl with a really bad mohawk. But after spending two hours talking to said girl, it gets a little hard to trash her hair. Given my new frame of mind, I wonder if I’ll ever blog again.

On the bright side, I’ve been thinking about doing more of fiction, and this is the perfect time to do it. I just have to find a way to make these people into stories that are basically lies. I used to do it pretty well in high school, so it’s time to dust off the old storyboard and multicoloured notebooks. It won’t be easy, but it’s bound to be fun. I hope. We’ll see.

Another upside is that there are people I can write about, people that read this blog. I can say that I met a couple of girls this week, and they’re both pretty cool. That’s a big thing for me because girls scare me. I’m not sure why. I blame it on testosterone. I keep saying I have more of it than I should, but nobody believes me! Either way, cheers to Aisha and QQ for restoring my faith in womankind. Y’all rock.

Addendum 1

As I was about to hit publish, my net got disconnected. But I talked to the nice people at Zuku and they put it back on for me. You’d be surprised how far you can get by being calm and speaking softly. Plus, they got a new voice on the Customer Care line that sounds less like a robot and more like the guy next door. Hot!

Addendum 2

Social media is interesting. Actually, scratch that. People are interesting. I like to think I only have one side, and that you get to see that side at three o’clock in the morning. Some people beg to differ. But point is … some people are different online.

You see someone on Twitter or MKZ, or even on chat. Then you meet them in person and they’re totally different. Some get even more confusing by being altered every time you meet. That might be a special case though. It might be about making first impressions and being not-quite-sober. It could even be a matter of sugar highs and coffee.

I used to wonder about that, and I used to judge it. I used to think it must be really, really hard being two different people. But then again, that’s what spies are all about, right? We have double, triple, and even quadruple agents in CID, so I guess they exist in real life too.

Anyway, I read a blog post a few minutes ago. The first sentence irritated me, because it seemed to be talking right at me, and it wasn’t saying anything nice. The next few paragraphs annoyed me, because the writer seemed shallow and … well … annoying. Then the final half was totally different. In some ways, it contradicted the rest of the story, and for a while, I was really confused. It was like someone completely different wrote it.

Or maybe the writer is just two people in one. In some ways, I guess we all are, and no, it’s not always about schitzophrenia. That’s why we don’t want our bosses, in-laws, or mothers on Facebook. Though – just for the record – the day my princess unfriends me or ups her privacy settings, I’ll probably go straight to Hacking School.

Addendum 3

There was a Bata competition via Twitter titled #MamaKnowsBest. I don’t deny the power of mums, but I think it’s only in their children’s eyes. I’ve been a mother for almost ten years [well okay, 8-and-a-half] and I still feel I don’t know nada.

She knows that I love her and would do anything for her. She also knows I sometimes hide chocolate and ice cream – and it’s not to protect her teeth. She knows that when there’s junk food in the house, we split it down the middle, and when her half is gone, she may not have mine. I’ll sacrifice my life and my womb, but hands off my pizza child!

She knows that I yell when I have PMS, and that I apologize after. She knows I’ll answer anything she asks, but that I won’t give her my passwords. Yes, she asked.

‘Mum, it’s not fair. You know my Facebook password but I don’t know yours!’

Hehehe.

She knows that I adore her and will always take her side, but if she hit some kid outside and she had no reason for it, she’ll get a spanking and a hug, usually in that order. And the jury is still out on which of us throws larger tantrums.

But truth is, most days, I feel totally out of my depth. I do the best I can, but my choices are mostly fluke. #MamaKnowsBest is just a woman spewing anything that comes to mind when asked, or sometimes, mimicking her own mum.

That said, today was hard for me, and my mummy called me. While she didn’t fix things, she made me feel all better for a while. Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and first thing in the morning, and princess and I had a fight. She stormed off and went to watch cartoons, and when the presenter started reading out Mother’s Day messages, my princess changed the channel. Today, she gave me a hug and said, “You’re a good mummy.” Why? Yoghurt and cake, 50-50. So maybe in her own way, she thinks I know best too 🙂

Addendum 4

This post clearly took really long to ‘print’. I got some bad news from a prospective client that has me really down. I suppose it’s good in some ways, because the project has been pending for two months, and it’s nice to no longer be hanging. But it’s still pretty depressing, especially since the project came with a Mac. Oh well, back to the drawing board. Like the song says…

♫ Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end ♫

♫ I know who I want to take me home ♫

♫ Take me home ♫

♫ Closing time ♫ Subsonic ♫

 

♫ Never saw a man cry till I saw a man die ♫

It’s the hook from some 80s rap song. Or maybe it was 90s, who knows. That line always haunted me, along with:

♫ Do Gees get to go to heaven? ♫

♫ Coz I don’t wanna die. ♫

♫ But if so I’d like to know ♫

♫ Do Gees get to go to heaven? ♫

♫ Coz I don’t wanna die ♫

There’s a line in Tupac’s Life goes on that haunted me as well. Something about licking. I don’t know why these songs bothered me. I’ve never been a hiphop head. I’m more about rock.

I started this post three days ago, when my mind felt like the credits in Duckula, but I lost my train of thought. Today, I opened my dashboard with a similar theme in mind and found this paragraph instead. Hm.

Lost and found and writers block

I live in words, I think in words, I feel in words. That’s one of those statements that sounds really deep on the surface, but it really means nothing at all. What I want to say is that everything to me is a story. I’ll be sitting in a mat looking at some lady in a blue dress and in my mind, I’m turning her into a blog post. I’m figuring out how to start it, and what the clincher will be, even what song goes at the end … and it’s all subconscious. Half the time, I’m not even aware that I’m doing it. So it really bothers me when I’m in a situation and have no words to say. Which is exactly where I find myself now.

I lost something today, something really important, and I have no idea how, where, or why. I’ve tried to go back over my day, to retrace my steps, to figure out the whys and wherefores, but I’m coming up blank. For me, that’s the scariest part of all. The loss itself is sad, but it’s sadder not knowing why. In my last post, I decided to live in the moment instead of wondering what caused everything. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to myself. I should really learn to take my own advice.

Dr Phil and menopause

I watched Dr Phil today. Which reminds me, I forgot to watch the evening edition. Crap. Anyway, in the morning, I watched Friday’s repeat. He had a lot of Robin. She was talking about hormonal imbalance and ish like that.

It explained how some women use birth control to alleviate dysmenorrhea, but it just makes the PMS worse. Reason? Contraceptives work by increasing the amount of oestrogen in a woman’s body. Oestrogen is largely responsible for motherhood. It’s also responsible for other distinctly female characteristics like … you know … giving each other the evil eye. So increasing oestrogen really doesn’t make things any better.

That explains a lot. Whole lot.

The Doc on the show also said you can have less PMS by making meals smaller and more frequent. Apparently, when you’re on a menstrual rampage, you sometimes forget to eat – or lose your appetite. As a result, your blood sugar gets low, and that increases your levels of adrenaline. You know, the whole fight or flight thing? Yeah, during menstrual periods, you lean more towards fight. So next time a bleeding woman yells at you, just give her chocolate. It helps in more ways than one.

Unless of course she thinks she’s fat.

You can also get vaginal or rectal progestrone to help with PMS. Apparently, the Doc puts some cream in your secret places and it helps with up 150 moody symptoms. Yeah. Too late to say no comment? And it’s prescription only, just so you know. The clinic is in California.

These words and questions

There are moments in my life when I’m in so much pain that I feel completely lost. The sad thing is that the pain is all inside my head. I can’t trace it, or face it, and I can’t even attack in with Panadol. Today I’m in that pain. But it’ll pass. It will always pass. For some reason, Natasha Beddingfield is playing in my head. Not my headphones – those are playing Justin Timberlake.

It’s probably because I didn’t want to blog today. I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to rattle out rhythm and rhyme and describe my pain as well as this guy here. I wanted say how I’m feeling A-D-E. But I can’t find any words of my own, not even with some help from Natasha. Maybe it’ll come to me later, perfectly clothed in Manga.

I’m a very nosy person. I like to know stuff, and sometimes I ask questions. Most times, I assume that if you wanted me to know something, you would tell me. But other times, I pry pretty deep. For me, asking questions is the only way to find out what I need.

Trouble is I’m blunt. I’m not above asking someone what their dimensions are. I mean, if I want to know, I want to know. But some questions aren’t meant to be asked. They’re … inappropriate. Sadly, I never realize that until after the question is asked. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through 30 years of life without basic social skills. Sigh.

Epic fails and character assasination

I used to think I was a people watcher, and that I could analyse human nature pretty keenly. Yeah, right. See, lately, I ask questions, and when they don’t get answered, I answer them myself, with disastrous results. The disasters make me mad. I mean if you had just answered the damn question in the first place, I wouldn’t have guessed my own response and acted upon it.

Except … it was none of my business to begin with, so I wasn’t even justified to act on my assumptions. Also, I was too impatient and presumptuous to wait for a response. That’s how I spell control freak. And … sometimes… when you ask questions … people lie.

To learn appropriate social cues, I would have to mingle more. And I would have to learn through many embarrassments and mistakes. And pain. Lots of pain. Most people have done that at this stage in their lives, but I haven’t. I don’t know where the train was, or what I was doing when I missed it.

Blame it on the oestrogen

I hang out alone because I don’t get people. They never react the way you want them to, or even the way you think they will. That’s sad, really sad. I suppose there are some people out there who might surprise me pleasantly, but to meet them, I’d have to risk a lot of bad. I’m not sure I want to do that. I’m not sure it’s worth it.

It’s a disappointing thought because I want somebody to want me. I want him to ache for me the way I ache for him. It isn’t anyone in particular, but I’d rather he not be a sugar daddy, a watchman, or a pimp, and I want him to be my friend. It’s been a while since I really felt needed. It’s a nice feeling, being needed, especially to somebody who’s as clingy as me. It’s a massive ego boost to have somebody latching onto me. But I can’t convince myself that it’s worth the drama involved. Plus, it might just be Mwaura talking.

Better off

I was talking to a friend last week, trying to figure out this teenage phase I’m going through. I’m pretty sure this is what puberty feels like, even though I have no point of reference – except for those homescience textbooks from the 90s. Do they still make those?

Anyway, my pal asked me if I was afraid of growing old. He thought the craziness was prompted by that. I said that I’ve been making lots of jokes about it, so it doesn’t really bug me. He said the fact I’m joking proves it’s on my mind. Mulling on his words, I figured it’s not about the growing old. It’s not the age or the wrinkles or the assets going south. Oh God. Wrinkles. Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is I’m getting to an age where I expected some achievements to be done, and I don’t have them yet. That’s what’s bothering me. Probably.

I told my friend  I had no distinct reason for leaving my job in TZ, and he theorized subconsciousness and blah blah. It was  scary thought, because I left a 9 to 5 to hustle, and I now I want to go back to a 9 to 5. It feels whimsical, moody … and a little crazy.

But when I think about it, I want a 9 to 5. I didn’t then, but I do now. I want to know that when I leave the office, I’m free to zone out and spend all night on cracked or wordpress. That I can do it guilt free is amazing, and it beats punishing myself for browsing and tweeting all day. I like that idea. Plus, I like categorizing things, so it will be awesome to separate work from play. For some reason, the thought makes me feel much better.

Blog housekeeping et al

I wish I was a true loner instead of a convenience one.  I wish I truly didn’t need anyone. I wish I had a tower with a library and an oven, like the Tangled version of Rapunzel. I also wish I could make a lasso out of my hair and capture Ryder Flynn. I have no clue why I just reversed his name like that.

I wish I was more comfortable in my skin. I don’t want to swap for anything else. I hate it when I have to blog in riddles. And I’ve always liked the phrase ‘et al’.

My brain still feels squiggly. I should fix the broken Twitter links on the blog. After a few weeks, links like that *pointing up there* lead nowhere. It’s some new Twitter policy. Running out of server space I guess. It’s the same with links to MKZ. It shouldn’t matter so much because not many people click on links, but it’s still annoying when they lead to nowhere.  I’m done ranting now. And somebody just got a song.

♫ Recognize ♫ Better than Ezra ♫

This has been an interesting week for me, largely thanks to Mwaura. He has this way of making me re-analyse things. Considering I’m already a born thinker, I go to insane levels.

I saw a cat die last week. I was walking princess to Sunday School and we saw it lying by the road. From far, it seemed to be sleeping, and she remarked on how cute it was. Then as we got closer, we noticed it had blood, goo, and foam on its mouth, and it was making this sick, choking sound. I’m not sure who was more disturbed – princess or me. When we came back after church, the cat was silent and unmoving.

We use that path quite often, so we saw the cat three more times before it was taken away. I kept wanting to get something and cover it up, if only out of respect. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Each time we approached the body, princess would look at my face and deliberately distract me by pointing out a bird or a monkey. One time she even said,

“Mum, make sure you look the other side, okay?”

My little girl knows me pretty well, and a week later, the cat is still haunting me. Dead things freak me out. The idea of a body that was alive, moving, full of spirit, and now suddenly it’s just cold, empty flesh. *shudder* Even dead insects bug me, no pun intended. Watching that cat die was probably one of my most disturbing moments – ever.

Anyway, in the midst of my Mwaura-ing, I re-affirmed that I want the ups of marriage without any of the downs. I want a bedmate that is faithful to me, but I don’t want to be jealous. I don’t want to wonder what he’s thinking when he’s looking at that waitress, or to get enraged when he tweets a random compliment at busts. I don’t want to wonder if it’s really me he’s thinking of in bed. I don’t want to think of what he’d do if he met Janet while she was sad and randy.

[Yes, I realize that these are simply insecurities on my part, and that they can’t be resolved by refusing to get married.  It would eliminate the in-laws drama, but it wouldn’t stop me being jealous or stalking his MKZ friends, which is one of the many things I don’t want. The jealousy would be just as bad with any man I date. That, I can only evade by staying single and not having crushes. I actually amuse myself because I’ve just written a perfectly sensible and sober piece on marriage (link to be included later) yet I have such shallow, immature opinions about it. Oh well, those who can’t do, teach.]

I want someone I can sit with to play Scrabble and share ideas. I want someone I can call to take me house hunting, or talk to me about investments. I want someone I can call to cheer me up when I’m sad, and I want to do the same for him. I want a companion and a best friend.

Some people say marriage isn’t that bad if you find the right person. But what I’m most scared of is jealousy, and I can only stop that by building my self worth and choosing not to feel bad, because he will always be attracted to women. I’m not sure I know how to do that. Plus I don’t want to go girlified just to make him happy. That’s a lot of work.

Back to Mwaura. I concluded that I’m lonely for company of the life partner variety, but I’m really not a wifely girl. My friend asked me to list all the reasons why I think I’d make a bad wife. When I was done rattling them off, he said,

‘You’re right, you’d make a lousy wife.’

And this is a guy who actually likes me! So anyway, I made a little compromise. I called up a close friend and asked him to be my official go-to guy. That means I can do stuff with him and call him when I need a shoulder or an ear. There won’t be any sex involved, because sex just complicates things. That part will be hard – I admit – because I think he’s really, really hot.  It’s also a little sad because the fact that he’s agreed to be my ‘friend guy’ means he has no notions of being anything else, and I admit that stung my pride a little. On the upside, he doesn’t read my blog much, so it’s unlikely to offend him. I hope.

Moving on. I had to do some blog housekeeping, and I ended up looking over some old posts. I was amused at the deep thoughts and life lessons I write down. Amused because I feel them when I write them, but forget them after posting. I’ve made a million resolutions, but they’re gone from memory in minutes. It made me realize something. A poignant moment is just that – a poignant moment. I may learn a lesson but I won’t carry it with me. I’ll just turn around and make the same mistake again.

What I need to do is live in the moment and enjoy it. If I spend my whole life trying to not repeat mistakes and trying to explain past flaws, I’ll wake up one day and be 80 with no memories to show for it. I need to get out of my head and smell the flowers more. Or at least, I need to enjoy the moments in my head, to enjoy my thoughts instead of just worrying about them.

I’m having a major crisis this year, and my friend says I’m simply afraid. It’s probably about turning 30. I refuse to believe it’s that simple, because I have a baby and no bio-clock issues. I don’t even want to get married. But my friend says I’m trying to justify my fear and make it rational. He figures I should accept that I’m scared, admit it makes no sense, and get on with it. I should stop seeking answers for Question 10 when I haven’t even read Question 1.

I’ll probably be scared for a while, then it’ll pass and I’ll be something else. So it’s silly to waste months being scared about being scared, and then wake up one day, realise I’m not scared anymore … and then start to wonder why I wasted so much time. Or worse, I may start to worry about why I’m suddenly no longer scared.

Wow. Sometimes, I really scare myself. I need to get some fresh air and stop freaking out. Pointless panic is not my friend. Happy Sunday everyone.