Blogs... Catharsis...

The blog was designed as a way to vent my frustrations – in the hope that down the track, I could look back and laugh at the stupidity of life.  Weird really, because hell, much of it isn’t funny at all; yet we can but try!

The Hunchback is about my relationship.  Hell, if I started a blog about work God knows what title that would be and it would probably get me fired in a week.

I have always written as a way to figure out my own thoughts.  Like writing itself, the whole damned story, the answer – is already in there, you just have to let it evolve.  So I write and expel it and move on.  To date, much of it has centred on the harridan and those that know me have laughed; as they know how totally different this woman and I are – we may as well be from different planets.

Still, with too much focus on that, I allow it to smother the good from our relationship, of which there is much.

The squeeze thinks it is probably a good way to deal with it.  He is not unaware of the difficulties I have in dealing with a constant relationship of many people.  I’m not good with no “us” time.   I however, am not sure, as it forces you to focus only on the negative – and when the rest of your life all follows the same path at times (like now) – it does indeed make your world black.

Of course, that bottle of red kind of pushes you to wallow in it.  One day I’ll give up drinking altogether.  The squeeze doesn’t drink – hasn’t for years.  Even writing that I could hear my sister and several girlfriends make a Pfftt! sound. 

Hmm well I sure as hell won't be giving it up this afternoon while we are out doing the ‘happy family kid birthday lunch’.  In all honesty, I would rather be dead, but hey – love me, love my kid.  That is how I feel and he is no different.

To get around the “wishing I was dead” moment, I’ll sit there and think about all of the bits of our relationship that defines what we are.

Last Thursday night we went to Hawthorn, found a fantastic shop full of vinyl and a tiny coffee machine and poured through albums.  I ended up buying an old Bob Dylan and Rolling Stones.  Then we went off to the some council building and I sat at a table and held the squeeze’s hand and brushed a tear from my eye as he went up to get a “highly commendable” award for a short story he wrote.

At these times I know and understand that we are meant for each other in a way that no one else could fit the people we are.  And the harridan, the kids – complete with wrong plane tickets and daughters car nightmares and yelling about the mess they all leave in both sides of town – as a price to pay, seems totally worth it.