I just need to find the right one. I need one that says:
"Congratulations on the whole wedding thing" while at the same time also saying "good gods girl why would you do this? Were you drunk?!" and "STOP! STOP! IT'S NOT TOO LATE!" with a nice subtext of "when the time comes, I will help you bury the body."
And, of course, "just because I'm willing to help you bury the body doesn't mean that, in 18 months when you realise what an arsehole he is, I will be saying 'I told you so'"
See this is the problem with cards, they lack eloquence.
Maybe I could go with a cake - it could be full of butter and sugar symbolising something you will definitely regret later with a heavy lemon kick for the bitter bitter regrets that are sure to come and maybe some spiced caramel for the warming assurance of murderous support in the future.
Because horse may be fairly benign, but what else passes through? Because this has, if nothing else, exposed a severe problem with the meat industry and the regulatory organisations. We’re being fed horse dressed as beef – what else are we being fed? What else is being passed off? I find it unlikely in the extreme that we can have a horsemeat scandal that is this broad and it be the only problem with our food supply.
For I was having one of my Bad Moments.
Which is the frustrating. Because a part of me (ok, most of me) is still really not happy with not being over, well, everything. C’mon I’ve been in therapy for a while now, I’m taking the pills regularly (barring the odd hiccough), where’s the sanity? I want my miracle cure, damn it!
In fact, I’ll settle (at the moment) for being over anything – see, I don’t ask much brain, but can you at least resolve a few issues? Isn’t this what therapy is for? What the hell is the point if these nasty pills (and their nasty side effects) and dragging all (ok, some, not quite up to all) of the nasty shit out for therapist blokey to poke through if it’s not going to FIX anything?
Ok, ok, yes, when I first went to the guy I was in the Spiral of Doomness and I have stopped getting actively worse which, yay, progress and all that. And no, I’m not as bad as I was at all, everything is much more MANAGED now; there’s not nearly so many Bad Moments and the Bad Moments aren’t as Bad and I can, pretty much, keep things on an even keel. I am no longer drowning. I’m afloat. Soaking wet and on rough seas, but afloat.
But when do I reach dry land (to overextend this maritime metaphor beyond all reason)? When does it all stop, the Bad Moments, all the ickiness, the pills, the therapy, the whole caboodle. When do I push the magic “I’m currrrrrrrred button”? Which I should probably ask therapy blokey. But I can’t – I’m not a fool (much), I know the answer to that could be “well, it’s never going to be cured, it’s about management.” Which I don’t want to hear, I think part of the way I keep putting up with it all is an unspoken understanding of temporariness. I’m wary of my own reaction if I get confirmation; so either I don’t ask the question or I do ask it and start chanting “nah nah nah I can’t hear you” with my hands over my ears if he says something I don’t like. Which is very undignified and a bad habit for therapy, methinks.
But… I need some more progress… which, of course, I’ll probably dismiss once it happens and demand more because that’s me, but still. This is feeling like a holding pattern and I don’t want to hold here.
Though, tbh, and coming back round on the “I should be fair” train because if I don’t, I’ll end up talking myself out of therapy and the pills (again *cough*) and Beloved will have to drag me there by my hair which is also very undignified. Also, split ends. So, to be fair, I haven’t discussed my bad exes much with therapy blokey, because when I first did, I also said that, basically, at the time I had “victim” written across my forehead in block capitals because I’d internalised so much self-hatred and homophobia that I’d endure just about anything and smile about it just for the sake of any shred of affection or potential acceptance. And therapy bloke instantly gave me a very wonderful lecture on not accepting blame, that it wasn’t my fault yadda yadda, yeah very good – but too simplistic. There’s a difference between “blaming the victim” and accepting that being previously homophobically victimised set me up to be a victim again. Of course, that may be because the first words I ever said to him were “You blame any of my problems on being gay and I walk.”
And that sounds awfully like putting road blocks in my own path. Ugh, thank you Reason-Brain, for ruining my perfectly good pout.
Y’know, there’s way too much being fair here. I’m going to pout and sulk and meanly blame people for stuff I’m not letting them cure while drinking all the pear cider in my office mini fridge (because when Sparky is emptying the bottles, he’s not going down stairs to do it). Actually since there’s 36 bottles, I probably shouldn’t do that.
(Actually definitely, since Beloved has made a gentle "ah booze as a coping mechanism I see," joke. Which is ANNOYING because if he'd criticised or nagged, I could have ignored him and drunk defiantly but nooooooooo he has to gently poke at the wisdom of it instead. Bah.)