A completely new start brings horrors that Lee could well do without. Who is killing the townsfolk? And who is sending those macabre gifts?
Lee has moved to town to start again. His last relationship turned sour, so he opens a bar and throws all his energy into it, though two men he has befriended cause him to wonder if he’s ready to take the plunge again. However, a murderer is out there, sending gifts to Lee—body parts—as a token of his love. Rumours say it’s a wild dog roaming the forest, but if that’s the case, who is sending the presents to Lee?
Ryan is on his way to see his first love, Lee, who moved to a village in the middle of nowhere to escape his mother and her cruel ways. At Lee’s cabin, Ryan faces emotions that upset him and realises he loves Lee more than he thought.
He drops a bombshell on Lee, who needs time alone to digest the news. Ryan is left wondering if he did the right thing, but what else could he have done? He’s always been blinded by Lee’s love, and he can’t imagine that light ever going out…
We all cope with life in the best way we know how with the circumstances we’ve been given. There are horrendous things occurring for others, yet, because we are not in that situation, we can’t comprehend what those others are going through. What is a big problem to one person may not be to another. If you take personalities into consideration too, one person may be able to cope with things better than another in one respect, but in another, if the situations are reversed, those people may crumble or, conversely, find strength that wasn’t present before.
I’m the kind of person that copes and copes and copes, until one day, a small event will happen, and I crumble. Can’t take anymore. Everything else that has happened, where I’ve coped and kept a level head, then comes crashing into my mind, making that one small thing that tipped me over the edge insignificant. There are pros and cons to holding it all inside, and one of the cons is the aforementioned, where meltdown occurs and you no longer want to grip the baton or jump over the hurdles a second longer.
With parenthood, there isn’t really the option of saying, “D’you know what? This parenting lark is actually too hard for me, and I don’t want to run that race anymore.” You have to keep going, find new ways to cope with whatever stressful situation the fruit of your loins has thrown at you. So, what happens when, whatever you do, that piece of fruit keeps pushing the boundaries?
Obviously, parenthood doesn’t come with a manual, and if it did, and I’d read it, I’d have seriously wondered why mankind still reproduces. We’re all aware that our wonderful children morph into some alien in their teens and do things we wouldn’t have thought they would. We’ve done it ourselves, thought things about the household rules and wished we lived somewhere else, railed that life isn’t fair, blah-blah-blah, so we have some insight into our children’s minds when we get to this point in theirs. However, we’re on the other side of the coin now, classed as the enemy, and we can’t possibly understand how they feel. Oh, we do understand, but we also understand that as responsible parents, some decisions made or rules laid down are for the good of everyone in the home.
My situation revolves around the Xbox. Marvellous invention as inventions go, but I wonder if Microsoft are aware of the hassles their product causes for many households. If they do, I doubt they even care. And it isn’t just Xboxes. We can lump Play Station and all the others in with it too. With the latest technology of interactive games, headsets, making friends with people across the world, these games console creators have unleashed a demon into the lives of every parent whose child owns one of the damn things.
Let’s list the chaos they can cause:
Children staying up late into the night, hooked not only on the game they’re playing, but speaking with friends in different time zones. When your child is meant to be sleeping, someone else’s child has just woken up and logged on…
Noise levels. With the headsets firmly glued to young ears, they don’t realise how loud they’re speaking. When other family members are trying valiantly to sleep, others are keeping them awake with one-sided conversations that, I’m sure, my next door neighbour doesn’t want to be kept awake hearing either.
Language. Your sweet-mouthed child turns into a foul-mouthed brat, swearing, picking up strange words that don’t even exist, and they use them then in everyday life, which is highly annoying at best and makes them look total dickheads at worst.
Character change. Your child becomes more alien than they would have if they didn’t own an interactive games console. They’re tired from staying up late. Their school work suffers. The rest of the family suffers from bad moods, fatigue, and generally not feeling their usual self.
All because of one child doing what THEY want, regardless of other people’s feelings.
Well, I have three boys, each with an Xbox. The two oldest bought their own with birthday/Christmas money. I’m well aware that, if I said they could no longer play their games until God-knows-when o’clock, they’d tell me I can’t take their Xboxes away because I didn’t buy them. That, in itself, is rude behaviour, but we won’t even go there. What I CAN do is remove the TV they need to play it on. What I CAN do is remove internet access.
After a year, yes, a year of asking them nicely to be quiet at night, we’d had enough. I made the decision to remove internet access to their consoles on work/school nights and kept it on all of Friday and Saturday nights. My three boys share a bedroom. It isn’t fair for the oldest two to stay awake on their consoles when the youngest lad, who is 12, needs his sleep. I also didn’t feel the middle lad, who is 14, needed to be staying up all night either. His behaviour deteriorated at school. He was being rude, acting up etc. What the nearly eighteen year old does is largely his own business, but NOT when it affects the other children or us. I most certainly do NOT feel it is right that the noise level in their room at night affects my youngest, who is 7, and whose room is beside theirs. I don’t feel my husband should be kept awake all night when he has to get up for work at 5:30. I don’t feel my neighbour, whose bedroom is beside the boys’, should be kept awake either.
With that said, the two oldest boys somehow feel that my turning off the internet access is cruel. They don’t seem to ‘get’ that their game-playing affects so many people. All they care about is playing it. Typical for their age, I know, but when our parental decisions are questioned periodically, when the children had a year of being asked not to be loud, I rather thought even the dumbest of people wouldn’t have to ask, yet again, why they can’t have internet access. It’s simple: YOU’RE TOO DAMN NOISY AND SELFISH TO HAVE THE INTERNET ACCESS BACK! If kids can’t respect others in the house by doing as they’re asked, then parents won’t respect their wishes of wanting the access back. If they then go downstairs and switch the router back on when they THINK everyone is asleep, then really, do they think that is going to make their parents let them have it back, or will the parents go the other way and prevent the kids using the access AT ALL?
Now, most people know what I’m going to say next. Yes, their wireless connection has now been blocked overnight, regardless of whether the router is switched on or off. I will no longer tolerate my parental rules being flouted, or have children continually telling me how things are going to be. And, much as I hate to say this, I am the parent, they are the children, and those are the rules. If they don’t like those rules, tough. That is how it is going to be, and if they’d done as we’d asked over a year ago and just been QUIET and RESPECTFUL, none of this would have happened.
I’m usually soft-hearted. Too soft-hearted, I know that. My children don’t have to do any chores. They basically have a life where they can do what they want without having to help out around the home or do anything at all except behave in a nice manner. It seems that is too difficult. It seems I’m asking too much. Years ago, I never thought I would be a parent that said: If you don’t like the rules—stupidly lax as they are— then you’ll have to find somewhere to live where you DO like them. Now, though, this is slowly becoming something I am more and more likely to say once the kids hit eighteen. I’m sick to death of pandering, walking on egg shells, having children be outright rude and grunting responses, or, even uglier, ignoring us. I’m well aware of going through the phase of not wanting to speak to your parents, but outright rudeness isn’t on. Plus, when this behaviour is going on amid the other things in life that your children aren’t privy to, when you’re trying to keep everything running smoothly when inside you want to cry or scream or whatever, it really does piss me off. But of course, I forgot. It doesn’t matter what is going on. Nothing matters except what the child wants. News for you, kids… On your bloody bike if you think that’s how it is. I have far more important issues to deal with than your whinging.
I read somewhere that the reason children go through their teens and act as they do is so it’s easier for a parent to let them go when they decide to leave home. I can see the logic in that.
I’m tired of repeating myself. Tired of explaining the same thing time and again.
I’ve now been pushed, and pushing me isn’t cool. Okay, I’m soft-hearted, but you’d better be ready when I blow, because when I do, it isn’t pretty.
The bottom line is, and I hate to say this because isn’t this what most parents say? My house. My rules. Like it or lump it, makes no odds to me. But the rules remain, and they will get tighter if this behaviour continues. As in, the TVs will be the next thing to go.
Any other parents out there going through this crap?
An Excerpt From: SOUL KEEPER
Copyright © NATALIE DAE, 2010
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
Pressing her lips to his, she searched for his tongue. Rob’s arms encircled her waist, his fingers massaging her ass through her coat. The fabric an annoying barrier, she brought her hands between them and undid the top two buttons. His hands left her ass, came up to grip her wrists, and he broke the kiss.
“You’re taking your coat off?”
His widened eyes and the surprise in his voice pushed laughter from her, and she moved her hands down to the third button. His grip loosened, then he glanced back up the path before returning his gaze to her face. With shaking hands, he undid the fourth button and opened her coat. Rob sucked in a breath.
“You only have underwear on? Jesus Christ, woman!”
She laughed again, head thrown back, and his lips met her exposed neck. Shivers of delight wended up and down her spine, the heat of his breath and the cold winter air inciting a rash of goose flesh to pepper her skin. His hands snaked inside her coat, palms trailing up and down her waist, thumbs smoothing over her rib cage. Carrie lowered her head, watched him taking in the sight of her body, and fuck, she wanted him inside her now.
Shirking off her coat, she handed it to him. He draped it over one arm and, mouth agape, stared at her as she walked backward to the gate.
“Come on,” she said, the thrill of being so wanton, so daring, spiking her need.
Carrie turned her back to him and raised one foot, placing it on a gate rung. His sharp intake of breath made her want to laugh with the power she had over this shy, beautiful man. With one foot on the rung above the other, she hoisted her leg over and sat on the top rail, hands gripping it so she didn’t fall. She turned her head to face him, the cold metal heaven on her hot cunt.
“Are you game?” she asked, eyebrows rising.
“Aren’t you cold?” He stepped toward her, the coat held out so she could put it on.
Carrie swung one leg over and lowered herself into the field. Hand on hips, she sucked in her tummy and pushed out her chest. “You coming in?”
Rob hung the coat over his arm again, his mouth working to speak but no sound coming out. The streetlight at the far end of the narrow path enveloped him, lent his flushed cheeks a peach tinge. He blinked, eyes wide, and lifted one foot to the gate.
He shook his head. “You are crazy. What have I got myself into?” He smiled and climbed over the gate, dropping to the other side. Coat held out once more, he coaxed, “Come on, sweetheart. Put this back on. Please. I don’t want you getting cold.”
Carrie bent down to remove her shoes and sidestepped away from the gate.
“Love,” he said, “There’s probably cow’s shit in here. And you’ve got bare feet!”
An unstoppable giggle burst from her mouth, and she turned from him and ran along the tree line. His sigh of defeat chased her on the breeze, and soon his footsteps followed. She swung around and ran in reverse, toes digging into the wet, mulch-ridden ground. Out of breath from the exhilaration flying through her, she slowed to a stop beside a huge oak. Its branches stretched over them, the leafless limbs useless in protecting them should it rain. Backing up, she rested her ass and shoulders against it, the bark damp on her skin, its mossy aroma sharp in her nose. She dropped her shoes.
Rob caught up and stood a few feet before her, coat clutched in his fists. Carrie widened her legs, nestling her feet against roots that jutted from the ground. The cold air a balm on her hot skin, she brought one hand to rest on her stomach, the other to her lips. She sucked her index finger, then pulled it out, licking its length with deliberate slowness.
“God, Carrie. Stop!” Rob peered through the trees to the main road. A car whooshed by. “Someone will see us!”
“No they won’t.” She stared at him, lowering her finger to one breast, circling the nipple through the satin bra. Her other hand slid toward her crotch, and she cupped it, pressing the heel against her clit. “Come here.”
He looked from her to the coat and held it up, glancing around for a place to put it.
“Sling it on the ground and come and fuck me.”
Russell has one thing left to do before he can leave work for home—except he doesn’t get there until much, much later…
Russell is a gravedigger. One night, while finishing the last dig of the day, something occurs that changes his whole life forever. Faced with the dilemma of either going to the police or remaining silent, he follows his instincts.
On his way home from work, Toby intervenes in an argument—with grave consequences. After meeting Russell, they make their way to Toby’s flat, only to find a grim discovery that forces them to make a big decision…
- Monday: Write as Natalie Dae
Tuesday: Do housework and write as Natalie Dae
Wednesday: Write as Other Name 1
Thursday: Write as Other Name 2
Friday: Write some on a YA book, which, if accepted means Other Name 4
Saturday: BLOG HOP! Yeehaw!
Sunday: Day off? Roughly translates to BLOG HOP! (Oh, this is too bloody fantastic!)
GASP! I think I’d have cried, asked for it to be fixed, and, failing that, asked for my money back. Poor Debra!
My sister, Wendy, had a perm that rendered her a microphone head. I’ve done that myself too. She’s also dyed it and it turned out canary yellow. Me too! My cousin, Sarah, had her hair go pink! My sis and I always eff about with our hair, and mine is currently recovering from going from brown to blonde then back to brown, and the split ends (some have been cut out) are still there. Wax is my friend at this time, as is Frizz-Ease, though take note that when using both products, using hair straighteners tends to make unsightly white bits on your hair like you have dandruff, or worse, nits! Oh, the pain of home hairdressing!
EC author Sherri L King once had blue hair and decided it needed to go. She put black over the top and ended up with ‘a muddy blue-black that was very gross’. I shouldn’t laugh, but I found her description really funny, and as I said on Facebook, that kind of colour is just like pond sludge. Needless to say, a hairdresser fixed her mistake.
Which brings me to the whole home-hairdressing thing. Why do we do it? Because it’s too damn expensive to have your hair coloured at a salon, that’s why! I enquired at one of my haircuts, how much I would be charged to go from brown to blonde. £90. I bartered him down to £60, but I still didn’t go back and have it done. £60 against £2.89 for a home dye? I chose the cheaper option, only it didn’t turn out that cheap. I ended up buying £35 worth of different blondes to get the colour I wanted, really pleased with it, only to wake the next day with orange-yellow-tinged hair. I stuck with it for a few days, then bought a red-based dye to get rid of it, and now I’m back to square one. Brunette.
One day I’ll maybe get my hair done professionally, but for now I’ll stick to el cheapo brunette and battle the split ends. The worst hair disaster imaginable for me would be to have it go so wrong I had no alternative but to have it shaved off. Oh, my Lord! I’d seriously have to buy a wig. For those of you who need advice, I found this cool site. NIGHTMARE HAIR.
This post will either have people pooping themselves along with me, or poo-pooing what I’m about to say and finding alternative explanations. I’m all for alternative explanations, by the way, but some things just can’t be explained. Or they can, but having gone through some weird stuff lately and at other times in my life, I’m inclined to be a bit bias when it comes to the supernatural. As in, I believe in it.
This post was prompted by an email convo I’m currently having with a friend, who divulged some weird goings-on in her house, things that have happened there in the past and recur, I’m guessing, often. Obviously I won’t be saying who that friend is, because it’s her story to tell, and to be honest, when we tell others of things that go bump in the night, we risk them thinking we’re complete whack-jobs.
So, here’s me risking you thinking I’m a whack-job!
I’ve had things happen I just can’t explain. I Facebooked some of the creepy things that happened here the other week, though I didn’t reveal all of them because, you’ve guessed it, people would think I’m nuts. But things occurred that shat the life out of me and nearly had me leaving my house.
Now, I’ve always had some form of thing going on where I know things, can see things, and predict certain things. I read a form of Tarot and glean stuff about people they’ve never told anyone. I don’t know how it happens, it just does.
You may now call me batty and leave my Facebook friends list if you wish… LOL
Anyway, the latest thing that happened was the other night when I lay in bed cursing my two oldest sons for being down here past midnight making snacks and being jolly loud. They were pulling the cracker jar across the worktop, opening it (it’s glass so makes a lot of noise) and HUMMING. I’m in bed, and I think: Will you have some consideration here? We’re trying to sleep!
So, at 12:22 (funny how we recall the exact time with something like this), I moved to get up and go downstairs. Maybe rip a couple of new arseholes. As I went to sit up, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Ah, at last, they were going to bed. Then I heard someone go back down, the living room door creak, and then silence.
Right. Okay. They’re downstairs but quiet. I can sleep now.
So I slept. The next day I woke and went into the kitchen. All work surfaces except one were clean. The other had cracker bits, breadcrumbs, grated cheese, and a sugar spill over it.
Bloody hell! Thanks for leaving me your mess, dudes!
When the boys got up, I asked them nicely NOT to make such a noise at night, especially not to effing HUM (our bedroom is over the kitchen), and not to leave me their mess. I said something like, “Cos at twelve-twenty-bloody-two in the morning it isn’t funny.”
“We went to bed at 11.”
“So who left the mess on the worktop?”
“Not us. We made our sandwiches here.” Son #2 indicated the worktop that wasn’t dirty.
I explained the mess, the noises, the footsteps, and everything else that bugged the piddle out of me. They looked at me oddly. No idea what I was talking about.
Okay, the poo-pooers will say my boys lied, they were down later than they should have been, and were covering up.
Now, I know my boys. They had no clue what I jabbered on about. So who was downstairs?
I have this kind of thing happen a lot. Small things, big things, seeing people walk past me when the house is empty except for me. Creaking floorboards, doors closing, doors creaking. Door knocks, noises, letterbox flapping. This isn’t an old house. It’s what, about eighteen to twenty years old? We’re the second family to live in it.
My grandson speaks to a kid in my garden. A kid no one else can see. Or so we thought. He showed ‘her’ a book last summer, said she lived in the wooden kids’ house we have at the bottom of the garden, and he called her Boony. Imagine myself and my eldest daughter crapping our knickers this same day when a wave of emotion overtook us as he ‘played’ with Boony and we both just started crying. Imagine then, when we returned home from picking up my little girl, and she went into the garden with Grandson and said, “Hey! Boony’s back!”
Then I recalled HER talking to someone in the garden when she was younger. Remembered a few things.
How do I explain someone keep calling my son’s name in his room in the middle of the night, and he gets up to look out the window thinking someone is outside, and no one is there? How do I explain someone or something pressing on his chest once they’ve called his name and woken him up? Poo-pooers will say he’s mucking me about with his tale. I say not.
What experiences have you had in this area? Care to share?
I read a blog post yesterday about a woman growing up with a gay father. She inspired me to write my own views on homosexuality. Basically, I don’t care what people do in the bedroom. It’s their business, and I’m of the opinion that we’re here in this life to be happy. I’ve had this discussion with Hubby and my kids, and they all know if they’re gay, it isn’t a problem. Why? Because so long as they find love, with whatever gender, and they are happy, I don’t care. Isn’t that what we’re meant to want for our kids? Happiness?
I’ve heard stories of people frightened to tell their parents, scared of what people would think, folks being bullied, and once, a hairdresser felt the need to tell me he was gay because he’d had some ‘funny looks’ and ‘bad attitude’ from women in the past because a gay man was cutting their hair. Pardon? This guy was lovely, and he told me a little about himself. He’d been in a bad relationship for seven years then finally found the right man for him, and because this man was so right for him, he fretted that he’d die young and have his happiness taken away. This brought tears to my eyes, because when he told the tale, it wasn’t about two men, it was about a man in love.
What really bothers me about families ostracising a member who has come out is: Does them being gay erase everything that went before, then? The funny things they did as a kid? The cuddles the child wanted before bed? The love you had for them, the need to protect and nurture them? Why, when they find out their son or daughter loves person of the same sex, does it make things different? I can’t get my head around that. My kids are my kids and always will be, no matter what they do. I’ve told them that too. They can tell me anything, and we’ll work it out. I also think about the children growing up who know they are gay and hide it—or feel they have to hide it. The torment they must go through, God, I can’t imagine, and if they’ve been brought up in a household where the parents are anti-gay, that must be even worse. Imagine knowing you’re gay and hearing, “Any of my kids end up gay, well, they can eff off! Don’t want them in my house.”
What do you do? You can’t hide who you are, or if you can, it’s got to be a bloody miserable existence, and you know that when you come out, that’s it. You’re ostracised from every person you’ve loved all your life. How utterly sad.
I know some people find it odd that I write gay fiction. Why would I want to do that? Am I a pervert? No. The answer is simple. I’m trying to show two characters who are in love, or find love, to try and make everything okay. That last bit sounds silly, because only those who want to read gay fiction will, so my efforts in showing people through my books that gay is okay, well, it’s hardly going to work if people won’t entertain it. But, it makes me feel like I’m maybe making a difference. Someone somewhere might pick up one of my books and it may well change their perspective. If I only change one person’s outlook, it will have been worth it. I’m not into forcing people to read m/m if they don’t want to, but it doesn’t make me a weirdo for writing it.
All I can say is, if you’ve found out someone is gay and it changes the way you feel about them, ask yourself why. You liked them well enough before, didn’t you? And, being blunt here, why has your friendship changed just because they share their sexual organs with someone of the same gender? Christ, it doesn’t matter, surely.
I’m not going to rant on any further. Just know that through writing gay fiction, I have made some fantastic gay/bi friends, all of whom are kind, considerate, compassionate, funny, wonderful people, and I’m glad to have met them, glad to have them in my life. If people shun those who are gay, that’s a shame, because you’ll be missing out on having some beautiful people in your life.
After yesterday’s writing stint, today sees me going back in and spreading out the info dump. Sometimes, when the plot is intricate, I like to write everything from the past in one go so all the information is down. The next day, or later down the road, I go back to the info dump and copy and paste bits into other parts of the book, therefore escaping too much backstory at once. I have a scene that needs writing at the start of chapter two, and I wasn’t in the mood for that yesterday but am today. I usually write [SO AND SO NEEDS TO DO THIS HERE] when a scene isn’t calling to me, and just as luck would have it, I want to write that scene but the headache from hell, plus the kids talking to me, means I’m stopping and starting, gritting my teeth and answering them so they don’t feel Mother is too busy for them, and generally wondering whether I’ll get anything written today. Hence this procrastinating blog post. Funny how no one is talking to me now, eh? Funny how, when I finish this and flick back to my manuscript, someone will want something or have a terribly important thing to say that needs saying NOW!
Oh, the joys of being a writing mother…
And how is it they know which Word document is my book? Okay, the fonts are different, but I’m wondering if I adopt a different pose when writing a book—you know, shoulders hunched, immense concentration on the face, eyes glazed… Or maybe I’m just imagining it and they just happen to speak at the wrong time.
It’s difficult, because I want to get my daily word count down and out of the way some days. You know the times, when you’d rather be doing something else really but if you don’t get today’s words down they’ll bug you all day until you do. Or you want to write, but you’re tired and keep getting interrupted. I could just say, “Oh, bugger off will you?” and at times I do, when they’ve bugged me quite enough and really need to go off and play by themselves, but there’s always that thing in my mind where I want to listen to them just in case there’s a nugget of information there that gives me a heads-up into how they’re feeling or whether something is bothering them.
Today, though, is just a waffle day, where they’re talking about everything and nothing and, to be honest, just…annoying me. Yes, the headache is a big part of my irritation, being tired is another, and wanting to write in silence (my usual preference) is another still, but the kids are still off school on Easter break, and I won’t get my silent time back until April 19th. And here I am, still typing away on this blog post, and no one has spoken to me. I’m going to do a test. Going to flick to my manuscript and see how long it takes for one of them to ask me something. Here goes…
4 minutes later. “Mum, can I have a cinnamon bun?”
30 seconds later. “The buns have all gone.”
Let’s try again…
6 minutes. “The buns have all gone.”
“Yes, you said. Never mind…”
And so this will continue for much of the day, I feel. I’ll just write in between interruptions and keep plodding on until I finish the info dump switches and reach my 3K goal. If they’re still in the mood to try and prevent me from writing, I’ll maybe tell them if they’re bored they’re quite welcome to tidy their rooms. Yes, that’ll work.
If you’re writing today, I wish you uninterrupted wonderment!
Matt has been visiting the lake for time alone to sort through his feelings over the break-up with his ex, Jack. He feeds a heron, the only constant in his life, and ponders on the future. One day, a man appears and sits beside him. Thomas, who seems to understand Matt’s inner turmoil.
Accepting an invitation into Thomas’ home on the other side of the lake, Matt discovers people aren’t always what they seem…
Most of the time I don’t think too deeply, because it hurts and makes me cry. I’m talking about the really deep stuff that once you start thinking one thing, it leads to others and before you know it, you’re crying—or really want to—and the past opens up in your head and wreaks havoc. For the majority of my days, I keep everything inside, bottled up, firmly corked, and don’t venture down ‘that’ road. But there comes a time when you plant a foot on that road and end up walking down it again. I find as I age, that road and what I see down there doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. As they say, time heals all wounds. It might heal them, but there are still the scars, and sometimes we need to poke the scars to enable us to move on into the future. Re-examining what went before can help mend what is to come, and last night I had one of those times.
Tears helped, though they weren’t the body-racking kind I should have given in to. I always stop myself, because I vowed years ago that no one would make me cry like that again, but the release of a few helped, and talking to my dear hubby about things I have inside my heart and head has made me a happier girl today. Some things are still unresolved for me, because with emotions you can’t always get a clean view of things, but I’ve accepted some things as they are, realised I can’t change how I feel, and will live with only Hubby and myself knowing what those things are; after all, he doesn’t judge me, understands what I’ve said, and loves me just the same.
Aside from that, I partly confessed how much I love my husband. I say partly, because, due to the past, there’s now something inside me that won’t let the full extent of my love come through. It’s a bugger when you’ve been hurt before, and even though I know Hubby isn’t that kind of guy, I’ve still held some of me back as a safety net. The question I ask myself is whether I should just let it go and show/tell him. I tried last night, but the words wouldn’t come, and I told him if he knew the extent of my love he’d think I was a bunny boiler. My best way of describing it was to say it burns. I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone, but it burns so hot it hurts my tummy, makes my heart hurt, but in a good way. I can honestly say, and know it would be true, that if there was no Hubby anymore, I’m done. I’d remain alone. No one can match up to him, and trying to find someone who did would take a million years. Also, the prospect of being with someone else makes me feel sick. He’s my soul keeper, the one man destined for me from birth, and I’m incredibly lucky and grateful that I found him/he found me.
I suppose this post is me working through things again, putting them back to bed one last time, and moving on with a lighter heart. The past contains arseholes and bitches—the king and queen of them ruled me for too long, and sometimes they appear now and will in my future—but with me, once I reach a certain point emotionally, if someone pisses me off/hurts me yet again, I cut myself off. There is no going back. Only two people have ever crossed that line, and I have no sympathy if they now live with regrets. A person can only take so much before “I mean it!” becomes reality, and if the years of warnings weren’t heeded by those two people, they now deserve my silence.
So! Although this post may be confusing for people who don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, it’s a post that I needed to write. It’s out there, public, my way of shutting the door on things. Good riddance to those strangling emotions I’ve held inside for too long, and a big welcome to a time of tranquillity inside my mind.
The exercise regime is going well. I never thought I’d be an exercise-type person. I mean, the thought of jumping around and getting sweaty just didn’t appeal, and I honestly didn’t understand the fitness bug until I embarked on my mission to lose weight for good this year. Yep, I’ve tried it numerous times before, got to a reasonable size, then slipped back into my old ways, regaining the pounds I’d lost. Something clicked in my mind this past Christmas. My old habits had to change, and I accepted that to lose weight and keep it off, I’d have to exercise as well as adopting a healthy eating attitude.
Diet aside (that’s a whole other topic), I started aerobics at home—much more comfortable with that. After all, no one is here to see me heaving about in the living room, or there to laugh when I cock up a move and fuck up the dance routine. No, I’m all by myself, and I can mutter, “Silly cow!” and continue on as though nothing ever happened. Then came the swimming idea. I had to lose enough weight to be able to go—no way would I go before I was comfortable in a swimsuit. So I got comfortable with my size, and we started swimming last week, primarily to teach Smallest to swim and secondly to lose weight/tone the bod/get fit. Hubby has an amusing post on yesterday’s swim trip HERE, and he’s voiced all the things that went through my mind at last week’s session. But I must say, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed swimming. Don’t get me wrong, I hate people splashing and getting my face and hair wet (God, what a boring cow I sound. “Don’t splash me! Don’t get me wet!” I’m a pool. How can I not get wet, for eff’s sake!), but the actual act of swimming is cool. I managed 34 lengths compared to last week’s 18, and felt better for doing it after having 5 days off from doing aerobics, which was naughty indeed, but I told myself my body needed the respite. That was my excuse anyway…
Already I’m looking forward to next week, and I have my exercise days all planned out for this week. Hopefully my body will be more toned by the summer. I’ve hated previous summers, where I’ve felt uncomfortable shedding the layers and exposing my less-than-voluptuous body for the eyes of those slimmer than me to take the piss out of, but this year I’ll feel a lot better about myself. I know we shouldn’t care what other people think, and for the most part these days, I don’t, but I do care about what I think, hence me doing something about the vessel that carries me around. Whether it’s because I’m getting older and I’ve realised that if I don’t care about my body it won’t serve me too well when I’m even older, I don’t know, but whatever it is, I’m going to keep going.
One day I’ll walk on a beach in a bikini. One day.
If this comes up bold and underlined for you, I have no idea why. All I did was press ‘spellcheck’. GRR.
I’m in the process this morning of creating a blog for my Charley Oweson name. RSS feeds from my Sarah Masters blog are on the sidebar at Charley’s, but they aren’t coming up as blog posts. How annoying. I’d hoped to just blog on one blog and have those posts transfer to my others (I have one on Goodreads too, and that works fine), so I’m hoping with me posting this now from Sarah’s blog, it’ll make them appear on Charley’s. My efforts will either be rewarded or thwarted when I hit ‘publish’. If it doesn’t work, I may gnash my teeth. If it does, I may wee myself. It’ll save so much time just posting in one place. Or I could be seen as lazy. Hmmm.
Tomorrow we’re going swimming again, and I must say I’m looking forward to it. As a person who hated exercise–even the thought of it made me ill–I’ve changed so much this year. I think the endorphins help (is it just me, or does that word bring dolphins to mind?) because they make me jollier than my usual quiet, even moody self. Ah, yes, I can be a right moody cow. Boring is probably the correct word.
Anyway, here goes. I’ll hit publish and skip to Charley’s to see if it’s worked. Well, it’s not exactly skipping, more like clicking my mouse with a lethargic finger, telling myself it won’t have worked. Piss. Let’s just go for it and try.
I’m hoping that my blog posts from my Sarah Masters blog will show up here so I only have one place I need blog from. If it doesn’t work, I’ll maybe scream.