Round Midnight

Dear Dobson,

The title of this latest instalment is a song I'm currently learning for gigging purposes.  It was suggested to me by someone else, but man...  It's screamingly appropriate right now.

Sarah tells it like it is and no mistaking.  I'm meandering through my days in fierce denial.  The trial is almost two weeks away and I've a feeling that, no matter what the outcome is, it's going to feel shitty. You know it's not how I wanted things to be with The Man.  Nevertheless, it's the way things have gone so a pragmatic and practical approach is required for the time being - if only to get me through the dreaded day itself.

In other news, alcohol is proving to be something of an emotional buffer for me.  I know it's not a healthy way of coping with the situation, but the way I see it, the 'situation' will be over soon.

It hasn't all been doom and gloom though.  I've a nice little earner coming up in the form of a dinner / dance gig.  Although not the most satisfying in creative terms, these 'dos' always prove to be quite lucrative.

And there's more good stuff...  At the weekend I was a willing participant in some gin research and discovered some real corkers.  I think I can safely say that Brockmans, Monkey 47 and Cadenhead's would all be up your straße.  Especially Cadenhead's; it's Scottish and 50% proof.  What's not to like?

I continue to spend wonderful evenings with SG Guy.  He's uncomplicated, generous and has the most sublime touch.  His apartment has become something of a haven for me, a rooftop escape from all the sewage down below.

Time for me to attempt sleep.  These days it tends to be disturbed by anxiety inducing dreams, but I have a feeling things might be a bit easier in a month or so.  Goodnight Dobson.

Frankie

Spiralling

Dear Dobson,

I have an essay to produce in sixteen days and as you might predict motivation is low, so I thought it was time to pay a visit to our sacred space. 

I have found myself wondering if this complete lack of focus is what it's like to have ADHD?  If so, it must be exhausting.  My brain only seems to be able to cope with minute pieces of information and I'm finding it frustrating.  In a bid to change this state of affairs and given my surplus of singleton hours, I have taken to watching series after series of anything in a foreign language.  As you know I'm a fan of anything dark and Scandinavian, so both series of 'The Bridge' (Bron || Broen) have been an absolute godsend.  I'm now into the third series of 'Spiral', which is also dark but French.  Watching this kind of thing forces me to engage.

My heart remains broken; my emotions feel as if they've been blasted into a million pieces - someone has kindly scooped them up and plopped them in a bucket for me, but now they have to be sifted through.  That's proving more painful than the initial blasting itself.

I am doing my utmost to be 'normal' and do 'normal' things.  Parenthood offers little space for indulgence which can be both a blessing and a curse, my singing is on the up, college is going well (essay aside), I'm back running regularly and support from friends and family is forthcoming.  However...

Going through the motions has never been my bag and there is a distinct lack of joy in most of what I do right now.  Where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Speaking of fucking, the last time that happened was Christmas night and I miss the physical contact.  Though having said that, the idea of being intimate with anyone ever again terrifies me and it all feels a bit dead from the waist down.

As I said, where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Right, I'm off to watch another couple of episodes of Spiral.  The essay can wait.

Frankie

Dignity or Dignitas?

Dear Dobson,

Life seems to be meandering from one day to the next, so I suppose that's evidence I'm hanging on in there somehow. It's an existence of sorts but I'm aware I'm lurking in the shadows, courting anonymity instead of the spotlight for the first time in my life. I feel jaded, used, discarded.

The Man ignores the odd phone call I chance, my e-mails and occasional texts. All fall on deaf ears. I've a feeling he doesn't even read the words I carefully construct. Each agonising phrase dusted with a whiff of hope - hope that he'll be sufficiently moved to reconnect. I realise it's futile. My services are no longer required.

Sadness is a constant, disappointment a regular visitor and anger an unwelcome one. Then there are the dark thoughts; the powerful fantasies of revenge countered by those of pitiful self-destruction. I am lost. Broken.

As you know Dobson, this isn't just a case of heartbreak. It's more complicated than that. It's old wounds revisited. I didn't want to have to go to 'Rejectionville' again but I'm fresh off the bus, suitcase in hand and the locals seem to know who I am. All because someone said 'trust me', and I took a chance.

January is nearly over ergo I have been single for almost a month. Time flies when you're empty and numb. I miss The Man - I miss 'us' and 'we' and I miss 'my boyfriend'.

Frankie