'Tis Done

Dear Dobson,

It's taken me a few weeks to get over the frustrating disappointment of an adjournment, but I can feel a gentle shift in attitude beginning to happen. I never expected to feel optimistic about the impending new year, yet that seems to be where my mood is heading.

The 'C' word has been and gone, and it seems to have been something of a success. Mes enfants were happy and grateful; I don't know that I could have asked for anything more than that. I'm relieved. I've never much enjoyed Christmas, the pressure to have fun and feel close to those I love on one particular day is suffocating. Anyway, it's over and it was okay.

Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my relationship with The Man ending. Yes, there is still unresolved business to deal with but that needs to be parked until May. I have plans to hang with some jazzers all day and all night - it will be joyful, the complete antithesis of what was happening this time last year.

Tomorrow will also mark seven months exactly since my first date with SG Guy. He blew me away with the Christmas present he gave me; beautiful, exquisite, French lingerie. I can't wait to 'try it out' when he returns to London in the new year. Things are good. It's lovely and easy.

I was reflecting on the past year last night - I think it's inevitable when a new one is on its way - and I came across a picture of The Man that had been posted on the internet. I wasn't looking for it, but perhaps I was meant to find it. He appeared more 'ordinary' than I remembered. His hairline seemed to have dramatically receded. He was smiling, but looked dead behind the eyes.

Perhaps I was meant to find it?

Frankie

Resurrection

Dear Dobson,

We need to get back to doing this shit.

In my mind, I don't care whether we're simply writing for you and me.  I don't care how many followers we have, what the figures are, who's interested or not.  This bloggage, as I understand it, is ultimately for us.

I think, whilst desperately trying not to sound like Tammy Wynette, sometimes it's hard to be a woman.  It's fucking hard.

As you know Dobson, I'm up in court this month - a witness for the CPS.  Partly I've been reluctant to write because I don't know who's going to read this.  'The Man' is aware of this blog and he may well come across its content.  I've reached the point where I don't care if he does or not.

Our relationship ended in the messiest of ways.  He hurt me, physically as well as emotionally, and as you know after a period of contemplation I went to the police.  It wasn't an easy decision to make, but ultimately, at the very heart of it, was the belief that what he had done was wrong.  Very wrong.

I have done my best since things ended, to get on with my life.  I've successfully gigged, I've achieved a Certificate in Counselling, I've tentatively embarked on a new relationship and yet life feels 'stuck'.  Until the trial is over I'm unable to move on.  We still have a connection, even if it's in the most negative of ways.  I want to be liberated.  I want it to be over and I acknowledge that, soon, it will be.

I hope that with the end of the trial - no matter what the outcome is - I will be able to disconnect.  In spite of everything, I still feel tied to him, as if this trial binds us in the unhealthiest of ways.

Obviously it's been a long time and there's much more I could divulge but I feel I need to be economical with what I share right now.  The time will come when it feels safe again, but until then this is the best I can offer.

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

Which One Is The Dead One?

Dearest Frankie,

Fancy meeting you here... Is it sheer luck that we even remembered the passwords to the magical kingdom of Blogger. Serendipity. Or just a catchy password. Who can tell...

I am as surprised as you by your shock exit from the love train. I really can't understand it.  I am, however, pleased to see you here and talking in rather positive tones.

So.  Here's to blogs and stuff.  And the remaining / still alive BeeGee.

Dobson x

Happy New Year My Arse

Dear Dobson,

These are difficult, desperate days and in the face of such adversity, resurrecting our online tête-à-tête seemed like the only thing to do to preserve a modicum of sanity.

When last we spoke I was on board the Love Train and life was good. It continued to be so until just after Christmas when the stoker decided to throw me off. Nothing was negotiable. Perhaps he thought I'd dodged the fare but I can honestly say I hadn't.

Heartbreak over the Christmas / New Year period is possibly the worst kind. It's that time of year when couples strive to outdo each other with overt, gaudy displays of bile-inducing affection and being involuntarily single amidst all this is akin to having bubonic plague. No-one wants to get too close in case they catch it.

This wasn't what I anticipated going into 2014. I feel as if I missed a big clue along the way; the one that said 'He's going to dump you'. And let me tell you, the man is as stubborn as his Taurus the Bull birth sign - he won't be changing his mind or compromising in any way.

I'm shocked and saddened. I believed we were good together / for each other. Our experience was obviously very different.

Initially I will try and fix myself by taking on board what the Bee Gees have to say above, but luckily for me, I've been broken before so have a few tried and tested methods of my own; good people, running, singing, my course, this blog and strength of character. To be honest I'd have preferred to be planning a holiday with my boyfriend in the new year instead of my solitary emotional recovery, but needs must.

Despite the miserable overtures, it feels good to be back here.

Frankie

Writer's Blockage

Dear Dobson,

My creative juices appear to have stopped flowing.  I'm dry as a menopausal vagina and I blame one thing and one thing only for this arid state of affairs...  Contentment.

Now don't get me wrong, life is not all peaches and cream, of course there are many things I would change or improve given the opportunity or the finances, but in general I don't know if I've ever had it so good.

I am unsure as to whether this new state of Zen comes as a result of maturity, wisdom, awareness and generally being comfortable in my own skin or as a result of things having previously been so shit that anything is an improvement.  Having given it some thought, I believe it's the former.

Without going all hippy on your arse, I feel as if good is begetting good and it's fucking fabulous.  My recent application form has earnt me an interview, my jazz duo is now a quartet with an impending gig at a Central London venue and I have a man who thinks nothing of repairing my mangled runner's toenails...

I feel as if I can have whatever I want right now.  That concept scares me a little, but not enough to stop me asking.  Sacrificing some of my creative juice doesn't seem like such a bad trade off to me.

Frankie

Highs And Lows

Dear Dobson,

My week, in a nutshell.

Low Point:

Parenthood has been one of this week's crashing lows.  I've never rated myself much as a mother if I'm honest; I don't make my own houmous or anything, but I like to think I do a decent job and most importantly, my boys know they're loved.  Unfortunately oldest has entered what we have labelled 'The P Zone' - yes indeed, as his thirteenth birthday looms, Puberty arrives and the odious stench of testosterone hangs heavy in the air like ammonia.  All kinds of muscles are currently getting a good flexing.

He has behaved appallingly of late and I yearn for the days when a clip around the ear wasn't something that could land you in court.  If this is just the beginning of a catalogue of heinous pubescent behaviour then I'd like to terminate my contract here and now.

What do you mean I can't terminate my contract?

I suppose I simply attempt to muddle through the best I can, like many other parents have before me - except my own mother of course who did less than her best, but that's a whole other story I can't be arsed investing any energy in right now...


High Point:

The Love Train is stoked full of coal and is chugging along beautifully.  I don't know where it's destined to go, but being aboard it makes me very happy.  The Man is warm, wonderful and uncomplicated - I love having him in my life.


Any Other Business:

The application form has gone away.  The waiting game commences.  I shall know within three weeks or so if I'm up for interview.  Obviously they'd be mad not to take me.

I went to the cinema to see the new Star Trek film and found myself strangely drawn to Spock.  I never thought I'd use a Vulcan as stimulus for a wank.

I miss you and would like you to come back.

Frankie

Wank: The Sequel

Dear Dobson,

I share your concerns about the general dip in our readership that tends to occur whenever we discuss lady matters that don't involve vaginas, anuses, vibrators or bodily fluids.

At the moment, the trouble for me is that I'm having way too much good sex to want to write about it.  Add to that the feelings I have for The Man and it does bring a certain reluctance to share the details of our lovemaking with all and sundry whether this is an anonymous blog or not.

When I was single and wanking was obsessively high on the agenda it was a very different state of affairs.  Nowadays masturbation is something I can take or leave, but that's not to say it doesn't happen.  As I mentioned before, Thatcher's funeral whipped me up into a veritable frenzy and sometimes when I watch James Martin on Saturday Kitchen that gives me the right horn.  Though I must admit my degree of wetness depends on how heavy he's looking, someone should tell him that wearing a black shirt isn't a magic cure-all.

Frankie

The Love Train. Toot. Toot.

Frankster,

Thatcher is dead?  When did this happen?  I loved her on 'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.'

Bugger.

Yes.  Love is a very nice distraction from blogging, or indeed anything ending in 'ing'.  Probably not shagging though, now I come to think of it.

I am pleased you are on The Love Train (See what I did there?  Seamless).  Tooting your horn and filling your hole with coal.  Bloody marvellous.

I do believe that Karma has arrived for you, and the changes that we predicted back in December seem to be coming to fruition.

For me, I'm a wee bit more in love with life, and myself again. It's been a long journey, but actually, I think I am an okay person.

Maybe we both decided that actually, we are both a bit cool, and deserve some of the good stuff.  I feel it enough to say it out loud too.

On a complete tangent, but sort of not, I have noticed a positive change in my dad.  The reason is simple.  The father that abandoned him over 60 years again has been found.  Obviously, he is no longer around, dying at 50 something in 1969.... but.... I think it gave him some closure.

No doubt there will be some family stuff that comes out, but he sounded so buoyant and happy, and making plans to go on some trips, live a bit.  I could hear it in his voice and it oozed over the phone.

C'mon Karma.  Keep doing the do!

Lub you.  Seriously.

Dobster

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

Dear Dobson,

It seems we have both been distracted from bloggage for one reason or another.  Alas, I have not been dreamy-eyed about hall tables or doing up my house...  I have been riding the express train of love, travelling first-class, accompanied arm in arm by The Man.

Much can happen in a short space of time and as you know from previous confessions I was very aware that stirrings of a non-sexual nature were happening.  Those things called 'feelings' were manifesting themselves and as uncomfortable as they were making me, I sat with them.  I'm glad I did.

All areas of life are good.  The Karma Police have finally discovered where I'm living and decided that a little payback is due.  I'd say way overdue, but beggars can't be choosers - or summat.  Even the weather is warming up, about cunting time though, it is the middle of April...

The Man is on his way round now so I must love you and leave you.  Would it be wrong to crack a quick one off whilst watching Thatcher's funeral?

Frankie