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