Doctor Doctor...

I had an appointment yesterday. The night before - convinced that I would miss the appointment and plaintively bleating 'what shall I do? what shall I do?' - a blaze-ing row was had with a certain someone - masculine sride-ing and exclaiming 'you spoiled deluded stupid nut-nut it's not my responsability to make you keep your stupid appointment' - lovely - hyper-girl stumble-ing and crying and muscle-convulsions 'you ridiculous incomprehensible stupid man-idiot how then can I go to sleep when I just don't know if the appointment will be missed when I just don't know if I can trust myself to keep the appointment when I just don't know what will happen becuase it is impossible to know what will happen in the future but I want absolute certainty and why why why won't you help me you who have such a firm grasp on time and space that flee from me all three of you' and suchlike. I woke early - shouted and cried some more - and - having obtained the use of my own seemingly commandeered coffee - fled. My new tinted moisture-ise-er did horrible things to my eyes so that I artificially cried all the way to the appointment - two people actually asking me if I was alright. So I smiled and said nothing. So I breezily said 'fine thankyou' or 'yes thankyou' - not at all fair I think for my nerves and heartbreak to be revealed by accidental and atrificially--produced tears. I wandered around the buildings lost until I came to that in which I was to be grilled. I listened to the interesting loud talkings of someone a little less waiting-room-reserved than I. I folded and unfolded a square of paper in half-amused parody of what I thought I ought to look like in such a setting - aloof, nervous, jumpy. The doctor came and I explained to him what needs fixing - looking for some sort of judgement good or bad from his face that thankfully and professionally never came - apart at one point for a smile - I got a smile. It is easiest to talk honestly to blankness. Like now. And listening to my narration of it I felt sorrier and sorrier for myself - and had more and more respect for my attempts to overcome. Yes - I am a helpless and weak-willed ingenue. I am also a damn ambitious brave and resiliant little thing. That may, oh fallen-out-with-person, be 'feminist bullcrap' - I don't know. Nothing would disappoint me more than anything generic of that sort. But if to be at all happy with anything one strives to do is to exhibit 'feminist bullcrap', what is one to do? Roll over on one's back like a sycophantic bitch and get stamped on by the big alpha-male-gone-wrong paw of the pride of the wounded-pretty-thing? Dear dear the vitriol. Stop it Carrie stop it. Rah. Anyway - I said my say while wondering what it said about me - well insomniac binge-eating loud-shouting depth-dive-ing striver after such unearthly peace as cannot be striven for - and was offered CBT. Sometime soon. Watch. This. Space.

I find myself flicking through the pages of The Gaurdian singles section. I imagine what I might write were I to write in it:

Penniless Poet. 22.

Occasionally pretty, perpetually bad-hair-dazed, occasionally articulate...

Seeks...

Similar?

No no no!

Seeks...

Genius. Hopefully jacketed. Hopefully not so volatile predecessors.

Brilliant cook, conversationalist and generally dashingly-handsome-brillant-chap/chapette.

For gluttony of food & of talkings both witty and brilliant.

No mere mortals need apply.