But the image is.
|Actually a 17 weeks pregnant woman. It is|
disturbingly close to how I look.
My moobs are smaller by dint of my
I've been watching clips from American Psycho and it is clearly a film that I need to see and a book I need to read. In much the same way that Fight Club is one of my favourite films because it's a thinker. Or even Pyramids! by Terry Pratchett. I don't think they're necessarily the sort of thing that send most people into thoughtful gloom but I have that approach to things. Something that carries the germ of an idea that can settle in the fertile bed of silent reflection during the drive to and from work. A foot that hasn't fully recovered from the sporting incident meaning that I can't exercise as I would like and an eating regimen that has remained largely unchanged since I was 16 (well, I skip breakfast as standard these days so I actually eat less than I used to) means that all of this contributes to being fat. I can kind of see why it is that Tilly has no real interest in any kind of physical interaction. I'm hardly a catch!
When I was depressed I was a nasty horrible person, Tilly told me tonight. She took as Gospel all my judgements of myself in those years and has pretty much stated (not for the first time) that she blames me for her own depression following the birth of the Boy. When she'd go to the therapist, an hour's drive from where we lived back when she couldn't drive, we'd leave the Girlie with a child minder and the Boy would come with us. It was a long drive in the gathering darkness of winter. Once there I would try to look after the Boy so that Tilly could go and get a proper session. More often than not she'd have to take him eventually and, by that point, everywhere would be shut. I took to taking a pad and a pen and sitting in a pub there. I'd have a coke and some pork scratchings and not write anything down in that pad. Sitting alone and thinking. I couldn't mark or prepare lessons and couldn't really sit in the car in the dark and the increasing cold. The journey back would be punctuated by regular stops to allow Tilly to calm a crying baby with breastfeeding and a conversation in which Tilly would apply what she had learned in cod-psychology of me.
|That's when we drifted. Never argued, it just became clear|
the parts of her I loved so well would slowly disappear but
these are the days that bind us, together. Forever. These
little things define us. Forever. And Ever.
Then we had our argument about cross-dressing in that July and she became even angrier. I now know that she had managed to convince herself that I had never told her nor hinted at the fact that I was an active cross-dresser. She systematically ignored any hints that I had left and elected to deliberately misinterpret my actual statements in the past. This allowed her to avoid something she disliked and did not understand and then to feel righteous anger at the fact that I had brought it up out of nowhere. She felt able to punish me by loading me with more to do and criticising that that I did. She was able to do that to make me feel as bad as she felt I was making her feel. She blamed me for pretty much everything. And, as seems to be the case with Tilly, now she's better and a good three years have passed she has convinced herself that this story that she made up for herself to justify her meanness to me is the truth.
|I'd happily look like that.|
|I no longer know who is who in this|
I appear to have gone off on a rant. I'll stop now, I'm not really sure what the point of it is.