Woulda Shoulda Coulda

Back when we first moved in, whenever Angelica kicked off and had a strop, or was nasty to people and stomped off, I would go up to see her later in the evening to talk through what was bothering her - once upon a time, she liked me. Then she would complain to me about pretty much everything and everyone. I know this is part of being a teenager. So I listened, was sympathetic, offered possible options, solutions, or tried to find out what we could do to make things better.

One of the things she complained about most vociferously was that her brother was treated faaaar better than she was (in her opinion). She admitted that this was especially true at her mother's house, where she was required to undertake many chores and he was required to do none. I had not noticed any unfairness in the way the two children were treated - we didn't ask them to do any regular chores, although Jason occasionally got Mark to set the table and clear it at meal times, and Angelica occasionally helped him. Anyway, I promised to keep an eye out for it but said that we couldn't affect the rules at her mother's house.

Cut to a meal some time later where Jason asked Mark to clear the table after dinner. Mark agreed but immediately launched into an excited retelling of something that had happened at school that day. Angelica groaned loudly and began clearing the table.

Jason asked her to stop, please, because he would like Mark to do it. Angelica says "But he's not doing it!" Mark says that he will do it as soon as he's finished his story, which he's still really excited about - he hasn't seen his father in three days and soooo much has happened since then!

Angelica groans again and continues to clear the table despite Jason's protests. So we all get up to clear the table together and Mark tells his story while we do it. Then Jason tells the children that he would particularly like Mark to do the drying up as a chore for the weekend. Mark agrees and picks up a tea towel. I always try to do the washing up to give at least one of the kids additional time alone with their father after dinner. Jason wanders into the living room and Mark and I set about the dishes.

Angelica approaches Mark and asks him to move his bag which is currently lying on top of hers in the dining room, about 5 steps away from her. Marks promises to do it as soon as he's finished. Angelica insists that she wants it moved right now as it's on top of her things.
"But I'm drying up!" says Mark
"I don't care! Move it now it's crushing my clothes!" Angelica is shouting by now.
So Mark drops the tea towel and goes to move his bag. Angelica then steps in to take the tea towel and continue drying up.

I ask her to leave it as Jason asked Mark to do it. She smiles. And ignores me. And continues. Mark returns and asks her to give him back the tea towel so that he can continue with his chore. She ignores him too.

I remind her of the fact that she complained about Mark not having to do as many chores as she did. I point out that this is one of those occasions where we're trying to keep things equitable between them, as she wanted, and could she please give Mark back the tea towel and go relax in the living room. She keeps smiling. And ignoring me. And drying up. Badly.

I point out that she can go and spend time alone with her father, and how she once said she wanted more time with him to herself. Again, she keeps smiling and ignoring me.

In total I asked her five times, calmly and kindly, while Mark was also asking her, not so calmly but not unkindly and she ignored both of us until the last time I asked when Jason came into the kitchen to see what was going on. Then she slowly put down the tea towel, grin still on face and said "But he doesn't do it properly...." quietly, before going to put her arms around her father and take him away, lest either Mark or I explain what was happening.

Later, it occurs to me that I should have asked once, and then left myself, with Mark in tow, to spend time with Jason ourselves, and let her do the washing up too.

Maybe next time.

I pray there won't be a next time.

On blogging...

Lots of the people who write blogs that I read religiously are beginning to make them private. This has led me to think about exactly how private blogs really are, and how vulnerable we make ourselves when we blog.

I realise, reading back over my other posts that the person I project when I write is not the real me. However, as the writer of 'A New Beginning' points out, blogging is often about allowing someone a place to vent safely without being judged. How you will respond in person is very different to how you respond to an event, or react to a situation when you discuss it in a blog. On your own blog, you are able to voice all those tiny demons that eat away at your thoughts without fear of reprisal, judgement or criticism. At least that's what we hope when we write. In reality, the minute you press that 'publish' button to share your thoughts with the ether you allow a million others, most of them strangers, to see you, sometimes at your worst, and cast judgment on your thoughts. Not fair, but not unreasonable.

Personally, I love to read blogs. Especially those of others who are in similar situations to myself, in order to feel a little less lonely in my angst. I also like to write when I'm upset. It's cathartic to see your thoughts in print, and it allows you to respond calmly to those around you as you've already vented your feelings elsewhere, where you couldn't hurt them with your words. However, I am also terrified of being judged. I love having other people comment on my blog as it makes me feel validated in my reactions, even when I know I'm being more extreme than I should be - but I'm also more than a little afraid every time I look in case someone judges me badly, misunderstands my motives, or just doesn't like me. Even though I know this isn't the real me, or all of the real me, I still want people to like me. Who doesn't? I know that I would think twice about leaving a hurtful comment on anyone's blog, but there are plenty of people out there who feel liberated by the anonymity of the internet and use it to express forthright opinions on others with less care than they might exercise face to face.

I am also a lurker. The world of blogging can open up opportunities for friendships that might never otherwise have existed, but I sometimes find it difficult to comment freely for the first time in case I'm not welcome. So I have been faithfully reading many blogs for a long time without leaving comment. However, I think I have been allowing fear to rule my life for far too long, so I've begun to be brave and introduce myself. In the interests of openness and honesty, then, I thought I'd do the same here - albeit with a view to blanketing some of those details that might compromise my own anonymity to BM etc.

I like reading. Love it. I can devour books like they're candy. I also like candy, especially tangfastics and those old packs of popping candy you used to be able to buy freely at local stores. I adore food and there's almost nothing I won't eat - tripe being a notable exception. I love wearing killer heels, but my feet love comfy flats. I prefer Margaret Atwood to Jean Auel, but only when I'm feeling happy enough to cope with her, and have been known to curl up with a soppy romance and a glass of red when I think no one will catch me.

I like movies, and sports, and Brad Pitt. Would buy Benefit and Guerlain makeup constantly if I could afford it, but often can't. I love to buy presents and live for the smile on the recipient's face. It makes me happy. As does bouncy music and milk chocolate and endless summer days spent with friends and ice-cream. I'm hopelessly neurotic but fiercely loyal; and hopefully becoming braver everyday....

A Card on the Table...

I am angry. Isn't that an ugly word? But I've said it and, according to some psychologists, that is a great step for a woman. Apparently we rarely admit to being angry. We admit to being hurt, we admit to being upset, we admit to being lonely and feeling betrayed, but we struggle to admit to when we feel angry.

I think this is because we don't want people to think badly of us. We don't want anyone to think that we are as ugly as the word 'angry'. Yet it's a natural human emotion and a natural response to certain situations. I don't think feeling angry makes anyone a bad person. I think it's how you respond to that anger that shows what kind of person you are.

I am angry because I feel that I have been treated unfairly for a long time, and that the people who should have looked out for me, who should have been fair to me, and whom I loved regardless have hurt me. I feel betrayed, and lonely and hurt, and, yes, angry.

As a result of my anger, and the shame I feel for being angry at all, I feel that people judge me. There is a paranoia and a defensiveness that I carry with me. I worry that I am wrong to feel angry and that those who treat me badly are justified in doing so because of that. This leads to further hurt.

Still with me?

I began this blog as an outlet for that anger, and also to put my point of view out there, like so many others who also blog. However, I have realised that I vent only when I'm angry and this makes me sound ugly. I have also realised that I don't want to be defined by my anger. So I decided to stop feeling ashamed of it and to do something about it.

Step one was admitting to it. I told my partner how I feel. Step two was explaining why I was angry. I did that. And you know what? He understood. It's nice to be understood. Now we're working on step three together: trying to fix the things that make me feel angry and hurt and betrayed and lonely. It's a long list of things; it's amazing how much women can silently put up with for years before they finally explode. It's a slow process, but we're getting there, and he's trying, and that means the world to me.

Last weekend, Jason inadvertently did something that ended up causing me a lot of physical pain. For the first ten or fifteen minutes of pain, I felt guilty that I might be ruining his plans for the weekend. After that, I felt angry at him for putting me in that position. We were two miles from home. He sat me down on the grass verge by the road and walked home to get the car to collect me and put me safely onto our couch with a bucket of painkillers and a mug of tea. He was gone for ten minutes and I was angry for five before I decided there was no point. If he had thought about what he was doing in detail, I would not have been in pain. However, if he had, for a second, considered the pain he would eventually cause me, he would never have done what he did. Besides, I've had enough anger this year to last me a lifetime. He was careless with me, but he regrets it - and what's more, he worked to make it up to me. He got back with the car to find me, still in pain, but joking about it now and smiling instead of cross.

Anger can be a useful emotion, when it drives us to act, when it makes us do something about whatever it is that is causing us pain. After that, it becomes destructive. I'm grateful that I have this blog as a place to vent, but I'm also glad that the things that made me angry are being fixed, so that I don't have to feel angry anymore.

When is a Joke not a Joke?

If you've ever had the misfortune of being bullied by a girl, or been at the receiving end of any sort of passive or relational aggression, then you will know the pain caused by other people's 'jokes'. You know the kind I mean. The ones that are actually spiteful, nasty, insulting and often deliberately hurtful comments.

It usually comes completely out of the blue - at least, at that moment it is a surprise blow, even if the bullying has been taking place for a while. This type of behaviour is often pretty clandestine. The term 'two-faced' was defined for people like this. You'll be involved in a seemingly relaxed conversation and you casually make a remark that is a little self-deprecating. Apparently the ability to laugh at yourself is vital for a balanced, happy existence, so why not? You feel comfortable enough with the people you're with to be able to do this. Or perhaps you don't make such a comment at all - perhaps you simply admit to a weakness, a lack of confidence or lack of ability. Nevertheless, you don't expect what comes next.

At this point the bully will take advantage of your words to throw them back at you. The 'joke' is typically a comment that sleights you, insults you, puts you down. It may be sarcastic, or it may be delivered with a smile. But it is cutting. You reel at the shock of what you've just heard because you can't believe that someone you trust could deliberately hurt you that way, or that those around you who may have heard could accept your being subjected to such obviously malicious remarks. There is usually a pause that is sufficiently long as to fully drive home the knife by the perpetrator, who is commonly found to be wearing a smile at this point.

And then the coup de grace: 'Just Joking!'

How is it funny to poke at someone's weaknesses and insecurities to their face? Nobody laughed at any point, so is it still a joke? Commonly, the behaviour of this person towards you the rest of the time is sufficiently antagonistic as to belie any facade of friendship or camaraderie that might allow them to be so close to you as to not cause you pain by such words, but they are often close enough to you that if you dare to object they can play at being outraged enough to fool those around them.

This is a much used and deliberate game designed to wound freely and usually in public without any threat of reprimand or any recourse for the victim. By slipping in that comment at the end they ensure that, if you are to maintain any sense of civility, you cannot retaliate in any way. It is nasty and manipulative, and cannot be undertaken accidentally.

My partner's daughter does this often. It is a regular part of our relationship. To date, no one has called her up on it and any time I have tried to appeal to her father or grandparents for aid in putting a stop to the behaviour I am told that I am overreacting or have misunderstood an attempt at friendship.

My arse.

If you state that you are bad at something and someone else responds: 'Good', then that's no attempt at friendship. Especially when it's followed by silence and a grin. Nevertheless, I encouraged my partner and the children to arrange to do the very thing I was terrible at because I knew they'd enjoy it. Why should being bad at something stop you from enjoying it? All that matters is that everyone has fun, right? Besides, Angelica's 'Only joking' remark had been followed by her insisting that I *must* join them, it'd be great.

The following morning I came down with a cold and couldn't go after all. My partner wanted us all to stay but I insisted he go and not disappoint the children. After all, they'd have no fun here with me while I was ill, and it would be another opportunity for them to be alone with their father. So he went to wake the children.

The first thing Angelica said when she was woken was: 'Is Medea going?' Only when it had been established that I wouldn't be going, did she agree to go.

How is that friendship? And from which angle exactly is it funny?

It Begins

Today I came into work after the weekend from hell. I spent it with my partner's children

I am a 25 year old graduate on a modest salary and have recently moved in with my partner of two (and a bit) years. This was not my first encounter with the children, whom I have known for well over a year, now, but it was probably the worst. To date.

Let me tell you about them. Angelica is 17 and has just completed her GCSEs. She is currently embarking on a course of A-levels she barely has the inclination to complete. My partner has come home innumerable times since September and fearfully told me he's worried she's going to quit. Mark is 13 and just beginning to feel the first flush of testosterone. Generally upbeat and hyper with above-average intelligence, he is just starting to hint at the tantrums for which teenage boys are famed. On the whole, they have been quite pleasant children, and anyone who knows them usually quite likes them.

So what was it about this weekend that was so bad? Well, I suspect the reason things became unpleasant is that this was pretty much the first time that I have attempted to discipline them. Over dinner Angelica was becoming increasingly difficult. She had already jumped down her brother's throat for 'almost spilling some drink' and was now berating him loudly and at the sort of pitch that only cats can hear for 'being annoying'. Funny that her own faults should pass her by. Perhaps she genuinely believes she farts roses and defecates flowers. I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, having failed to get much of a rise from the sibling, and growing increasingly irate at my own suggestions that perhaps Mark's sins were not so colossal, she turned on the father.

It was like watching someone slowly stab another with a sharp knife and then explode at them for bleeding on the carpet. She fed him questions which he failed to answer to her satisfaction - no requests, simply facts he did not have - and did indeed explode in such a frenzy of apoplexy, I thought perhaps she'd sat on a stick of dynamite. It wasn't until she said the dreaded words, however, that I felt I had to interrupt.
'Angelica!'
That was all it took. She didn't say another word but refused to stay for the film she'd been clamoring to watch all day, but sloped off to her room without a the barest sheen of politeness. After that I was snubbed for the remainder of the weekend and she played all the cards a coquettish little girl has to ensure I was kept out of all activities and made decidedly unwelcome. On top of which, she added her own unique sprinkling of snide remarks and derisory comments whenever it became necessary to actually communicate with me. This is the child I have just spent £200 on for Christmas, and who I spent countless weekends with to ensure she scraped the mandatory GCSEs required to continue to Sixth Form.

And what were the dreaded words? Are there ever any others that could slight a man so? Jason had mentioned once, after I had made the mistake of saying the words in jest that his ex had repeated them at him daily with vicious spite. No matter how hard he worked, keeping two jobs so that she could stay at home where she wanted to be, no matter what he did, she always dismissed him with those same words: 'You're useless,' with a contempt that requires no further punctuation, or indeed equivocation.

I'll leave you to ponder whether there is any more effective method of emasculation for the working man.