God it's boring. It's so boring.
Since the "mention" there's been no more mention. It's been about two weeks. We got on well. Til the carpet cottoned on and realised a heap more shit had joined its underbelly.
Tomorrow three grand leaves my account and six weeks of bloated beached whale beckons. He just told me he told his friend about the egg freezing, over coffee this morning. When asked his friend's reaction, he laughed.
"Um... not much."
I'm right back at the place.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Update and upturn
He's said "I've been thinking about it and I could warm to the idea. Thing is, we don't really get on do we?"
That's all it needed - an acknowledgement that he's at least thinking about it.
It's alleviated 3 years worth of rant. Since that day, a week and a half ago, there have been no arguments, my old energy's come back, calm's washed over the house.
Still, taking it day by day and still considering the egg freezing, as an insurance policy.
That's all it needed - an acknowledgement that he's at least thinking about it.
It's alleviated 3 years worth of rant. Since that day, a week and a half ago, there have been no arguments, my old energy's come back, calm's washed over the house.
Still, taking it day by day and still considering the egg freezing, as an insurance policy.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Squeamishness
It took 5 hours to drive to Birmingham for the egg freezing appointment. The sky was dark grey to match my dreary mood.
Parked in a cold concrete slab of a car park and walked down a pokey damp stairwell that smelled of urine.
The clinic’s waiting room had strip lighting, a fish tank and self-serve tea and coffee on the side.
Read a gossip magazine about poor old Britney in the waiting room. There were lots of couples wandering about.
I was summoned in to meet Dr Victoria, who spoke with a thick Birmingham accent. This is how it works.
"You'll have to inject yourself for six weeks during which time you'll probably swell up like a balloon, have mood swings, hot flushes and headaches. It is a 'temporary menopause'" she said cheerily.
"If at any point you feel sick and vomit you could be suffering from over stimulated ovaries and we'll have to be careful of that.
"You'll be fully concsious during the egg recovery session when we line your uterus with anaesthetic and inject through the vaginal wall and thrust the needle into your ovaries to scrape off the follicles." (she didn’t really use that language but she might as well have)
For a woman over 35 the success rate of a baby being born from a frozen egg is a piffling 15-20%
After a scan, blood & urine test which cost a further £250, I was informed the next step would be the invoice for £3,000. After that’s paid the fertility drugs will be delivered and will have to be stored in the fridge.
The Prince rang while I drove back blubbing. He didn’t know what to say. Nor did I. Am through with saying stuff – it just doesn’t get anywhere.
Phoned lesbian friend.
“That’s close on four grand,” she said. “Forget it. Just leave him, shag someone else and you’ll get pregnant.”
It’s the equivalent of the Prince saying “this is all your problem, I have nothing to do with it” in terms of not getting it.
For her, it’s simple. Her cleaner/lover has already moved in with her two kids and they’re playing happy families. Only the poor ex-husband is weeping into the phone every night, missing his daughters and nursing his pride.
This is so boring now. When will it lift? I wish there was such a thing as a ‘mind wash’.
Parked in a cold concrete slab of a car park and walked down a pokey damp stairwell that smelled of urine.
The clinic’s waiting room had strip lighting, a fish tank and self-serve tea and coffee on the side.
Read a gossip magazine about poor old Britney in the waiting room. There were lots of couples wandering about.
I was summoned in to meet Dr Victoria, who spoke with a thick Birmingham accent. This is how it works.
"You'll have to inject yourself for six weeks during which time you'll probably swell up like a balloon, have mood swings, hot flushes and headaches. It is a 'temporary menopause'" she said cheerily.
"If at any point you feel sick and vomit you could be suffering from over stimulated ovaries and we'll have to be careful of that.
"You'll be fully concsious during the egg recovery session when we line your uterus with anaesthetic and inject through the vaginal wall and thrust the needle into your ovaries to scrape off the follicles." (she didn’t really use that language but she might as well have)
For a woman over 35 the success rate of a baby being born from a frozen egg is a piffling 15-20%
After a scan, blood & urine test which cost a further £250, I was informed the next step would be the invoice for £3,000. After that’s paid the fertility drugs will be delivered and will have to be stored in the fridge.
The Prince rang while I drove back blubbing. He didn’t know what to say. Nor did I. Am through with saying stuff – it just doesn’t get anywhere.
Phoned lesbian friend.
“That’s close on four grand,” she said. “Forget it. Just leave him, shag someone else and you’ll get pregnant.”
It’s the equivalent of the Prince saying “this is all your problem, I have nothing to do with it” in terms of not getting it.
For her, it’s simple. Her cleaner/lover has already moved in with her two kids and they’re playing happy families. Only the poor ex-husband is weeping into the phone every night, missing his daughters and nursing his pride.
This is so boring now. When will it lift? I wish there was such a thing as a ‘mind wash’.
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Mogwai goes to Canterbury
Hi bloggo.
Last night the Prince and I had a big row. It happened after you-know-what when stupidly I figured this might be the start of something new ... uncontrolled if you get the drift.
But it wasn't. He was as cautious as ever yelling "STOP" each time things got going.
As the post-coital tears soaked into my pillow, he said: "God, no wonder I never want to do it - you always get like this."
He'd much prefer to steal a wank each night in the bathroom with the door locked and porn on his mobile phone. For the sake of fairness he denies he does this, but please.
It's easier that way. No emotional scenes. No nasty moods.
He then lost the plot and started yelling, ranting and raving about how selfish I am for wanting wanting wanting all the time.
"I'm a great father, I'm a great boyfriend," he said. "I'm happy with the way things are. You're the one with the problem. You need to sort yourself out. When are you going to see your head lady again?"
Then after ranting some more about the fact he has to get up at 6.30am on Monday morning (big deal, it was Saturday night) he stormed downstairs to flat hunt, but not before telling me he would fight for custody of Rosie and win.
“And then you’ll be a single woman all by yourself,” he snarled. “Is that what you want?”
I garnered from this that he’d prefer to live alone in a two-bed flat with Rosie than here in our lovely home with Rosie AND her sister or brother. Why is it so hard for him to want one?
For almost three years since the longing began, he has just reeled out one stock answer: “I’m 31. I don’t want one now but MAYBE one day I will.”
The more I think about this the more I just lose my mojo to continue the battle.
I’ll be FORTY in May and I am totally dreading this. I want to be embracing it, feeling confident and happy with where I’m at and who I’m with.
Reality is, I’m with someone who’s only just coming to terms with the fact he’s 31.
I truly have to leave him – but why's it so hard? I feel this is the only pathway now for my future peace of mind and possible chance of feeling happy again. Staying with him is just always going to remind me of the wasted years I spent hoping and hoping.
Anyway, I woke up with puffy eye lids and slowly moved my foot away from his leg. Got up and let him sleep on.
Then we decided to go to Canterbury as planned and had a good trip. Nothing was talked about.
We visited the cathedral and meandered down the narrow streets of higgledy-piggledy buildings with overhanging windows.
"My legs ache," complained Rosie, walking a yard behind holding her tiny Mogwai that Santa bought her.
We went to a farmers’ market cum restaurant by the railway track. The food was superb. So it’s not all bad. At least we had a good lunch.
The custody thing is weighing hard on my mind and hurting my heart. If there was ever a chance I would lose Rosie I’d just have to stay with this commitmentphobe for another 12 years.
You know what I’m craving right now? Peace of mind, contentment and a less complicated way of living. I can live without money. I have done so many times in my life. He can’t.
My head lady said: “You know what image comes to mind when you talk about your relationship? Square peg, round hole.”
She’s right. And I’ll add another. Brick wall, head bang.
Last night the Prince and I had a big row. It happened after you-know-what when stupidly I figured this might be the start of something new ... uncontrolled if you get the drift.
But it wasn't. He was as cautious as ever yelling "STOP" each time things got going.
As the post-coital tears soaked into my pillow, he said: "God, no wonder I never want to do it - you always get like this."
He'd much prefer to steal a wank each night in the bathroom with the door locked and porn on his mobile phone. For the sake of fairness he denies he does this, but please.
It's easier that way. No emotional scenes. No nasty moods.
He then lost the plot and started yelling, ranting and raving about how selfish I am for wanting wanting wanting all the time.
"I'm a great father, I'm a great boyfriend," he said. "I'm happy with the way things are. You're the one with the problem. You need to sort yourself out. When are you going to see your head lady again?"
Then after ranting some more about the fact he has to get up at 6.30am on Monday morning (big deal, it was Saturday night) he stormed downstairs to flat hunt, but not before telling me he would fight for custody of Rosie and win.
“And then you’ll be a single woman all by yourself,” he snarled. “Is that what you want?”
I garnered from this that he’d prefer to live alone in a two-bed flat with Rosie than here in our lovely home with Rosie AND her sister or brother. Why is it so hard for him to want one?
For almost three years since the longing began, he has just reeled out one stock answer: “I’m 31. I don’t want one now but MAYBE one day I will.”
The more I think about this the more I just lose my mojo to continue the battle.
I’ll be FORTY in May and I am totally dreading this. I want to be embracing it, feeling confident and happy with where I’m at and who I’m with.
Reality is, I’m with someone who’s only just coming to terms with the fact he’s 31.
I truly have to leave him – but why's it so hard? I feel this is the only pathway now for my future peace of mind and possible chance of feeling happy again. Staying with him is just always going to remind me of the wasted years I spent hoping and hoping.
Anyway, I woke up with puffy eye lids and slowly moved my foot away from his leg. Got up and let him sleep on.
Then we decided to go to Canterbury as planned and had a good trip. Nothing was talked about.
We visited the cathedral and meandered down the narrow streets of higgledy-piggledy buildings with overhanging windows.
"My legs ache," complained Rosie, walking a yard behind holding her tiny Mogwai that Santa bought her.
We went to a farmers’ market cum restaurant by the railway track. The food was superb. So it’s not all bad. At least we had a good lunch.
The custody thing is weighing hard on my mind and hurting my heart. If there was ever a chance I would lose Rosie I’d just have to stay with this commitmentphobe for another 12 years.
You know what I’m craving right now? Peace of mind, contentment and a less complicated way of living. I can live without money. I have done so many times in my life. He can’t.
My head lady said: “You know what image comes to mind when you talk about your relationship? Square peg, round hole.”
She’s right. And I’ll add another. Brick wall, head bang.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Foot fetish
Happy New Year secret e-friend, yo yo here again. Chickened out of tomorrow's egg freezing appointment, but did re-schedule it for next Thursday.
It's the Birmingham bit that's the big turn off. That and the pain. Gritting teeth and muddling through will be January's watch words. February actually as it'll have to wait til the next "cycle". It'll be a weight off one's mind so life can be in the moment again.
New Year was surprisingly fun. We had friends over. A couple who don't have sex either. He's addicted to internet porn.
I know this because his wife and I share everything. She whispered in the kitchen that one of his recent escapades has corrupted a whole lot more than his head. The hard drive is now buggered and he lost all the photos of their baby.
She's also found foot fetish magazines and pornography of old ladies. Didn't know what to advise on that one.
Anyway, we played on the Wii and at midnight watched fireworks over south east London from the arched window. Then Nat and Dougal (foot fetish man) turned their attentions to the Wii golf and Laura and I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. Wild.
The next day we went to a riverside pub/restaurant for lunch. The table we initially sat at was in the grubby pub section. Nat found a rather grander setting in the restaurant, where they charged £5 extra per meal even though it was the exact same menu as on the other side of the wall.
Then Dougal - who's terribly tight fisted - started complaining, even though Nat had treated him to a great Indian take away on New Year's Eve. We then had a walk through Greenwich Park and went home.
More egg freezing talk prevailed. I told him this was the first step towards separation and cried.
He's been much nicer since then. Maybe that's my problem. The upset comes out in anger. If I could show it in water instead life may just get sweeter.
It's the Birmingham bit that's the big turn off. That and the pain. Gritting teeth and muddling through will be January's watch words. February actually as it'll have to wait til the next "cycle". It'll be a weight off one's mind so life can be in the moment again.
New Year was surprisingly fun. We had friends over. A couple who don't have sex either. He's addicted to internet porn.
I know this because his wife and I share everything. She whispered in the kitchen that one of his recent escapades has corrupted a whole lot more than his head. The hard drive is now buggered and he lost all the photos of their baby.
She's also found foot fetish magazines and pornography of old ladies. Didn't know what to advise on that one.
Anyway, we played on the Wii and at midnight watched fireworks over south east London from the arched window. Then Nat and Dougal (foot fetish man) turned their attentions to the Wii golf and Laura and I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. Wild.
The next day we went to a riverside pub/restaurant for lunch. The table we initially sat at was in the grubby pub section. Nat found a rather grander setting in the restaurant, where they charged £5 extra per meal even though it was the exact same menu as on the other side of the wall.
Then Dougal - who's terribly tight fisted - started complaining, even though Nat had treated him to a great Indian take away on New Year's Eve. We then had a walk through Greenwich Park and went home.
More egg freezing talk prevailed. I told him this was the first step towards separation and cried.
He's been much nicer since then. Maybe that's my problem. The upset comes out in anger. If I could show it in water instead life may just get sweeter.
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