Tuesday, November 25
My language is appalling at times, in fact I am The Norths own Father Jack. I use the F word far too much for my own liking and certainly my husbands, who is sometimes shocked I'm sure. 'Fecking' is a favouring adjective along with 'Bloody' so much so I really should be Australian. I am as careful as any parent not to introduce the whole thing of swearing to my kids too early on, I hope, although doubtless it's something they'll learn amongst themselves without my help anyway. So how did I become this swearing monster? Frankly even people who know me really well find it inconceivable that I am so obnoxious, its a fact I save it for those who are closest to me. Those I feel most comfortable with I suppose, those who have seen me at my lowest, most vulnerable, darkest. I guess its a verbal stick with which to beat the world and fate with, the volcanic release valve with which to go POP, because just when I think I have acceptance in my heart, it comes back and bites me hard. I am metaphorically speaking sitting at the kitchen table banging my head against it over and over and over again. Nothing changes, nothing moves on. I don't move on as I think I should. Maybe I am too hard on myself, more likely I cannot ever live up to the expectations and perceptions of friends. I am marvellous and wonderful and a living saint I would have you know. Only let me tell you now, I'm fecking bloody well not, and don't you forget it. I'm like you and your friends and your family and the person you work with and the person next door and the woman you greet at the school gates and the people you see in Tesco. I am just doing the best I can on a day to day basis. I am no different to everyone who has a private sorrow, its just that the world sees mine, which sometimes is harder to deal with.