» Crappy relationships

Could it be magic? No. No it couldn't.
He was a friend of a friend of a friend, he was from out of town, he was older than me, he was oh-so-cool and oh my god he fancied me! I was absolutely besotted with him. I must admit, at the age of 22, I was still a little (ok…a lot) wet behind the ears. I’d only ever had long term boyfriends the same age as me and I wasn’t, and still aren’t, the kind of woman who can treat sex and feelings as separate. I fell head over heels for him but he was after an easy shag and knew just how to keep me hooked.

After about 6 months I realised that I didn’t really like the headspace I was in when it came to dealing with him, and I also realised that he was a little bit of a headcase. So, in a moment of strength and clarity, I decided to get rid. Unfortunately, this revelation coincided with me getting my very first place. Being a sofa surfer of no fixed abode, he realised that he loved me and wouldn’t it be a great idea if he moved in with me so we could both save money. Sucker over here fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Within weeks, the magic had well and truly buggered off. I had two jobs because he refused to pay for anything. While I was at my second job, being on my feet for 15 hours a day, he would have people round until 3 in the morning. My flat is a studio flat, bedroom and living room all one room, and I wasn’t allowed to go to bed as people would want drinks and food and I was the one who had to play waitress. If I asked if people could leave so I could go to sleep I would have the piss ripped out of me mercilessly. Nastily. He very quickly, but very subtly, got textbook abusive. This is where I thought I was too wise to get caught up in something like that. I’d read stories about domestic abuse victims, I’d donate to the charities, I was aware of all the tricks the abusers use, but I still fell for it all and I don’t understand how. I never thought I would. I thought I was stronger than that. I never thought it would be me.

Everytime I’d speak he’d pick apart the things I’d say or make fun of imagined speech impediments. Near the end, I barely spoke. If I asked him to contribute to the finances he’d start yelling and screaming about how I was trying to wreck his life. If I asked him to pack up and leave, he’d refuse. If I wanted to get out of the flat to get some air he wouldn’t let me. He would lock and barricade the doors and wouldn’t let me leave. I was terrified. There was nothing I could do. It very quickly turned physical. At first, inanimate objects got the brunt of his rage. My coffee table, chest of drawers and shelving unit all got turned in to kindling. There are still holes on the doors and walls where he’d throw punches or things. Then I was the target. It was just grappling at first; he’d grab me and throw me about. One time, he spat at me. I came over all bold and told him if he did it again I’d slap him. So he hocked up a loogie all over my face. I slapped him. He grabbed me and forced me to the floor with one hand squeezing my neck, his knee on my chest pinning me down, the other hand pulling back and punching the floor closer and closer to my head, all while he screamed in my face about how useless, stupid, annoying, worthless I was. I’d scrunch my eyes shut and beg him to stop, while trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. That was his favourite way of grinding me down. It was almost every day. There didn’t seem to be a ‘trigger’. It didn’t matter if I was nice or mean, if I stood up to him or turned into a passive idiot, I’d get a beating. I’m only a skinny thing and another of his favourite tricks was to grab my forearms near my elbows and grind the bones. He was very strong. It hurt like hell. Near the end of the ‘relationship’ and during another of his rages he had me by the arms, had backed me into a corner and was calmly telling me how stupid I was. He’d never been calm before. Perhaps he was just messing about this time. I tried appealing to him, told him he was really really hurting me and he was going to break my arms if he carried on. He smiled. And squeezed harder. I asked him to let go again. Nope, squeezed harder still. That smile terrified me. He actually thought it was funny. He was enjoying it. So, I thought to myself, this is getting tough now; you have to get out of this. Kick him in the balls, and when he lets go, scarper. I kneed him in the balls, I put everything in to it so fucking hard, and went to pull away but he pulled me back and kicked me in the stomach. Even when his balls must have obviously been screaming at him, he had the piece of mind to take a step back so he could get a good run up. I dropped like a sack of spuds while he stood over yelling about how I was going to have to take him to hospital because he balls were swelling up.

Not long after that last incident, about 7 months after he moved in, I again asked him to leave. And he did. It was like something clicked in his crazy, crazy mind and he quietly packed up his stuff and left. The relief was unbelievable. I found out afterwards that he had routinely beaten his ex-wife quite nastily, and he had proper mental problems although I never found out what they were. I was so angry for so long afterwards. At everyone and everything. I was angry at myself for being such an idiot. Such an unbelievable fucking idiot. Why did I put up with it? For so long? Why the fucking hell was I so infatuated with him?! Why didn’t I turn to anyone for help?! I was angry at his friends for not telling me what he was like. It turned out his friends knew him for the cunt he was and had an idea about what was going on. I was angry at my neighbours when they said in passing that they would hear him going on at me. Why didn’t they help? How could they sit there, with just a wall between us and let that carry on?! God, the anger. It was so explosive. Some of it was justified, some of it wasn’t. And then one day, it just wasn’t there anymore. I had changed. Looking back, I had changed for the worse. I was cynical, pessimistic, empty. Looking back, I really should have gotten help. I never realised at the time (you never do though, do you), just how much of a pit I was in, and just how close I was to falling off the tightrope.

Luckily, everything turned out for the best. I got over it, got my life back on track and everything is looking better and better.

I wittered on for quite a while there, didn’t I? Sorry about that. If you know, or have an inkling that someone is being abused please help them. Please don’t turn a blind eye. You’ll probably (rightly, to be fair) think that it’s none of your business and/or you don’t want to be involved, and they will most likely tell you they don’t want the help. There’s nothing you can do but be there. It means the world.
(Mon 25th Oct 2010, 16:54, More)

» Creepy!

There's a ghosty in my flat!
Well, I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts, but there’s most definitely something there. I’ve lived in my flat for almost 7 years and for the first 3 or 4 there would be a tapping on something or another. I’d wander round all perturbed trying to find the source of the tapping and even when I was looking directly at what, I logically thought, was being tapped, I couldn’t see anything. I would never feel alone in there, I always felt like there was something next to me or having a nosy around. One day I was in a mard, and self consciously told it to go away and leave me alone. And it did! A few weeks later I felt guilty. It wasn’t harming anyone, it wasn’t extreme or anything so I told it that it could come back if it wanted to. And it did! I’m not quite sure why I did this; I’m not a crazy ghost lady, honest.

The last couple of years have been a bit strange. There were a few months where I’d feel something touching me. The first time freaked the fuck out of me. I was sitting on the sofa minding my own business and watching telly when I felt a cold, very very cold, solid finger touch me. It stroked me from my neck just below my ear, across my cheek to just below my eye. There was nearly poo everywhere that night. The second time was like a cold pocket of air blowing though my legs. Through as in through flesh and bone, not in between the two legs. There was no wind that night, everything was shut; I looked everywhere and there was nowhere for a breeze to come from. There were other ‘touchings’ over the next few months, it especially liked my hair, but they stopped. Now its things going missing and re-appearing. I’ve got a pile of beach stones arranged artily on top of my TV. One day the top one fell off and disappeared under the TV unit. I kept reminding myself to retrieve it but always forgot. 3 days later, the stone that fell was back perched on top of its friends. I shat breeze blocks after that episode, I tell you. There was the DVD incident too. I pulled a DVD down as I was planning to watch it one evening that week. When I finally sat down to watch it, it had gone. It re-appeared 6 days later in the bathroom cabinet. Mischievous little paranormal bugger.
(Tue 12th Apr 2011, 11:34, More)

» Famous people I hate

Cheryl fucking Cole
Nations sweetheart?! What the bloody fuck?!

There's a million reasons why I hate her. I'm not going to describe them because you all know why she deserves a spade in the face, and it will make me barf horrifically if I have to carry on having her in my brain.

I hate her.
(Thu 4th Feb 2010, 15:59, More)

» How clean is your house?

My flat is tidy, but it is most definitely not clean
I’m highly ashamed to say that in the 4 and a half years I’ve lived there, I’ve only mopped the kitchen floor once. There is enough scum down the sides of the cooker and the washing machine and the fridge to feed a small country. They wouldn’t like it, but it would feed them nonetheless. The scum has never been cleaned. There is mouldy stuff on the walls, and I have spiders and silverfish fighting it out to see which can be King of Infestations. To be slightly fair to me, it is only tiny flat, so I don’t really have the opportunity to make so much of an obvious mess; it has all sneakily accumulated over the years. As dirt does, I guess. And it’s my first place. I figured that as I’m living alone in my first place and I’m not going to be here forever, I’m going to live how I like! Yeah! The next place I move to will probably be where I settle down, so I’ll be a domestic goddess then! Yeah! And, also, I just can’t be arsed to clean. It’s only me that sees it, and I don’t care. Although I did get hideously red faced about it all the other day and got all geared up to do a massive top to bottom clean. I was going to move things and clean behind them and the whole flat was going to be all fresh and shiny. Then I remembered I have no cleaning products. None. I’ve got Febreeze, but nothing to clean with. Gross.

Don’t get me wrong, I do clean. Most of the time. I do the basic stuff, like vacuuming, washing, tidying, washing up...er, that’s about it, actually. I make the bed every now and then. And spray the Febreeze if the rats are getting a bit stinky. Pet rats, silly, I’ve not got an infestation of wild rats scurrying about, feasting on spiders and silverfish and kitchen scum. Yet.

Right now, I’m blaming my lack of enthusiasm for cleaning on the spiders. I hate them and they’re everywhere. EVERYWHERE!!! They’re behind the shelves, under the bed, in the coat cupboard, in the kitchen cupboards, behind the curtains, in the little room by the bathroom, in the bathroom (which I don’t mind so much as they eat the silverfish, which also reside in the bathroom) and I’m pretty sure they’re in my wardrobe too. And everywhere they go, they spout web. It’s all over the place. And before you ask, it is definitely many different spiders, not one spider on a massive adventure. Every now and then I’ll get homicidal and hoover them up, but then I get nightmares about them crawling out of the vacuum cleaner to reap revenge. Urgh….I can feel them now…all over me….

Dammit, now I’ve written it all down, I can’t ignore how gross and wrong it all is. There’s no two ways about it. I’ve got to clean. Properly. Like an Adult™. Damn you b3ta, damn you.
(Fri 26th Mar 2010, 12:08, More)

» Teenage Crushes - Part Two

Oh no...
I was madly in love with Stephen Gately (now deceased). I was about 10 or 11 at the time, so that makes it slightly OK. I had this fantasy where I'd somehow get backstage at one of their concerts, and he'd see me and fall madly in love with me and we'd get married and live happily ever after forever and ever. I may have even kissed a poster or two. Ahem. I don't know how I missed his obvious gayness.

When I was a little bit older, it was all about David Duchovny. Mmmmm, bless his X-File solving hotness. My room was plastered in posters. I'm cringing so badly right now.
(Thu 5th Nov 2009, 13:13, More)