Of Mice and Men.

Guns

Oh people I'm in purgatory. I've been terribly busy pretending all is well, when in all honesty I am living with the enemy, dealing with daft men and their daft neurosises on a daily basis, and retiring to my bedroom every night at seven thirty because I'm too scared to stay downstairs in case that cheeky little mouse decides to join me watching Coronation Street.

The damn mice won't die. Mark told me off for buying a new hoover. I spend my life terrified that the slightest little noise in the deep dark dead of the night is the sound of a field mouse getting into bed with me.  I've got three huge spots on my chin, a hole in the kitchen lino, and a heart ineffectually bandaged and liable to break at any given moment. I am not a happy sausage and you know what? I'm worn out with being worn out.

So enough already.

I opened my eyes this morning and found myself staring at the card from the flowers Scott sent a while back, tucked oh so carefully into my venetian mirror. I looked across the room and saw the book Mark bought me for Valentines day last year- "Infidelity For First Time Fathers." (Oh how could I have been so blind!!) sitting on the shelf. The file full of half finished short stories and poems I've never got around to doing anything with. The mobile phone stuffed with a hundred text messages I don't want to read again. I saw these things and it struck me that actually I don't have to live with these reminders of things I am not on a daily basis. I don't have to. I really don't.

I am  all  about holding precious memories dear. About piles of ribbon tied letters, and scrumptious mementoes of happier times. I like having reminders of who I was and how I came to be who I am scattered on every surface of my room. Of  providing Finley with the story of his life, carefully documented. I like the box full of air  mail letters from my  Gulf  War romance with a soldier.  The basket full of mementoes from the early days of our relationship, Mark so thoughtfully stored and failed to take with him when he left. I adore the powder blue gingham boxes on top of Finn's wardrobe, with tissue wrapped teeny tiny baby clothes in and photos taken in the moments after he was born. All these things are mine. Happy little memories I will always cherish.

But I see nothing wrong with disposing of the things that cause tiny stabs of sorrow or regret as I go about my day. I climbed out of bed and dropped the flower card into the bin. Because I can't think straight when I look at it.  Took Marks old sweatshirt out of my wardrobe and put it on the charity shop pile. Carried that book out to the bin and deleted every text message stored on my phone.

It felt good in a very terrible way and I dare you to do it for yourself. Chuck out the kind of memories bashing your heart in and start all over again.

Some memories hold you back you see. Prevent you moving on. And lets face it we are not living, if life isn't, at least to some degree, moving on...

Now if only the goddamn mice would take the hint.
 

On My Wishlist...