I’m serious. I think I’ve got constipation of the weeping. It would be quite a relief to have a good blub without being appallingly angry (or drunk) to do it (I always cry when I’m angry. It’s infuriating. No one takes you seriously when you’ve gone magenta and are blowing your nose on a sodden rag of bog-roll in between the lengthy and scarily articulate imprecations. I’m 35, but my angry emoting circuit is stuck on 15). Where was I going with this, before the Attack of the Parenthesis? Oh, right. Lack of crying. Lack, at least, of sad crying rather than raging crying. Because I can totally do raging crying. Things I got in a rage with last week:
- Eastenders (I don’t even watch it. I hate soaps. Sorry, but I do. My soap-enjoyment gene is defective). For those of you not in Blighty and giving this paragraph a blank look, basically, a character’s baby died (ugh) so in her grief she swapped it with the next-door neighbour’s baby and NO ONE ELSE NOTICED THE BABIES HAD RADICALLY CHANGED APPEARANCE AND OUTFITS. Also, minus eighteen kazillion points and a permanent black karma mark for promulgating that offensive, ugly, hateful, lying, shitweasel, wrong, disgusting, foul, unkind, hurtful, damaging, stupid, crappy, and above all dishonest stereotype of the Woman Who Can’t Have/Loses Her Own Babies Steals Other People’s. I hope the scriptwriters who wrote that one wake up every night for a month in a sweat of shame and guilt at how prurient and nasty they were. And that’s the edited, days later, I-bloody-AM-calm hope.
- H (poor H). H has taken the sport of ‘not listening to May’ to Olympic contender levels these past few months. Admittedly he does this when he’s stressed at work and he has been stressed at work, and his best friend at work left for pastures greener and less stressy, so H is a tad bereft (it took H about three months to work out he was missing his friend, by the way. When he announced this insight into his own grumpy and distracted mood the other day, I gently rested my face on the cool, cool refridgerator door and wondered, well, many things, but chiefly I wondered what exactly happened between that man’s ears when I said things like ‘it must be odd, not being able to see [friend] every day. Do you miss him? Are you OK?’ approximately once a week for said three months). Anyway, H got a bit epic in the not-listening stakes and I made my views on that sort of thing very clear indeed and there was, yes, nose-blowing on sodden rags of toilet paper and no, it did not leave me feeling in the least bit better.
- The BBC, who should know better, had a story about Chlamydia infections being linked to ectopic pregnancies later on in life. Which they presented as being ‘news’. I distinctly remember being told about these risks in ‘health and general education’ classes at school when I was 17, ie 18 years ago. It’s not news. The news part is that you don’t need to be scarred to buggery for your tubes to be knackered, but hey! That’s not news to me either! I’ve known for years, since before we started trying to get pregnant, that any kind of infection of the girl-parts led to issues with Fallopian tubes no longer wafting eggs along properly. (And being told this worked, because I religiously used condoms until H and I became a very permanent item indeed, and any (alleged, putative, seen by HSG technician twice but always denied heartily by Miss Consultant) damage to my only Fallopian tube was almost certainly caused by the major surgery I had when I was 18). Other alleged contributary causes for ectopics: smoking, using hormonal contraception, using an IUD, taking the morning-after pill, having abdominal surgery, endometriosis, being older, being a teenager, poor diet, being overweight, being underweight, caesareans, having a difficult previous birth, being a fucking woman OK? See? Everything we do is wrong, even the things that aren’t our fault. Even the things that are the right thing to do. Fucking scientists. Why aren’t they out there telling men their dicks will rot right off if they don’t use condoms? Why aren’t they out there telling men that if they smoke, drink, use marijuana, use cocaine, are over 40, are overweight or eat junk, then they’re the one with damaged sperm causing their partners to miscarry? Why aren’t the news media nagging the men half-to-death with guilt and shame and humiliation and blame?.
Anyway, as you can see, I am doing perfectly well on the rage front. Over-well, if anything. First person to tell me I’m premenstrual gets stabbed in the leg with a knitting-needle. I don’t get premenstrual. Ask H. I go psycho when I’m ovulating instead, because I’m cool and different like that. This? This is grief.
(This morning’s pee-stick, negative. Huh, I thought, and left it on the toilet cistern with the others while I counted my tampons).