Boots the family cat (or: Loving myself, and loving others)

"I'm going to make banana bread!"

If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.

And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).


**

There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.

(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)

It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.

And I don't mean doubting herself about a decision at work, or whether she should run to try and get the next train or whether she should just stroll and get the one after that, because she might actually miss the next one and have run for no reason.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.

Me in the morning.

I don't iron my hair so much now.

I don't put a whole lot of effort into my appearance. Not tons anyway. Lately, I've stopped straightening my hair and you're more likely to see me looking like I'm trying to blend with the pride than hanging out with the emo's.


But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.

I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.

When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.

So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?

And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.

It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!

Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.

The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?

Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.

So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.

I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!

But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".

**

The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"

But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.

And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(

**

Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:

"Didn’t this man getting off the bus that night realize that I was a woman alone on the street, in  the dark? Why would he feel that situation was the time to try to approach me, a complete stranger? How many rape scenes resemble that scenario?"

20 hours later.

I love my job. I love it. I love the fact that I have in the past not left the office until 9pm. I love that I did a full day of work on Thursday, and then drove 3 hours to Derby. And then drove back from Derby after working on Friday.

And I love when you are put "on call" for something, that no one really expects to happen. And then it does.

I'm working on a show about pregnancy, and I have worked on it on and off since January.
And I have never really filmed anything before except test interviews. And once I did a pan down from the top of a shop to the door of it. Exciting stuff!

So being put "on call" for a birth in Milton Keynes, which is only an hour & 45 minutes drive away, didn't bother me. I had my overnight bag packed "just in case". I put my phone on loud by my bed on Friday night at 11pm as I settled down to sleep, having arrived home from Derby about an hour beforehand.

So when, at 3am, I heard the word "Labrinth, come in" I bolted upright and looked at my phone, luminous in the dark. I knew. I didn't know the number, but I just knew.

"Hello Emma speaking?"
"Hi Emma, it's [colleague] from work. I've just got the call - [contributor's] water's have broken."
"OK. OK. I'm on my way. I'll see you at the hospital?"

I jumped out of bed. I pulled on some clothes. I tied my already greasy hair into a bun and clipped back the remaining strands and fringe. I threw my phone charger in my bag and programmed the satnav.

I ran upstairs to my mum, to wake her up, and say goodbye. My mum went on holiday yesterday, so it was the last time I'd see her for a week. And I didn't even really see her.

I went back downstairs and said goodbye to my dad. And then I grabbed everything, including a bottle of coke, an old cous cous salad, an apple, and an open bag of pistachio nuts, and I was out the door.

I didn't even eat. I stopped at some services to wolf down the cous cous. I made good time - the M1 was empty, funnily enough. I had just got to the roundabout where the hospital was located, and I got a text message to say they were back at the flat. So I changed the satnav's instructions, and headed there.

We did some filming with the dad, as mum was resting on a ward at the hospital. We tried to sleep for an hour. Then we got up, did some more filming, and headed to the hospital. Then we waited, for the lead midwife and the communications lady to arrive.
And then we filmed.

I'm not going to tell you everything because that would be giving the show away.
But we didn't leave until about 10.30pm. We headed to the hotel that had been booked for us during the day, to find that it was located directly above a pub/club and there was no free parking.

I went to bed around midnight. I basically did a 20 hour day. I went to sleep very quickly.
And goddamn my arms hurt today from carrying that camera!

But what I really want to tell you is how I felt when I first saw that baby.

Nothing. I felt nothing.

I had wondered throughout the day how I would feel. Would I suddenly feel that supposedly "primal" instinct in my womb. Would it suddenly start screaming out "Fill me!! I NEED TO BE FILLED WITH HUMAN LIFE!!"
But it didn't.
It wasn't an ugly baby at all, but I didn't want to go "Awww!"
I just felt nothing.
Except maybe relief because the day was nearly over.

I watched this woman doing a very brave thing. Doing what women are "put here to do".
And I am telling you now, I have not been put here to do that. Nuh uh. No way.
If I suddenly one day feel like my life is missing something, and that something is not a cat, but a child, then I am adopting. Definitely.

People are always condescendingly telling me I'll change my mind.
But I saw a newborn baby. And I did not think, "I want one of those one day."
I'm fairly sure my mind's made up.