October 16, 2010


He didn't come through until half past but I could hear him, the rattle of plastic on plastic and the exposed floor boards. Hear his voice raising and falling in pitch as he copied and created in role play. As usual I can't get up when I first wake, the comfort feels to precious to move on from. When he brought buzz, woody and jessie through I was happy to see them all. He looked healthy and happy if maybe a little unsure because my bed was in the living room.

Decorating always brings back memories of my parents home improvements in all the houses we lived in. Watching my dads extensive sanding, scrubbing and sweeping in preperation to turn each council house, flat and rural shack into a fitting setting for us who had been exciled from society for being working class and educated. His pain staking cutting in, and choice of colours that usually looked pretty much the same to me. Sometimes he would ask me if I thought something needed another coat or let me make the decision about something he was unsure of, then glady repaint a wall so full faith that I would be right.

Over the years his enthusiasm, creativity and perfectionism dried up. The way he barated my mother about a rubed down skirting board or the drips in a glossed door changed. He gave in easier and flounched of to the pub instead of staying up all night sorting something she hadn't gotten right. Letting her have a room back when it once she would of had days or weeks to wait before she could use it. He stopped completly years ago and now does nothing.

It's hard work and there is generally plenty of hard work anyway.

October 12, 2010


First proper nights sleep since getting here instead of lieing awake terrified at the thought of women with notebooks, pens, procedures and very limited experience of the world. I feel their nails digging themselves into my soft pink soul. I had to learn to shut up and do what I'm told when it came to women, they hurt my babies, brained my angels. Now they are judying my mental health, my ability to protect wee man. Fuck that!

It's a definite issue to work on. It's not all women, just a lot of them. It's just that when men look at men it feels like they see me, more often anyway. Of course they talk a lot of bull but the eyes, there is not threat there. Often with women, there is a narrowing, the raising of barriers, a knitting needle to the heart.

I will talk about it, try and explain how I feel, that I often don't feel heard. The respect I have for them as women working to make other peoples lives better is not at equal to the respect I feel they have for me, a women trying to make her life better.

I have skirting boards to paint, boxes to empty, a home to make, without the intrusion of ignorant insensitive women.

Think I might have to give up on the whole being a lesbian thing..

October 09, 2010

new home

It has a balcony that doesn't get any light and no flooring until the state pays for it but it's my name on the lease and it's in a place I feel comfortable.. I can forget about the sniffy bably informed social worker, the insensitive women's aid staff, for tonight anyway..

October 01, 2010

fear of women

There isn't any point in feeling guilty about it, like it's my fault, like it is something I just have to accept. I feel intimidated, bullied, undermined and invisible by most women. Their words their philosophies make me feel threatened.
It's okay.
I'm almost out of refuge, I don't have to speak to anyone I don't want to. It is my life, my health, 'no one has the right to judge' but they do. They give you keys, tell you who can visit and what time they must leave, they discriminate and make assumptions based on an ancient mythology
They are fascist.

I was looking for the number for my doctor when the phone rang. Gossip, Standing in the way of control, It was the housing. The flat is ready. I could of wept.

I don't feel safe here any more, I feel their piercing eyes their prying fingers everywhere. The cutting words rain down like bullets. Their generalisations and beliefs, as heavy as the cross.

The cross I lifted alone, the cross I made into hamster bedding.