Still they are better than they used to be. Much better than the days when I used to be dizzy, or would faint in class, or throw up everywhere.
I’ve had to cancel all my upcoming sessions both at my office and at the uni. And I need to send an apology to Adrian, this man I have been chatting to for the last few days on Bumble. We were going to meet up for meze but I’m not going anywhere right now. I had taken a risk; sometimes I get the ovulation pains – accompanied by the burning searing pain that shoots straight into my coccyx – but then nothing else happens.
This is not one of those times.
Right now I’m almost too scared to move. If I change position just an inch, then I can practically picture raging rivers rushing out of me. It’s fair to say I am a seething mass of hormones, self-pity and irrational imagery right now.
In fact, I’m so sad about the thought of another failed date and days spent in bed that I can feel tears pinpricking the corner of my eyes. It would be fine If I’d had a successful date recently, but I’ve had such an awful run of dating luck, unprecedented, that I really could cry in this moment. It’s a miracle that I’ve not completely healed up but as testified to by the raging rivers of red then that is still open, albeit very definitely not for business. Even Moses would have his work cut out with what’s going on down there at the moment. The tears are no longer merely in the corners of my eyes, they’re preparing to torrent too.
Because it’s not just the pains and the ickiness, it’s the emotional turmoil as well.
Normally I can be relied upon to be rational, scientific; everything in the world has its place and I know exactly where that is. Part of my skills in work are being able to cut through the emotion, recognise the feelings but help a person move forward, see what they need to do. I am level-headed, cool. But when I am hormonal all that I usually rely on disappears.
I lose that ability to see things clearly. Instead I become my most emotional self, my most fractured self. Self-belief disappears right out of the window and I am back to being a scared, frightened adolescent that knows she isn’t good enough, who will always be the freak.
I feel my eyes well up again and use every ounce of steely self-determination to get myself back to a rational space. A more balanced mindset. The woman I have trained myself to be. I am experienced in this. It is better than it was. I have managed to make changes that take the edge off the worst of it.
And the Adrian thing – bottom line is he’s a stranger I’m hoping to have sex with, that’s all, and he’ll be fine with me postponing. Just because my last two dates were bad doesn’t mean I’ve completely lost my touch. For goodness’ sake, I’m the female Hitch, a dating savant for the twenty-first century. I’ll get back on my game in no time at all and this feeling sorry for myself over a recent lack of sex is self-indulgent claptrap. Dear God, my sister is happily married and I know for a fact she’s not got laid for a good three months!
I remind myself of the girl I was, compared to the woman I have become, and know how grateful I am for all I have achieved. It was far, far from easy but even so, I never dreamed that I would hold the power that I do now and I need to remind myself of that rather than lie here snivelling.
There is a timid knock at my bedroom door and then it opens a few inches and Kevin pops his head around and offers a tentative smile.
‘Hey, you,’ Kevin says, ‘I’ve brought you treats.’ He pops down a tray filled with all my favourite snacks and then takes the hot water bottle in a furry cover he has clamped underneath his chin and waggles it at me.
I swear, best friends arethebiz. I’d much rather have Kevin than any husband. He has known me since I was eighteen, an apprentice butterfly, and has helped me spread my wings, develop the way I dress and get killer good at eyeliner.
I mean he thought I was some kind of teetotal nutjob when we first met, with an unhealthy relationship with food, but now he recognises that none of that is, ever was, my true self and I was, I am just very, very disciplined. Discipline that has helped me shape my life the way I need it to be for both my physical and mental health.
I smile at him knowing he recognises it’s my my-period-sucks-and-right-now-I-hate-my-life smile as he comes and sits on my bed. He leans around me and after putting the hot water bottle by my stomach, gently strokes my back and makes soothing noises as you would to a new-born, then he spears some banana on a fork and tries to feed me.
I rarely eat fruit, too much sugar, but bananas with magnesium for cramping and dark-chocolate-covered popcorn are allowed at this time of the month. I see he has also brought me almonds and pumpkin seeds. For all his own reliance on MaccieD’s I am touched at how he remembers what I need at this time and why.
I take the banana from the fork and pop it in my mouth – feeding me is a step too far – and then, with no fear, he pulls the duvet back a little, squidges up next to me whilst making sure he is careful not to knock me from my position, not one iota, and turns on my TV so we can both cuddle up and rewatchTo Wong Foo.
Chapter Four
Jay
As The Love Doctor I’m here to try and help you solve all your dating worries, your love woes, but when this question came through my DMs this week my interest was piqued. Love is love, it isn’t always sexual, and I want to do what I can to help withallrelationships. So let’s change things up and see how we can help this latest listener.
Never would I have guessed that I would be settling down to deliberately listen to aLove Doctorpodcast as it streams on a Saturday evening. But then I never thought I’d be a cat owner either and right now I’m sat in my flat, salad bowl from Eat-a-pita to the side of me and one eye on the kitten curled on the other side of the sofa. He’s even my social media picture these days, albeit with a little devil-eye adjustment. The very peace of Dim (as I call him now) is an indication that he is merely lulling me into a false sense of security before he unleashes all hell.
I glance at my watch. We’ve a family Zoom scheduled in an hour but I need to listen to this first. I utter up a little prayer, please let it be me.
As The Love Doctor starts her introduction, I find myself sitting up dead straight, my whole body paying attention. A bit like when I was a child in assembly and Bristol City had come into the school to give a you-can-do-anything-if-you-try talk. If my ears could prick, they would.
My heart is racing and I feel my breathing quicken, I lean forward as she says she’s dealing with a sibling issue today. Is she referring to the DM I sent to her Insta? I had typed my message quickly, almost scared of getting caught, as if Cassie might come across me any second and catch me in the act. The fact that she was miles away across the city as I typed was irrelevant. It felt furtive, sneaky and a little silly. I’d regretted sending the question in the minute I hit send and heard it whoosh. But now I’m keen for an answer.
I had messaged The Love Doctor out of sheer desperation. My concerns for Cassie are so strong that they are threatening to take over every waking hour, and most of the non-waking ones as well. I fret-loop as I lie awake at night until sleep finally comes for me in the early hours and I Technicolor-dream worst-case scenarios. I think about her when I’m on the football pitch, in the gym, all through work, and am praying like I did before Dad passed. Thought and prayer are all very well, but I need to step up more. By messaging the podcast, then at least I’d be doing something. Nowhere near enough but something.
Now the person who messaged this week has done so because he loves his little sister but is worried about her latest choice of partner. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Whether it be friend or sibling or even parent, what can we do when someone we love chooses someone who we think isn’t good enough or, in this case, is potentially downright dangerous?
I hunch forward, my fork pausing on its way from bowl to mouth.
‘Arrghhhh!’ Something attacks me from behind and my meal shoots straight up in the air, resulting in a flurry of carrots and cabbage and hummus on my carpet. The three falafels landing as eyes and a nose, a chilli pepper making a mouth, and I can’t help but grin at the smiley face before a growl escapes my lips as the kitten jumps down from my shoulder into the hummus and starts sniffing the falafels.
‘Oh no you don’t...’ I grab Dim and pause the podcast as I carry him into the kitchen and he mewls, squirms and scratches at me with his hummus-covered kitten claws.
