Hatred is so repulsive. I know certain people that don’t just dislike me, they actually hate me. To the extent where they are happy to humiliate and insult me whilst I’m not there to defend myself. I hear things second hand and sometimes have that uncomfortable feeling of knowing I’ve been discussed before I walk into a room. It’s so hurtful I can barely explain it. I don’t quite understand why. I have ideas why but it’s just speculation. One girl I know seems quite unhappy with herself. It’s hard to guess from the outside but little comments she makes and the way she behaves gives her away. She’s quite severely overweight and claims to be extremely spiritual. She holds evenings where she performs alternative healing and so on. I’m skeptical of this but I do join in the debate quite freely. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not insulting. Yet the fact that I don’t cow tow to her ideas makes her dislike me intensely. I’m sometimes sat in the pub and I catch her looking at me with such a look like she’s just seen a corpse propped up in the corner. Yet, when I say hello to her, she couldn’t be nicer but deep down I know it’s a complete falsehood. I know how much she hates me and how she laughs at me with other 118
people I know but we play this game. Did play this game until I got bored. I’d had enough. It doesn’t wash anymore. It stops here. Is it my fault that she’s unhappy? I feel like a scapegoat. Sure, I know I’m not perfect and I’m sure I can be as annoying as the next person at times but I’m not a monster. I’ve done little to deserve this resentment. I think a lot of it is jealousy but that doesn’t comfort me. I guess somewhere in the depths of everyone is a desire to be liked. I’ll admit I’ve had this feeling all my life.
Friends are so important to me, so much so that I make mistakes with my judgment now and again.
Don’t we all?
I’ve been given the all clear from the hospital. It’s those male hormones again. Trying to infiltrate me.
My ovaries are apparently healthy. The reconstructive surgery was successful. I may still be able to conceive. It’s a relief but I’m not convinced. My body often talks over the doctors voice like a loudmouth drunk at a dinner party. I just have to find Eve again before I turn into Steve. A course of treatment will help me achieve this end. So I’m at home, recovering from another laparoscopy. The stitches in my navel are a little sore and I’ve got the worse trapped wind in my shoulders, yes that really is where you get it. I don’t feel much like writing but there’s only so much sleeping and watching the telly I can cope with. I can’t even take the dogs for a walk. I should be happy.
A lot of me is but there’s still this part of me that wants to go and punch the fat bitch down the road whom the day I was in hospital, defaced a poster I put up for my hen night.
I did get a nice surprise when a friend who lives in Australia sent me a huge bouquet of flowers whilst I was nice and depressed at home, clutching at my 119
swollen stomach. It’s incredible how much something like that cheers you up. It’s so thoughtful. I’ve not seen her for two years. Back to friendships isn’t it.
That one’s a good one. Just wish she wasn’t on the other side of the world sometimes.
Last night I lay awake thinking of all the nice things I could write yet it always seems to come back to the maliciousness of human nature.