March Madness

Hello Folks.

It's been a long ass time since I've last updated. Properly. You know, as in...details of my life. Now, as mundane as the following may seem, yours truly is on the path to recovery.

(Sort of).

Let's start at the root of all problems in my life: la mere. Now I don't remember detailing my last conversation with her, but to sum it up, essentially, I am incapable of having a boyfriend who is actually interested in me...for me. According to her, (a) I wouldn't know what to do and (b) he'd realize he's too good for me and will move on to other girls, because well, "he'd see me, then see the other woman the bar".

I thought I got over it. I thought that the last time, and many more times in the last decade. A really good friend of mine, Prism, faces the same problem with her own mother to whom she decided to cut off all ties with...only to masochistically go back, hoping for approval. Maternal connection. Knowing that she'd never get any, but blindly believing anyway, Prism ran into a book-- Mean Mothers by Peg Streep. She gave it to me.

That's the last time I ever looked at la mere the same way again.

This weekend has been one with tears, with understanding, and ultimately, redemption. I forgive la mere for her hurtful ways. She's trapped. I get it. Her mother was the same with her, except la mere had two older sisters to confide in. Never mind la grand-mere inadvertently setting off a generation hen fight amongst the sisters, that naturally and inevitably filtered through to next generation-- namely, me...and my two other cousins.

I am going home next week, and I just realized what a terrible mistake this is. Being around my mother is like watching a time bomb about to go off...without knowing the time. My obsession with weight, my paranoia about not being "perfect", and my near panic attack every time a boy shows some modicum of interest in me...well, I need to send a thank you letter addressed to la mere teaching parenting 101.

I don't know what to do, but upon several desperate requests from Prism, I am seeking the help of a counselor. This is too much for me to handle. Everytime the page turns, I recognize the incidents of countless woman describing their own interactions with their respective mothers, and wondering..."no...so my relationship with la mere ISNT normal? no...".

God Forbid, should the unlucky sob decide to marry, and GOD FORBID should I have kids...it will only be after intense therapy. I will not repeat the same mistakes.

I will not resent my kids. I will not envy the attention they receive. I will defend them should relatives decide to project their inadequacies onto them. I will be a different person.

That has been the last weekend.

The last month, has been traumatic in every possible way. I have officially cut ties with Mannequin and girlfriend. I've since grown closer to Marilyn (the ex girlfriend) and Angel. I threw a party at my place, and dealt with the anal retentiveness of my flatmate with the cleanup.

On the last part. I've never actually lived with someone $@#%!!! about cleaning. I understand the living room is shared, which is why I leave my stuff down there all the time, but leave it relatively clean. She cleans it when she is not busy, and organizes my things.

Dearest Flatmate,

Should you be reading this, please understand that this flat is shared. When you say the common room needs to be tidy because it's shared, I'll throw back the same fucking comment at you. When it's convenient for you, it needs to be clean...and when you're tired, it's not even that messy because I am doing my bit. So listen up, the common room is shared. I will leave my things as I damn well please. You don't own this flat, so stop acting like you do. And fuck sakes, stop thinking that I am just living in it. Sharing, compromising...if you can't adhere to these things, then get your own flat, but please, respect my space.

Yours Kindly,

Belle Svelte.

I did not write this to her, I TOLD HER. Yup, confronted her and now the flat is a war zone. Well, more like we avoid each other and I'm fine with that. Tool.

In other news, Mannequin didn't come to my party. The fucking loser, with his wannabe banker job at the Big Four, decides that with his ex-gf, who was perfectly fine seeing them, was the reason for skipping. Yea, whatever tool-face. You still think Marilyn is in love with you? Hah. You still think I care what you think of me? Hah. Get a life you fucking prick. I'm glad I axed you out of my life.

The Russian, has texted me a few times in the last few weeks. I've been distant with him, texting back in one week gaps...he apologized for being so "rubbish with messaging" and I didn't say anything. I'm setting my standards, my limits, my boundaries and I will compromise but I want to be chased after. Damnit, aren't I good enough for anyone?

Again, after years of being told that my success is attributed to third party influences from the one and only la mere, I think I am ready to break out of the cycle. I'll take responsibility for my work, my success, and whatever happens. I won't question it, I'll just accept it and deal with it. That includes boys. The Russian, make your choice. Either you want me or you don't, but please know that my life is so busy right now, that you WILL have to try harder. I'm not just another girl. I'm Belle. I come with much baggage, but also come with a heart to match.

I've been heading to the gym recently. Like I've mentioned in the last few posts, my thighs are noticeably smaller...toned even. And get this, I'm crushing on attendant there. He's eastern european. fuck, what is wrong with me?

Speaking of eastern europeans, I've been majorly swamped with this group project...by group, there's four of us, but it's really me and Comrade doing the work. The other two are incompetent accountants, who are essentially free riding on our work....and criticizing it. I'm falling for Comrade more and more, and it's dangerous. He has a girlfriend, and I need to not confuse our friendship as anything more. Fuck Fuck Fuck. When I got drunk at my party, I kissed him on the cheek. He had his hand on the small of my back protectively, to which I rebuked...because he has a girlfriend. I can't I can't I can't. I can't. This is not cool of me.

I'm overstepping my boundaries.

On the job front. Most of my classmates have found jobs...really good ones at major/top banks. I've yet to hear anything back from the few (ahem, cough, one) that I applied to. Not anymore. After these group projects, as much as I bitched and whined, I actually really like financial valuation of mergers and acquisitions. It's interesting, it's stimulating, and I really like it. I've found my thing. Ironically, that's what investment bankers do...and I only just realized this a couple days ago. Oh dear lord.

After all that time, swearing an oath to God that I would never become an I-Banker...here I go, actually liking the work they do.

Is there a gun? A rifle? A canon even?

I've been on salads for the last few weeks, and I haven't checked my weight. Using my jeans as a measure of my hard work.

Right punks. Over and Out.

Belle

PS: To my readers, and especially those of you who take the time to comment, thank you. I won't lie, I'm probably (read: most likely) will not be returning the favor, but I wanted to extend my warmest gratitude because...well, just because. Thanks, and know that I'm paying attention as well....time permitting. Good luck, and please, keep reading! It's gratifying to know someone out there is listening.