Bleary Eyed

Apparently, feeling tearful is one of the anaesthetics little tricks. I just didn’t expect such phenomenan to last this long and anyway, I’m preferring to apportion the blame to the drugs rather than realise any black clouds rolling in and raining on my bubble. I’m fine y’see, just tearful.

Yesterday I saw my CAT therapist thinking that we were going to start our intensive little 16 week “get the demons out” plight. We didn’t. Mainly because, as she reasoned, I was looking too fragile (whether she meant my weight or my sore arm I don’t know) and with physical pain comes emotional vulnerability. Fair point really. My focus really does hone in on the pain side of things at the moment, when I’m not mentally counting calories (and adding a few on “just to be safe”). I’m probably not in the best place to be throwing myself into something so serious and, let’s be honest, idolised. As, again, she pointed out, I’ve been waiting for this  CAT oppertunity for the best part of 3 years now, why ruin the chances of success with pain?

She’ll check in on me in 4 weeks so we’ll still be in touch and hopefully we’ll begin sometime in September. I was in there just for this conversation. She discouraged me from talking about anything we’d be tackling so I stayed quite and cradled my arm.

Yesterday was also the day that my Grandad came round, which caused upset all on its own. Recently my family have become frustrated with my Grandad (dad’s dad). He, like most other old people I know, wants to talk about himself all the time. It’s his problems, his ailments, his day that we’ve got to talk about every Thursday night. That or be forced to sit in a room in silence with the football on, although it’s only me and my mum who detest this little activity – we generally slip out to “make tea” and such.

This recent dislike of my Grandad was started by one of many meaningless events which generally cause the bad feelings. About three weeks ago, he came round lecturing us about a recent check up with his GP revealing that he was suspected of having type II diabetes. He had, he said, brought sweeteners for his cup of tea (which I’d already made with sugar) before proceeding to talk, at length, about how miserable life was without sugar in his tea and chocolate (he’s actually surprisingly healthy for his age despite puffing his way through packets of tobacco – still mobile, independent, healthy weight etc). Anyway, instead of making a new pot, I popped a couple of sweeteners in my tea (I don’t have sugar) and offered it to him. He just took it and continued his rant. Now I’m used to things like this happening and, to be honest, have detached myself from it all. I’m resigned to the fact that my Grandad can be a selfish arsehole. I know he loves me though so fair do’s, let him get on with it. My mum, dad and sister weren’t as uncaring as me however. They were pissed that there had been no acknowledgement of my offering. No thankyou or civilised “oh no, you don’t have to”. I went out to sit in the garden whilst they went to watch football again and my mum came outside to fume with me.

The week after, I’d just been discharged from the hospital (he hadn’t called once to check how I was). Despite having a huge blue sling on, my Grandad decided to pat my hand to the tune of my yelping. Don’t be naive in thinking that he apologised, he just groaned to the room saying that he hadn’t even touched my hand that hard. My sister was pissed again and this was further exacerbated by the lack of a “Get Well Soon” card, which was noted as “forgotten” when he saw my others on the mantlepiece (it didn’t arrive this week either, nor did it get a mention). Again, I didn’t really care, this is all normal stuff. Everyone else is just sick of it I guess. Everyone was angry on my part for how he’d treated me. Both parents and my sister gave him the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening, he didn’t seem to notice as he ploughed on with his me, myself and I chatter.

Anyway, the reason I was tearful yesterday. He came over as per usual (my mum had already made her escape to her brother’s), had his cup of tea and started talking about himself. I settled down to do my crossword and my dad and sister listened half heartedly to his stories and the jokes we’ve heard one million times. Perhaps sensing the annoyance, my Grandad decided to provoke an argument, as he is wont to do. I don’t want to say the subject but it really got to me. “I actually think what you’re saying is disgusting” was my reply to his ranting, which perhaps spurred him on but who cares. This is what upset me. You’re not meant to be disgusted by your Grandad are you? You’re meant to love them no matter what, which I do, and they’re meant to be the sweet old man from the Worther’s Original advert.

I was angry at myself for feeling this way which in turn brought tears to my blinkers.

Since then I’ve tried to talk to my dad about forgetting the last few weeks and he’s agreed that something needs to change and will talk to my sister and mum, who want my dad to confront my Grandad about past events. My dad is like me in this sense though. Whilst my sister can freely unleash abuse at my parents, I can’t, neither can my dad. I don’t even think it’d make a difference anyway.

Blah, there we are.

I’m sore, bruised, sleepy, teary and fed up. I hope you’re all okay.