Tag Archives: relationships

Support Matters

Standard

I’ve been looking through old photos recently, and they’ve gotten me thinking about the relationship I have with my father. Our personalities often clashed when I was growing up, and in all honesty, we didn’t get along very well. I didn’t particularly care when he moved out, and with regards to our relationship, I’m a lot happier now.

The thing is, my dad just wasn’t very supportive. He had a good relationship with Tara. She was athletic, and a good swimmer, and enjoyed cycling. But my dad just couldn’t accept that I wasn’t like that. I preferred reading and writing and drawing and singing, to going outdoors and playing sports. But according to him, those weren’t valid interests. He tried to push me with my swimming, and criticised me when I never got any better. Not being very good with confrontation, the only way I could bring myself to tell him my feelings about this was to write him a letter – which he promptly tore up in front of me.

Even now that I’m an adult, he still hasn’t gotten much better. He continually grills into me for not having a job (as though I can control the employment market) or a drivers license (as though his teaching wasn’t what scared me off). And funnily enough, those are the only two things he ever asks me about every few months when I see him. Oh, and one other question – whether or not I have a boyfriend yet. Except for the last time I saw him, when he followed that by asking if I have a girlfriend. Which brings me to my next point.

My dad is a huge homophobe. He goes on about how being gay is unnatural and a disorder, and that he could cure it if he had enough money. Whenever Tara or I call him out for it, he says (and I paraphrase) “[he] can’t possibly be a homophobe because [he’s] not scared of gay people, [he] just think[s] there’s something wrong with them, and anyway [he has] gay friends”. Fine dad, you’re being heterosexist. Whatever you decide to call it, it’s incredibly bigoted. Tara once asked him what he would do if she were gay. He scoffed and told her (and I actually quote this time, not just paraphrase) “don’t be stupid, you’re not gay”. He was right, Tara isn’t gay, but that’s completely beside the point. What if she was gay, and his bigoted attitude was preventing her from safely coming out? What if I was gay, and she was trying to test the waters for me? I’m fairly sure the only reason he asked if I had a girlfriend that time was to appear tolerant with my aunt and uncle in the car, as my female cousin recently revealed to them that she has a girlfriend.

If I ever have children, I am going to try my best to be the most supportive parent possible. It doesn’t matter whether they want to swim, or run, or dance, or sing, or act, or write, or draw. It doesn’t matter whether they like men, or women, or everyone, or no-one. It doesn’t matter whether they are a boy, or a girl, or something else, or none of the above. It doesn’t matter whether they want to be a teacher, or a doctor, or a lawyer, or an actor, or a nurse, or a dancer, or a bartender. The only thing that does matter is how they treat people, whether it be other people or themselves. I vow to accept my children for who they are, because I know only too well how much it hurts when even the small things go unsupported.

Beware the Pink Meat

Standard

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who was a Muslim. He liked getting free things, and part of that involved eating people’s lunch when they didn’t want it. He told me that he remembered all those nice providers of free lunch by what they had on their sandwiches. Some people would have chicken. Some people would have cheese. Others would have salad. And one girl would always have “the pink meat”. Yes, that’s right. My lovely Muslim boyfriend had unknowingly been scabbing ham sandwiches for all those years.

Dreams Suck

Standard

Well, some of them do, anyway. Most dreams are terrific. But when they hijack your emotions and distort your perception of reality? That is just not on. When I woke up this morning, I was in love with a fictional character. In my sleep last night, I went to a fancy city sort-of place, along with several of my (fictional) friends. One of them was my boyfriend. He had dark hair, and looked a little like a cross between Harry Lloyd and someone with a shorter neck. His name was Jordan, and we were very much in love. The city we were in was rather small, probably more of a village, but bustling, and it had sort of a Qarthish vibe to it. But it was big enough to contain a zoo. At some point during our visit to the zoo, Jordan managed to break both of his ankles. Somehow he was still standing, so it took a while for me to convince him to go to the hospital – which was also inside this supposedly tiny city. As he was gone, the rest of the girls and I went to this row of nightclubs. Okay, everywhere we go in this dream is inside the city, so just take my word for it that this supposedly small city is actually rather big. One of the nightclubs in the lane was the .Katy Perry nightclub. Whoever names venues in this city appears to be lacking imagination-wise. But anyway, while the Katy Perry nightclub was a nightclub in name, it most definitely wasn’t an actual nightclub. It was more like a giant bathroom. There were two storeys to it. The first floor contained a bath, and the second floor contained a shower. But the Katy Perry nightclub wasn’t an ordinary bathroom, oh no. The taps in its bath and shower did not dispense water, but rather, they dispensed milk. Or more specifically, they dispensed milk that smelled like liquid milko chews. The Katy Perry nightclub was really quite delicious. After we had gone there, we continued along the lane to the other nightclubs. As we had our fun, we kept an eye out for Jordan, who was taking an abnormally long time. Finally, after a mix-up with someone’s ID, we decided to take a break. I’ll take this time to explain the layout of the places we went to in the city. The nightclub lane was in the West, with the Katy Perry nightclub towards the outside of the city. In the North-East was the zoo, with the hospital directly to its West. Just South of the zoo and the hospital, directly in front of their entrances, was a large grassy circle area, with benches facing in around it. As we had our break and waited for Jordan, we sat on one of the Southernmost benches, facing the hospital. Finally, after a few minutes of sitting and talking, I spotted Jordan hobbling towards us with red and purple casts on his legs. I waved and shouted out to him, and then noticed my old boyfriend from high school a few metres in front of him, who had thought I was waving to him. We awkwardly caught each others’ gaze and looked away, before Jordan finally reached us at the bench.

This happens to me surprisingly often. I already posted about the time I woke up feeling like I had too many kidneys. And the time I had a crush on a fellow uni student for several weeks following a dream. I haven’t posted about the time it happened while I was dating that old high school boyfriend. I had dreamt that I was in the shed room they passed off as a classroom – the one next to the Omega toilets, on the side that the sports shed was not – with a very attractive young man. He had curly dark hair, and having recently watched Misfits, I could compare him to a smaller-eyebrowed version of Nathan. But anyway, I was fooling around with (let’s just call him Nathan for convenience’s sake) Nathan in the shed room, and one thing led to another, and we ended up having sex. And I bloody well loved it. Which is really quite hilarious. But anyway. When I woke up, I felt like I had cheated on my boyfriend. Like, I actually liked this fictional Nathan guy. And I had gone further with him than I had with my boyfriend. I felt bad about it for a few weeks after that. It was all very strange. And now it’s all very strange again. Because I have once again fallen for a fictional character that my dream-self made up. Thanks, brain. Thanks a lot.

Giggly Cait

Standard

I’m so happy! Oli and I are officially dating now. I’ve been in that giggly happy mood for a while. It’s not something I would’ve picked (like imagined), to be honest. But it’s amazing. I really like him. It’s going great. I just really love being with him and stuff. Which is probably a bad thing at this point in time, since I have an essay due on Thursday that I haven’t started. On a topic I’ve been to one lecture on. For a subject I’ve been to about three lectures on in total, and haven’t done the readings for. But it’s so hard to teach myself about rationality and suicide and terrorism when I just keep getting distracted by Oli. Nyee. Sorry for the return of the lame mushy stuff, by the way! I’m so not a mushy person. I hate mush. But now I’m being a little mushy. Oh no. Also, I like being called Sweetie. And also, he has the most amazing bright blue eyes. And a really cute smile.

Evolved Reciprocation

Standard

I am a strange person. A very strange person. I shan’t mention everything strange about me here. Not only would it take years to type, but it would also take years for you to read, and I don’t particularly want to break the internet, either. But one of the weird things about me is that I often think about how random things are weird. Sometimes I look at a pinky toe, and think, ‘wow, pinky toes are actually quite weird’, and start laughing. Sometimes I think of names of people I know, and think, ‘wow, I actually know someone called [name]’, and again, start laughing. Sometimes I say words over and over again, and then crack up laughing about how weird they sound. Sometimes I say two words – generally ‘moon, star’ – over and over again, until it sounds like I’m saying them in the opposite order than I started.

And sometimes, I look at a couple in a relationship. And I think of all the couples in the world. And then I think of the sheer number of available people surrounding those couples. And I wonder how it is that people end up together. There are so many people in this world, yet how is it that so many people happen to choose each other out of the bunch? Judging by numbers alone, the probability of a person fancying someone who fancies them is tiny! Which makes me wonder – perhaps there is something in our genes that makes people like each other. This might already be a thing. I haven’t looked this up at all, so I might look quite stupid if it turns out to be common knowledge that I’m right. But whatever. It is a curious thought.

Anniversaries

Standard

What do you count as an anniversary? First time you met? First time they asked you out (or vice versa)? First time you kissed? First date? First time you had sex? First “I love you”? Anniversaries are confusing. High school anniversaries are easy. It’s just “will you go out with me?” and “yes” and you’re dating all of a sudden! Wedding anniversaries are obviously even easier. But normal dating anniversaries? What the flip! When on earth do you become ‘official’? I’m so indecisive that I left my Facebook relationship status (ah, the obsession with technology nowadays) hidden until my boyfriend changed his. I suppose I’ll go by our first kiss for mine. It happened between the asking out and the first date, so it was pretty obvious we were dating then. But what about everyone else? What about people who do it the proper way, with the asking out, then the first date, and then the first kiss? Anniversaries sure are confusing.

And the anniversaries themselves. When do you celebrate them? I mean, there are some people out there who celebrate their ‘one week anniversary’. WTF? That’s not an anniversary! How lame! Perhaps the first month is understandable. And six months is okay too. Obviously, yearly anniversaries are fine, since they actually are anniversaries. But every month? Some people actually do that! I even saw someone who planned to celebrate their ’13 month anniversary’. Um… You have already made it to a year! Monthly anniversaries after a year just seem completely redundant! But whatever. Some people are just crazy. I’m good with yearly, thank you. And possibly for the first 6 month one, if my boyfriend wanted to. But seriously, a week? Shoot me in the foot.