I’m having problems. Such that today I didn’t make it to the loo and actually wet myself enough to put a wet spot in my deniums. I”m absolutely mortified. Nobody at work knows; I was able to hide it by not walking around until it was time to leave for the day. I’ve been to the doctor three times for this as its getting progressively worse and I’ve got a bladder infection that won’t go away – tried antibiotics three times, cranberry juice, powdered cranberry etc, etc, ad nauseum. I’m somewhat worried too. My gran died from bladder cancer after being put on a plastic bag for 3 yrs – it started as a bladder infection that wouldn’t go away. I’m trying to be proactive and problem solve but it isn’t working.  I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t think I’m looking for answers (here) either…. I think I just needed to tell someone how much it upset me to not be able to control it and have that happen. I’d rather puke in front of the entire office than have this happen again.. at least thats socially acceptable and needs no explanation. And yes, I’m going back to the doctor in a week.

I have a problem

My index finger has become over sensitive to the scroll bar on the mouse.

It effects me in a weird sexual way.

This is not good when in a work office situation.

I’m trying to de-train myself from using the scroll function.

Gimme some skin

I just adore scabs.

That wonderful feeling when I get a nail underneath a loose one and tear it away from its healing job, then the satisfying crunch when I bite into it and chew on it for a while… it’s worth savouring.  They’re the redeeming feature of a nasty scrape or accidental razor-blade nick – it might be painful, but at least it’ll scab soon and I’ll have something to pick.  Not that I’d deliberately cut myself to create one, that would just be weird.

Another Drunken Post

I’m pissed off with me. I just watched Scrubs and I cried when Dr. Cox said thank you to JD. Sometimes I just hate me.

the C word

When my doctor found a lump two years ago, I wasnt surprised.  When tests showed it to be cancerous, it wasnt a shocking revelation – I’d been feeling ‘off’ for nearly a year with no apparent reason for it. I’ve been through all the treatments; as my brother so aptly quips: slash burn and poison. I’m currently in ‘recovery’, soon to be ‘cured’ if I make it to my 5th year ‘cancer free’. What does that mean exactly? And how do they know I’m cancer free when they dont do any tests? I go in once a year to my oncologist who feels for new lumps under my armpits and in my remaining real breast, she asks how I feel – doesnt want to hear that I still get fatigued packing groceries up the stairs or that I have had the same bladder infection untouched by three rounds of increasingly stronger antibiotics, for nearly two years. None of that matters because its not something they can actually do anything about, so they pretend it doesnt exist I suppose. If I have no lumps or major pain indicating something ’suspicious’, I’m off again to come back in a year. How do they know I’m cancer free? And what about the statistics that show that yes, the survival rate of women with breast cancer in the first 5 yrs of diagnosis has dramatically increased, but the survival rate beyond the 5 yrs hasnt?

Usually all this doesnt bother me. I’ve accepted that there are some things you have no control over and its really a crap shoot. Why waste the energy worrying about things you cant change, cant control? I’m lazy. I cant be bothered to waste my precious energy on worrying if the cancer has returned, or being mad at the stupid system over here that still wont use a holistic approach to cancer treatment, still disfigures women to ‘cure’ them etc… its not worth it.

But.. today I’m going to a funeral.  A lady I know who was diagnosed with cancer a year ago – in her stomach and pancreas I think. They didnt give her very good odds, and pretty much convinced her that her only option was mass doses of debilitating chemo and radiation – to prolong her life and give her a minute chance of survival. Having just been through all that crap myself, I really felt for her – what a nearly impossible choice! push the envelope for a few more months but end up in bed sick and flat on your back for most of that time, or say no to treatment and just live the best you can… she chose the treatment, her husband had hope she’d make it, as did all her friends.. the uninitiated I call them. Those who have no idea about cancer – about the reality of it. Near the end, the doctors wanted to boost her chemo even stronger and she finally said no. Her body was done in and beyond fighting and all she wanted was to try and enjoy her time left. I think her husband thinks she ‘gave up’. ‘Walk a mile in my shoes’ is something I often feel like screaming at families of cancer victims. Unless you’ve been through it, you have no idea how truly debilitating the treatments are – your body is being poisoned!

anyways… i just wanted somewhere to write all my thoughts down. And yes, sometimes in the back of my mind is the thought that my cancer will come back. All I can do is the best I can and live life, not to the fullest – thats exhausting! But live life as best as I can.

I cant blog about this anywhere else so here where its anonymous is good for me.

My partner and i had sex the other night. Nothing shocking in that right? Except that all the next day i dragged my ass at work, and i sit down at a desk for a living. When i came home, my partner was asleep on the couch (which is usual, he’s up at 5am and never stops all day), but when we spoke, he said that he’d been dragging his ass all day as well. To the point where he almost couldnt do his job. He’s nearly 60, i’ve had a bout of being ill for some time, but it kind of hit us both the same way – wtf?  we never thought we’d get to the point of being exhausted by sex! It took us both nearly two days to recover, and by friday night we were both feeling randy again, by saturday, even more so… but we both begged off because we didnt want to be ‘done in for the day’ and screw up our entire weekend (no pun intended).

I never thought id’ feel like i was too old for sex. Actually, let me rephrase that – i dont feel like i’m too old for sex, i feel like sex is taking too much out of me at times. At what point will i decide that its not worth having it i wonder? Some people continue on well into their 70’s and 80’s, others quit much sooner. My partner comes from strong genes – past relatives had a strong sex drive well into their 80’s. I come from a british background and virtually no sex drive. I assume mine is the strongest in the family   We’re compatible because of our age difference i think – sometimes I feel like i cant keep up to him too. Wonder what we’re both going to be like in 5 yrs, 10 yrs.

Got milk?

I just drank some very questionable milk.

Had to be done though, Jaffa Cakes get lonely on their own.

Coward

I have been wanting to meet someone for a while now.  A person I figured would be a kindred spirit and would get my sense of humour and view on most things, as she seemed to be like this from what I could judge.

I met her.

Before all I had to go on was an imaginary impression of her with an idealized view that we would meet and run off giggling together at the things that tickle us.  When I was thinking about her I wouldn’t even think about her appearance as that genuinely didn’t matter to me.  Now that I have met her, it’s even less important, although I have to say that she is stunning.

I not only met her, but spoke to her with relative ease and she seemed to really enjoy our short time.

The sad thing is that I am with someone else and have been unhappy for sometime.  We live together and at this stage it’s just to share the rent.  Neither of us are happy and before you say I should just leave to save everyone pain, the last time I said I was leaving, she put a knife to her wrists.  It’s a long story.

Without wanting to seem like I’m looking for a way out of the situation I’m in, I think I may have it.  Although I know I haven’t.

I am not going to tell the girl I met tonight, obviously.  First of all, that kind of baggage is best kept to yourself and secondly I’m a coward.

The girl I met will read this and be completely unaware I’m speaking about her although I wish she did.  I wish I had the courage to tell her, but I never will.  And that genuinely makes me sad.  No other word, just sad.

This will eventually manifest into one of those massive regrets you acquire through life.

I’m not looking for advice as there’s probably none that anyone can offer that will either help or make me feel better.

I just had to get it off my chest.

The bed is too big now

All it needs is for the activity or the rush to stop in life when i think about her or what could have been or what she’s doing and is she sitting there and thinking the same thing?

What ended up as a ‘right thing to do’ still leaves me wondering if i’v just passed up my chance of happiness for life. Life. The room is much bigger with out two people filling it. The bed is far too big now with just me in it.

It’s just jelly, baby.

I wonder what it’s like to be a jelly baby.

Your first memory must be of being squeezed into a mold in a factory that is churning out millions just like you in what must resemble a freaky United Colours of Benetton poster ad.  (Any marketing execs reading this, I want credit, anonymous or not – bitches.)

You then get coated in powdered sugar which is surely just to keep you sweet because you later find out that your father is Bertie Basset – a fact that would probably be made forgivable if you knew who your mother was, but there are rumours that Berite had affairs with the Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny and you just can’t deal with THAT right now.

So what to do?

You live your life in the hope that you will find meaning and contentment.  It doesn’t come easy though, you leave the place of your birth sealed off from the world in a seemingly unbreakable fortress with dozens of your siblings and you’ve never felt more alone.  You’ve never thought about it before but you somehow feel different to everybody else but you can’t pin point what it is.  Is it your colour?  Surely not, the world is not so shallow as to alienate a yellow Jellybaby.  You’re as cute as the rest, right?

You’ve heard that the ladies love black babies, but the chances of you ending up in Madonna’s house are quite slim, so you rid your mind of that notion.

It’s all quite confusing, while you still have that new Jellybaby smell and you think you are as cute as your bag-mates, you can’t help but notice that you are the only yellow one.  Maybe that would make you more interesting, but could you deal with being liked only as a novelty?  Would you care?

Wait.

What’s that?

Light.

The bag is ripped open like a cellophane birth canal and panic spreads throughout Jellyland as light and eyes peer into your world.  This is the moment of truth, the moment you have been waiting for.

A giant hand clumsily delves into the bag and fingers feel around and one by one your brothers and sisters are taken away as if being beamed up into a mother ship for experimentation.  Why haven’t they taken you yet?  A minute ago, you were picked up and you glimpsed the world outside the shiny bag but just as quick you were cast back in.

Sadness.

Loneliness.

Darkness.

It’s been three days now and all of your friends and family are gone, they have left only their footprints in the powdered sugar as reminders.  A solitary sticky tear runs down your frosted face.

Time passes by and as far as you can guess you might be down the back of a couch cushion.

You’ve lost most of your sugar coating now and you’ve formed a thick outer crusty shell that others find repulsive, either from a life of rejection or the few licks from the family pet before being cast away once again.

It doesn’t matter.

Your getting on now and your life hasn’t been in the least bit the way you hoped it would.  You were a great Jelly, you could have bean a leader.  You could have bean famous and dated an Easter Bunny and bean invited to wild nougat parties at the Wonka Mansion.  Now though, you’ll never get to know if “what happens in the gum drop grotto, stays in the gum drop grotto”.

It’s been years now and you have lost the will to carry on, your past your sell by date and you just want to give up.  You’ve lived a long and sheltered life but now it’s time to throw in the towel and visit the big candy dish in the sky.

You’re old, a Jellyatric.

The life of a lemon Jelly baby is surely bittersweet.

To our authors

The time has come to change the password, as we periodically will, for the first time.

You should have the new one in your inbox but if we’ve missed anyone please mail us at thelivesofthersblog (AT) gmail (DOT) com.

i don’t know how to be happy

i’m up and down. all the time. work can be great, but most of the time it just grinds me down.  i worry constantly. i can’t let go of things/people that i know are bad for me.  i have some great people in my life, and i have leeches. i’m always tired, and i always feel like i must do the right thing, even if it’s the harder thing. i took a chance once – a big one – and it blew up in my face. i won’t be taking any more like it. 

sometimes i think, christ, what if i just legged it?

Can people change?

I know someone who has led more than one life for a long time.  At times, it has manifested as adultery. But, most of the time, it’s a secret life, carefully carved out inside his head.  He engages in what I believe are meaningful relationships, but each of them is dogged by secrecy and cover ups and half truths.  He’s not a bad person. He really isn’t.  But he’s weak.  And he gets lonely.  And that’s why he hurts people.

He’s in another relationship now.  In the past, I know that it has been played off against another one.  It also has to compete with his walter mitty existence. I don’t think he’ll ever give that one up.

But is it possible for someone like this to wean themselves off secrets, and the truth-dodging of self preservation? Can someone who has gotten by on white lies for over a decade ever really give them up?  I know he even lies to himself.  That’s how a good person squares the fact that they do bad things.