A word must be put in for monstrosity.

It has an ugly head, but disguises itself wonderfully under the soft and peachy skin of a four year old child who is loved by everybody. She knows she is loved. She knows her smile will charm an adult, and a kiss on a wrinkled cheek will yield more affection, which she thrives on.

Her eyes are wont to fill quickly, as her heart is so sensitive, and the adults croon over her, saying what a kind and wonderful soul she has.

‘You were so sweet and charming, Len,’ my mother says.

She doesn’t know the truth.

She doesn’t know that when I was four, I used to pinch a little girl. I pinched her and she cried.

I did it again the next day.

And the day after that as well.

I don’t know why I did it. I just remember doing it. I remember feeling guilty.

So why did I do it?

What was wrong with me?

Was I guilty about doing it, or was I guilty about being found out?

If you look at photographs, you see a small child with shiny brown curly hair and a dimpled smile. Her eyes sparkle with innocence and brim with joy.

If you peep into my memories, you see lots of love. Lashings of it. I am saturated in love. I have so much that it spills easily out of me and I can make little gifts of it to give to everybody else.

So where was the love in my four year old brain when I pinched that innocent little girl who did nothing to me?

My mother doesn’t know that when I was seventeen, I thought I was in love, and did many selfish things to chase something that was bad for me.

She doesn’t know that when I was twenty three, I felt hard done by, and used my husband’s love for me to selfishly get my own way, even though another party deserved to have her whims met more than I.

She doesn’t know that I have temper tantrums, sometimes, and say cruel things to my husband, who goes out of his way to please me, and who always wants to treat me well.

She thinks I am kind, and compassionate, and sweet, and she takes comfort in the fact that a child of hers creates good in the world.

But you see, I don’t feel so good.

I feel monstrous.

I cannot sleep at night, because I cannot ask forgiveness of those I have wronged, because I am either terrified they will crash back into my life, or because they do not know I have wronged them.

I did not commit a murder. I didn’t take anybody’s rights away. They probably don’t even think about what happened because they don’t know, and even if they did, they would not think it was monstrous.

But it is.

Oh, it is.

And humanity is not perfect, nor will it ever be. Humans make mistakes, that is for sure. But I have learned one heartbreaking thing about adulthood, and that is that humans have the power to hurt others. They can hurt others without realising it, so very deeply, and they can make selfish mistakes.

The mistakes you can make, others can make too. So you really should work on treating people well, and really think about what slithers out of your mouth.


That is all I have to say today.

I wanted to disguise these dark thoughts in a piece of fiction, but I don’t have it in my heart. I feel very heavy and monstrous.

I have to work on being kinder, and better, and more honest. And dear God, forgive me for pinching that girl when I was four years old, because I severely regret it. What was wrong with me?

Jealous Rage

There is NOTHING wrong with jealousy.

If I fall in love with someone, it is only natural to get insanely jealous when somebody blatantly hits on them. Um. HELLO. This man belongs to ME. He is not his own person. He is my person.

Don’t come near him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even breathe in his direction.

And if HE looks at you then I am going to rage and storm because exCUSE me sir you belong to me what are you doing looking at other things that are not me I am HERE thank you VERY much indeed. Sir. Good day. You are welcome.

Today a woman did just that. And I found myself seething from across the room. SEETHING I tell you. I elbowed my way across and glared so hard at the back of her glossy head and when she turned, I felt insanely threatened, but I smiled sweetly and took off my sunglasses and perched them on the top of my head and fixed my husband with my most deathly stare and, still smiling, I said in the softest voice I could muster,

‘Are you ready to go, sweetheart?’

And I will THANK you NOT to touch my husband. On his ARM. That ARM. is MINE.

Well. That was remarkably dramatic. Phew. Nobody got even a whiff of my inner broil. Not a scorched thumb. I contained it very well I must say.

When we walked away I let go of his arm and I marched on ahead and he said, all wounded, ‘What’s wrong? Did I do something?’

Um yes you did you let that woman touch your arm and LAUGH with you like you did not have a WIFE – an actual real WIFE – so no you did nothing wrong. Of course you did not. Please do not touch me until I have cooled off because right now I could kill a man. Or woman.

Disclaimer: In case it did not translate in the text, this was (mostly) a joke. I am joking. But also very serious. I am seriously in jest. I am mirthfully furious. I am smiling. But also – do not touch my husband.



“I don’t want you to look at her. I don’t like her.”

That’s me, lately, feeling jealous and insecure.

I am twenty one years old, about 5 foot five.

I am good at languages. I love to read and write. I also love sunshine, the countryside, and exercise. I am a bit of an old soul. I think I am intelligent. Also responsible. I love cooking and baking. I love driving. Cycling. Libraries. Cooking videos. Creativity. Colour. Painting. Drawing. I also do calligraphy. I read a lot of science. I used to want to become a doctor. I think I am a well rounded individual.

My shoulder length hair is severely curly, so visually it is chin length. Probably should have said that first. I used to have really thick, bushy hair. Ringlets flying all over the place. It framed my face nicely.

Now it is thinning, so I have to employ self conscious methods to hide the scalp underneath. As a woman, this is  mentally debilitating. Also makes me feel a bit ugly. Most of the time.

I have some fat. Here and there. I am strong; I can do five push ups at a go, then rest for a few seconds and do five more. I can only repeat this twice, however. I can do the step machine for twenty minutes on level 16 before it starts to really demand my strength and I will then have to lean on the bars as my gluten and thighs ascend ever on. That is some good endurance.

I can be funny in person. I do good anecdotes. I can be weird, which can be funny, if the right dosage is applied, accompanied by structured facial expressions and silly hand/body movements.

I have good thighs. They can cycle me up some steep hills. One friend calls them “thunder thighs”. I admit I was offended at first. But then I thought, ‘Huh. They do thunder up those hills.’

I have some flaws. Well, lots of flaws.

But I think I am an overall good (if slightly runny) egg.

My heart, however, has an extremely jealous sentinel standing guard to protect the one thing that I fear losing the most. She raises her metaphoric hackles and growls viciously if somebody so much as looks towards my husband.

Other girls don’t respect the fact that he is my husband, and will coyly glance at him from under layers of makeup, their bottoms flashing like baboons in jeans so tight I am shocked they can move. They will touch his arm, they will laugh at the things he says.

I am talking about some very specific girls, here. Some girls that I know about very well. Girls who know we are married. Girls who are empty headed sillies, but also very pretty. Prettier than me. Girls who know how to wear lipstick, and can carry off their outfits remarkably well. They are confident and breezy.

That is when I begin to think I am not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not clever enough. Not thin enough. Not funny enough. Not charming enough. Too clumsy. Too large. Too hunch back-y. Too manly (I know, what!? I am not manly. I am very much a girl. But when I see girls who are all pretty and make-uppy, and notice my own bare face drained of colour looking back at me in the mirror, my thin hair, my hunchy arms.. well, you think those things). Too boring.

Sometimes I notice if he looks. I know he isn’t the only one who looks. But why is he looking. Am I not enough?

And the sentinel rises inside me, torch aflame, marching forward, teeth bared.

And I say,

“Don’t look at that girl. I don’t like her.”

Maybe he wasn’t looking at that girl. Maybe he did think she was pretty. Hell, I thought she was pretty. If he did, I don’t want to think about that. It will burn my insides up with fury and hurt and anger if I dwell on such things.

I am very jealous. Does this make me evil? I sometimes feel like a horrible person when I feel that way.

Are you jealous?