It’s a good job I’m a cat lover.


I have mentioned before that my brother and I were brought up by my mother alone, and looking back now I can see that she was, and is, nothing short of Superwoman. Working as many hours as she could whilst still remembering, for the most part, to pick us up from school and asking for little or nothing from the government or my father. All the while being a home owner and completing various night school courses over the years, I honestly don’t know how she did it. But she did, which is why I seem to question… Are men really necessary?

I know, I know… Of course they are, this isn’t a man bashing. They make up half of the population, we need them to procreate and operate heavy machinery amongst, I’m sure, various other things. I suppose I just mean, Do I really NEED a man?

This also isn’t a feminist agenda, this is personal. I have had boyfriends who have provided and cared for me, let me watch trash TV all night long etc. But not having them… That’s fine too. People may question whether they were the right person for me and tell me that one day I’ll meet somebody that will take my breath away. But realistically, I just don’t thinks so.

So, what is wrong with me? 

Why can’t I seem to allow myself to be all consumed by somebody, to fall madly in love and have my heart ripped out and broken beyond repair, at least then I’d know what it would feel like to hurt, to experience raw emotion.

And it’s funny because the more I think about it, the more I am like this… In fiction. When I finish a great book I feel distraught for days, I sob uncontrollably when watching a sad film and can’t even bring myself to talk about it for days after, friends have practically banned me from the cinema out of pure embarrassment when the lights come back on. And yet, in reality… Nothing, nada, zip.

Have I subconsciously rid myself of  all real emotion, built a moat around my heart, am I numb to human affection?

I fear I will die a heartless divorcee with many many cats.



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