I sat with my head in my hand and picked gingerly at my chips. It was meant to be a good dinner, but, sadly, nothing about it was. Tomato ketchup instead of peppercorn sauce? Peas instead of green beans? No, this was sub-standard for what we’d normally cook up.
“I just don’t know anymore, I can’t keep going on” I whispered when I finally spoke. The darkest thoughts were there, I was moments from sticking a knife in my wrists, I could feel it. Tension ran through my body. Blogging, housework, lockdowns and Christmas stressing had me stressed.
For fuck’s sake, Helen. Breathe, just breathe.
“What is it, love? How do you mean?”
To be fair, this hadn’t been about double cream. This was about control, and my inability to be out of it. All it took was him threatening to crack open a tub of Elmlea for me to be sparked into a boiling rage.
“I’m struggling with my blog, I’m struggling with life, I’m struggling with myself” I said, “look at this place!”. I gestured around the room, the waste bin knocked over, plates stacked where they shouldn’t even be, “look at me”, I uttered, holding up the hair that hadn’t been washed in three days, “it’s a fucking shambles. It’s disgusting, I’m not coping.”
“Okay, so what are you not coping with on your blog?”
I took a deep breath. Bless him, if anyone can bring me back down, he can.
“So much” I said, “there’s the social media side of it all, there’s what topics to write about, the fact my blog just isn’t really growing. There’s the fact that I write about BDSM, but what do I do when the BDSM runs out? What then? I don’t want to be reciting the same shit that everyone else is. You know this, this is my own take. It sounds too easy just to stop and give up but, at the same time, I don’t know where I’d be without my blog, I don’t know where I’d be without the friends that I’ve made and the mental engagement that my blog has given me” my voice cracked as the tears fell, “it’s such a fucking quagmire to be in.”
“Okay, so what about if I take care of the social media side of things for you?”
“No, love” I sighed. “Thanks all the same but It’s the ‘Thoughts and Musings Of Mrs Wolfie, you’re not me, you’ve got the wrong bits. We can work on the first steps though, if you like? I’ll just get the kitchen scissors and something for you to bite down on”, a sadistic giggle escaped me. Mr Wolfie, meanwhile, held himself as he considered me. Eventually, he reached out and stroked my arm.
“The only way we can make that work is if we make this a team effort, and frankly, you have enough to do, if you want it” I warned. There were rumours of a promotion for Mr Wolfie, just a tiny one. We weren’t getting our hopes up just yet, but I wanted him to focus on that, not on me.
To be fair, I did buy TwoKinkyCooks.com earlier this year owing to our mutual love of all things deviant and great tasting food but then, just like a majority of the UK’s Nightingale hospitals, it had been mothballed. It was an ambitious idea in principle, but he didn’t enjoy blogging like I do, and what about all of my opinion pieces? What about constantly changing? What if it didn’t take off? The stakes were just too high. We’d worked together before, but never on the same project. What if doing so led our marriage to its untimely grave? I had too many anxieties and so I didn’t take the leap of faith. Fifteen quid, wasted.
That idea, however, would take some of the pressures off of me.
“To be fair, you did threaten to use my cheesecake cream” I uttered, trying to change the topic.
“It’s cream!” he said, exasperated with me, “I said I’d get some more…”
I smiled. In the cold light of day, even I had to agree that it was petty.
“No,” I teased, “it’s not peppercorn sauce cream, it’s cheesecake cream. They’re not interchangeable, it’s not the same. Nobody wants to eat peppercorn sauce flavoured cheesecake, trust me.”
“They won’t?” he groaned.
“They might though if you use peppercorn sauce cream in a cheesecake, it’s too risky. Best avoided at all costs”, I was now heartily laughing at his exasperation.
“I’ll give you something to try and avoid in a minute, Mrs S” he warned. I bit my lip.
Maybe that was exactly what I needed