My Peaceful Little Bubble

A large bubble floating on front of flowering bushes

Turning to my kinky inner peace after some truly shocking news.

I realise that today is not another ramble day, and yet, things have happened in the past twenty-four hours that made it so that I needed to write. Writing is like my drug these days, which is relevant to today’s post. Let’s crack on.

Yesterday, I learned that my little brother (and only sibling) has started ‘very occasionally’ using magic mushrooms. More than that, he’s got my mother using them, too. On the one hand, it sounds like no big deal, and yet on the other, learning that half of the original family unit is now involved in the taking and supplying of a Class A substance has been a heavy blow.

Let me start by saying here that I love them dearly. Family therapy couldn’t get through us – the family unit, by the therapist’s own observations, was impenetrable. We formed our own little army, and God so help anyone that wronged us. Boyfriends and girlfriends were vetted without exception. I got a bad feeling about Carmel and Nicole (both rightfully), and my brother slept on the dinette of our holiday caravan to dissuade my then long-distance boyfriend from making any advances. He stood up for me in school and decked a few little brats, too.

So when I found out that he’d started using “mushies”, I felt like I’d failed.

Growing up, my family was vehemently anti-drugs, save for the time my parents made some ‘brownies’ because they “got curious and wanted to try”. When our neighbours used to light up and cannabis smoke drifted into my childhood bedroom, my parents went straight to the authorities without passing ‘go’ or collecting £200 in the process. When kids sat on the electrical box on the street corner and sniffed glue, my mother videoed them from a side window and used the footage to show the impoverished area that I grew up in.

“I want to have a fucking great big bonfire with all of those tapes on, give them all a great big hug and say ‘sorry, she’s not any better than you are’,” I sighed, throwing my hands up in defeat.

Well, that’s now pretty much the truth.

The things they did, that she thought she didn’t do? I can’t think of one example. She criticised them for their drug use, but dabbled with ‘softer’ drugs herself. She judged them for animal abuse, but had no qualms about dispatching poorly chickens and pet rodents without any veterinary assistance or training whatsoever. She chewed out the blatant prostitution that was going on, but was a professional submissive herself. She even tutted at their regular domestics, but had near-daily arguments with my father.

Loud and rowdy parties, maybe, that was the only difference. She was considerate enough not to upset her neighbours.

She’d tattletale on them often enough, though.

“Little fucking Malcolm”, I spat as I shook my head in disbelief, “I used to write scripts for that kid, make props in arts and crafts. I’d hide under the table-stage we made and knock twice on the top any time he started an ‘Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman’ joke in front of a group of ten-year-olds.”

Drug dealing and cancer sort of have one thing in common – it happens to them, to everyone else, not to you. By that, I mean that you think it won’t happen to your family; your family is moral and invincible. These things only happen to other families, to smokers with bad diets and families in broken homes.

But then whump. Sometimes even whump whump, because life is a bitch like that.

The fear, naturally, is of my mother and brother being incarcerated, either individually or at the same time. My mother and brother, I sometimes feel, hold a view that they are above the law, and that is the worst mistake that you can make. I’ve never feared the police – one of Matt’s friends is an ex-copper – but I have always respected them. A lot.

Wanted to work with them, even.

When I was young, I had a mentor, PC Davies. PC Davies was there to help me learn how to better deal with bullying and he arranged a plethora of activities for me, from operating the lights and sirens in a police car to a tour of the forensic operations building. Between my childhood (I used to watch my neighbours get arrested regularly while singing the “Cops” theme tune from the bedroom window) and PC Davies, my fascination with the police never really disappeared. I had a favourite collection of videotapes in my teens – the complete collection of “Police, Stop!” on VHS, and “Road Wars”, “Police 10/7” and “Brit Cops: Frontline Crime” are regular watches for me to this day. If there’s something else, something reality crime on? Well, I’ll just have to watch that, too.

Addicted to the police? Me? Maybe a little bit.

But that same fascination/addiction/deep respect turned me into a law-abiding citizen. Of course it did – you don’t piss off the people you respect.

So then, finding out that my family are doing something illegal – Class A drugs, namely – brought me anger, shame and disappointment.

I realised last night that part of this was about me and not about them, and perhaps maybe, they might find my blog a bit embarrassing, too. Still, I work hard to maintain a good name and to be a decent, calm, kind, moral, helpful member of society, so when I find out that those I’m related to are basically trashing all over my reputation? It gets my back up.

I am, after all, already infamously “Malcolm’s sister”, so anything that Malcolm does has a possibility of impacting me. Yep, there are people out there who know him, know our relationship and have thus never even bothered to get to know me by name. Charming, huh?

“I’ve already had my kinky life hampered once because of him” I seethed.

Another long story, but some years ago, my brother was on a programme about teens who watch porn. Said long story shortened, my brother said that he watched porn to cope with the stress of protecting me. They then wanted to interview me about my relationship with him and record us doing some things together, like cooking dinner together and walking the dogs around and around an electrical substation in the middle of a grassy traffic island, all for the sakes of filler footage.

“Do you think there’s enough material on the market for women?” the producer asked in his interview with me.

“Sure, why not? People are into all kinds of things” I shrugged.

“How about you? What are you into?” he pressed.

“Studies, right now” I shot back with a smile. It didn’t make it to the final cut.

I didn’t think that the documentary would impact my life beyond the frustration that I felt at being kept in my bedroom several times a week – or not being allowed out apart from at certain times, or only if I was wearing a ‘good’ outfit, make-up and a microphone – but it did. Having survived a month of what I can only describe as “sheer hell”, I was then called an ‘exposé’ at a local BDSM party.

No, the woman didn’t know me, but she’d seen me on TV and she was determined that I was out to expose the very people I called my friends. Fortunately, the hosting team saw it very differently and she was the one thrown out of the club instead, but still.

“I just don’t know how much more of this I can take”, I sobbed. “Every time I try to support them, every time I try to help them, every time I try to share the tips and tricks that I know, that I learned in therapy…”. On the grand scheme of things, my ovine replacement was nothing.

“And yet I’m the bad guy, the odd one out, the one that fucks it all up,” I added.

There was one highlight of last night though, a moment of strength and pride that I took between my moments of darkness.

“It turns out, that the one they always said was the weakest, was actually the strongest of all.”

Save for the one time my brother gave me a tiny taste of mint chocolate chip ice cream that was a little ‘greener’ than I would have liked (it tasted awful, the taste of the cannabis made me gag), I’ve never touched drugs, nor have I touched tobacco, either. Connecting with people, journaling, and meditation are my go-to’s. I get it; grief is tough, but is grief really worth risking your whole future over? Dad would never want that.

Not that I feel as though I have any power to change minds. No, I’m just an interfering killjoy with nothing good to offer, it seems. All I can do now is sit back, keep everything crossed and watch it all play out.

I’m still not entirely over my ex, I know I’m not, but a return to my normal life promised to be the antidote. It didn’t help when I came across the bracelet that he sent me last night and I wanted to wrap it around my wrist for one last time. It was unhealthy, yes, but it was still some kind of love. Right now, even an unhealthy love was welcome.

The Sumisa knows her home.

Shut up.

No, instead, I’ve allowed myself to fall into my ‘inner Dom‘, to find the tranquillity of subspace within me.

My peaceful little bubble.

5 thoughts on “My Peaceful Little Bubble

  1. WOW very interesting and You are right you can’t change someone’s mind and the bottom line is to find that tranquility that puts You in a peaceful bubble. Hugs and hugs Peace and love

  2. Wow, I admire your honesty. And I would so totally been the person your mum would tattletale on, but I guess it was a necessary step in order for me to be where I am today. Sometimes it takes doing something to realise that you didn’t really want it in the first place.

    And can we take a moment to envy you for feeling like writing’s your drug? Because to me it feels like work, lol.

    Anyway, thanks for sharing such vulnerable thoughts and slice of life with us. I enjoyed learning more about you!

    1. Haha, she always used to turn my music down too, though to be fair, when I was sent to my room, I used to do things like play Britney Spears’ “Overprotected”, loud and on repeat. Pyshcological warfare before I even knew what psychological warfare was – nice!

      Haha oh sometimes it feels like work! If I don’t know what I want to write or the words just aren’t coming to me, it’s like trying to turn rocks to sand by hand.

      It’s not a problem at all Stuart, thank you fo stopping by 🙂

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