Tilf is taking a holiday, so I will be taking over for a little while. Not ages, don’t panic, just long enough.
She’s hurting and not in a state to do this, but she’s also angry, and you know what? I am too. I’m furious.
She and the squash have split up, it was a drawn out death that eventually shuddered to a painful halt on the motorway of life, but to top it off, it was then hit by the articulated lorry of lies. And that’s what has hurt her. The whys and wherefores of the split are their business, I won’t get involved, but I will look after her. Best as I can.
There is something you need to know, something important. Tilf and I are not two different people. We’re not sat together occasionally bumping heads and throwing ideas for this at each other across a table. I am the part of her she created out of necessity. A need to hide and have a face to show so she didn’t have to spend every second of every day looking at and knowing and interacting with these arseholes I don’t believe she has to deal with. I hold onto her anger, I keep it locked away, so instead of pointing out to someone they’re a selfish, stupid, spiteful, or all of the above, wanker, she smiles and hands it to me. And I hold on to it. I remember it.
Over the years, as we’ve both grown, we’ve grown up in the same head, with the same situations and experiences, yet we’ve veered, subtly, at first, and then massively, in opposite directions. When she gets slammed down by life, she turns in for a while, she examines herself and becomes stronger, smarter and harder. Then emerges a better person, carrying on through sheer bloody mindedness, but at this rate, she is fast running out of improvements. I, on the other hand, do not progress like that. I work in the opposite way, when life has a tantrum and flings us away from it’s happy centre, I get up, then I get angry. I get so infuriated, at everything. How dare it? HOW DARE IT? My rage takes over, forcing me forward, not for hope, not for good, but for horrible revenge, and she ends up keeping me in check.
As a human, were I to exist outside her subconscious, I’d probably spend the majority of my life in jail, on charges ranging from assault with a close at hand weapon and murder in the most horrific degree. In a way I’m glad I don’t have any kind of form beyond her, I’d just mess it up. But she created me, from the first hurt she can remember, she pushed it down, already knowing violence would not solve anything, she pushed it down, and gave it a name, someone she could tell off. I was created before she was even a teenager. The name Mr Trick appeared about the same time her next big hurt came. About the first liar. You know how she feels about those.
But with each knock, each liar, each rapist, each back stab and betrayal she has come back, again and again. Spitting in lifes eye, screaming “come on, then!” I have to say, I was impressed. But now, now it’s actually painful for me to see her like this, and I can’t do anything to help her. I can’t even give her a hug. I’m stuck, inside her head, looking out through her eyes, wishing I could help, or fight her battles or anything. And all I can do is try and drip feed her anger when she needs it, hold it back when she doesn’t and generally make sure I’m there to take over when she needs to hide.
I’ve no doubt she will pull herself out from herself soon, but whether she will trust anyone enough again is another question. The cynic in her won’t allow it, but the optimist she hates to have, the one that keeps her trying, and keeps her looking will help her stand. As will I. Until then, you’re stuck with me. Enjoy it, it might be the last thing you ever see.
That wasn’t meant to sound as threatening as it did. Sorry.