The other woman

My long lost friends hello, how are you? I know I said my next post would be about the taboo surrounding therapists (which I still think is utter crap and everyone should have a therapist who they rant and rave about to make this world a better place – lol nothing like a bit of crassness to cause offense and insincerity) however, something much more pressing has come to light. I will talk about therapist taboo at some point but for now I am going to focus on ‘the other woman.’ Now, I hope this post goes out to my fellow twenty somethings and they receive it with nods of agreement, and I hope that to the slightly more mature amongst us it is almost amusing. I hope this because I am counting on the fact that we grow out of this mind set! Maybe that’s totally ageist. Apologies. Maybe I am naive.  Maybe it is because of the introduction of social media in recent times and therefore the exposure to every detail of someone’s life. All will become more clear as I explain my issue with the other woman.

Now, I am not talking about the other woman being someone my boyfriend is cheating on me with. Or someone that he is constantly on his phone to. Or someone who he has been with before. Or someone who he has never encountered in any situation other than friendship in his entire life. Oh no *evil, mysterious chuckle* the other woman is that bitch he took a picture with in 2014. I came across it whilst scrolling through the Facebook archives and my blood began to boil. Who is she? Why doesn’t he have a t shirt on (ignores the fact it’s on the beach in summer)? Why is her hand there on his BARE SKIN?  Why is it just the two of them? Oh my god his arm is right round her waist. HE’S TOUCHING HER FUCKING WAIST. So they were probably all over each other that night. Yeah they definitely slept together. Oh my god he probably still has feelings for her now. Fuck. Okay I hate her. What a bitch. And how fucking dare he treat me like this? I hate him too. Maybe they’re made for each other. You know what? Fuck them. Fuck. Them. Both.

So as we can see, the brain goes awol. And we script write. How, from one picture, can I gage their relationship? And how can I deduce (definition being ‘draw as a LOGICAL conclusion’…lol logic, that funny old thing) that they slept together, or were in fact an item? And the answer to these questions is: very easily. It just comes naturally. Maybe I should be a playwright because the fucking drama that I manage to think up off of one picture is bloody incredible. But why do we do it to ourselves? *Cue people saying that this only occurs in an unhealthy, insecure relationship* … Thanks for your input. Shut up. This is just something that people say that makes the people who are hating on the other woman feel even worse. I trust my boyfriend more than I ever thought I could trust anyone, and more than I ever have trusted anyone. But I still hate the other fucking woman whore. It may be fair to say that this hating the other woman only occurs in an insecure person, but who isn’t insecure? I don’t know one person who isn’t insecure about something, even if it’s tiny (lol as I wrote that I thought it was funny cos it sounds like I’m talking about someone being insecure because of their small willy).  So using this theory then, everyone experiences this feeling of the other woman to some extent, despite the ‘health’ of their relationship. Also, I hate it when people slam other peoples relationships. You can never know a relationship unless you’re in it and then there really would be another woman in that three way shit so for now babes, your input is void. I am actually having a go at a no existent person but it’s making me feel good. Represent.

The next emotion we find ourselves experiencing is jealousy. It goes a little something like this… Right well I dyed my hair purple and blue but she has her hair funky colours too and she probably pulls it off better than me and SHE CAN PULL OFF SHORT FRANKIE FROM THE SATURDAYS HAIR AND I DONT EVEN HAVE THE BALLS TO TRY THAT if we were both in a room and my boyfriend was there then I would look like the try-hard one and she would look like the cool one. Hmm and do you know why that is? Because she has tattoos. I look like a plain, non-rebellious piece of skin compared to this walking piece of art. What a bitch. Irrelevant is the fact of whether I even want tattoos. Oh my god and her eye liner flicks are actually so much better than mine. I’ve got an NVQ in make up for fuck sake and my flicks are still fucking awful. Yep and her nose is the perfect shape not like my massive pointy honker. If her and I were standing either side of my boyfriend she would look so much more attractive from profile. And from straight-on, obviously. Her body is fucking incredible and she’s older than me so that’s just embarrassing cos even with youth on my side I am still a walking advert for how much I love chicken nuggets and chips. I bet she doesn’t even have one speckle of cellulite. Oh my god maybe he thinks that he’d rather I had her body when he sees mine. Ok now I feel physically sick. I hate myself so much. …. and so on and so fourth. Utterly torturous. The most effective torture would be to lock someone in a room with a picture of their other half with some bitch and leave them with nothing but their own brain. Unless I am the only person who does this and by writing this sound like a totally mental girlfriend… of course this is always a possibility. But my defence however is that it doesn’t happen all the time. If I’m feeling good I won’t give the other woman picture a second glance. If I’m feeling bad/low, the picture with the other woman becomes engraved on my brain, along with the abuse it results in me firing at myself.

Then comes the guilt/embarrassment. I don’t want to come across as this insecure. I hate that I am letting this get to me. I am causing a situation over nothing. And I KNOW that it’s nothing so why am I still doing it? I am such an idiot. For gods sake Chloe get a grip.

So how do we overcome this? We focus on the most important woman. Ourselves. (or the most important man cos guys you are just as important – lol jks, you’re not, you’re losers). The other woman hasn’t done anything wrong (other than existing – stupid whore). It is us who need to give our thinking patterns a little sort out, a little bit of a shift in the positive direction. This is my checklist on how I get through the tough ordeals of the other woman:

  1. be totally honest with my boyfriend – I ask him if they have a history, I explain to him that I feel weird about it, I explain that I am now hating myself, I explain that I know this isn’t a fair/rational feeling but I can’t click my fingers and switch it off, I explain that I am working on fixing it – and we laugh about how stupid it is and how much I sound like the ‘typical girl’ that everyone goes on about. P.s why do people say that women are crazy when men are the ones who would be happy to not change their bedsheets and therefore sleep with inhuman creatures that thrive off of dirt. WOW I LOVE SEXISM AND STEREOTYPING – but bitches if you gon’ throw it at me because I have a vagina I’m gon’ throw it right back at ya (disclaimer: everyone is an individual which is just like rainbows)
  2. have a reality check – this never works. Even if I can talk myself through the rational ways of thinking I still have that weird feeling in my neck/throat/pit of my stomach but I just blame this on something else like hmm maybe my hangover is only just kicking in or maybe I’m coming down with something and I’ll wake up with flu tomorrow, just to try and take away the power the irrational thoughts have had by making me feel physically unsettled. Take away the power and they no longer exist. Isn’t it weird though that I am conscious that I am doing this but it still works. The power of the mind people. Sometimes though the mind is like a limp soggy sack of shit and I can’t take control of my arms, let alone my feelings.
  3. I admire the other woman for being so badass. You go girl. (I still hate you a bit but I am working on squeezing out that last little drop of hatred from my soul and sparkling with the radiance of a mermaid)
  4. I accept myself. I have got cellulite which is such a bait thing to be upset about but whatever, but I have such fun eating chicken nuggets and chips, and my hobby is not the gym. My hobby is singing. That is a string to my bow that some may be jealous of. (Okay whatever get over it it’s not big headed, loads of people say ‘ohh i wish i could sing.’ You are entitled to your opinion as to whether I can or not. Bye).

I know this all sounds so obvious and annoying but you just gotta get yourself in the mindset that you are a badass bitch and no one can stop you from being so. It’s not a competition (but if it was you’d be fucking winning because you’re so badass). Be kind to yourself. You’re not as awful as you make out. I, for one, think you’re great. Unless you’re a dick. I’m aware I do not know who you are reading this but there must be at least one good thing about you. In fact, let’s play a fun game. Because I don’t know you, please tell me what your great thing is. Then I can love it too. yay.


Peace and love






Sherlock vs Marple

WOAH, I haven’t posted in ages. Okay wow, so time really does fly when you’re having fun except I’ve not really been having fun because real life is rarely fun it’s stress and expensive and nuts and weird. I guess I have had a lot of fun too. OKAY CHANGE OF PLAN. I was gonna write about the taboo of the therapist and how utterly ridiculous this is, but I will save that for next post (so stay tuned you judgy lot – that was only aimed at the judgy ones – the rest of you, I salute you). But, those first two sentences have inspired me to write something much more relevant: the art of overanalysing. Now, when I say art, I mean the kind as in the new modern art form where someone draws a blue line on a canvas and calls it art; THE ART THAT’S NOT ART. Maybe it’s minimalism, maybe I’m ignorant and MAYBE IM JUDGY, or maybe I’m just an incredible artist and can recreate the work of the Gods. Either way, overanalysing life isn’t an art it’s a fucking burden. Why couldn’t that skill be replaced with an awesome skill like being able to roll my belly, or be an olympian or some shit.

Okay so, firstly let’s define overanalysing. In my mind, overanalysing is when someone thinks about aspects of a situation such as the motives, reasons, possible outcomes to an irrational level, to the point where it effects their view/feelings towards the situation or their wellbeing (they worry so much they get jelly belly/jelly brain/massive feeling of not-ok-ness). It may mean different things to different people, but I’m sure we have all done it at some stage. Some more than others. To those of you who are constant overanalysers I feel your pain. I would say this is my worst trait. If I was writing a post about anxiety I would say that that was my worst trait. But I guess they’re sort of one in the same. Well, overanalysing gives you anxiety. Anyway, the worst thing about overanalysing is that it leads to you becoming a spectator of your own life. By this I mean you can no longer live in the moment, appreciate what’s really happening, because you are analysing it AS IT HAPPENS. It’s like Sherlock shit, like the minute someone says something your brain flashes all these red lights and makes a bleeping sound as it types out in your glasses lense (if you don’t wear glasses you’re a loser and should probably get some with plastic lenses to make you look more intelligent) all the stuff you’ve noticed: BEEP BEEP BEEP he looked at his phone 30 seconds before he said this so someone else must be in on it BEEP BEEP BEEP I just laughed but did I really find it funny or am I not actually happy BEEP BEEP BEEP I feel fine but I probably am not because I’m not usually BEEP BEEP BEEP maybe she’s annoyed at me cos her sentence only contained 12 syllables when usually it’s a minimum of fifteen BEEP BEEP BEEP are they actually tired or just using the tired excuse when really they’re pissed at me BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. It’s enough to drive someone crazy (lol I’m already there). That just reminded my of the Westlife song ‘Already there.’ Spent many-a teenage car journey staring out the window to that. I LOVE NICKY (if you don’t know who Nicky is you need to up your Westlife trivia). It’s incredible – check it.

AAAANNNNYYWAAAYYY, being a spectator of your own life is awful. You don’t even get the nachos and oversized drink that cost as much as your rent that you usually do when you’re a spectator a la cinema, for example. Instead, you just get a greasy bun thats been used to mop the back row spunky seats and a mouthful of stale jalapeños. Or something to the same affect. One of the worst things about spectating your own life is it is a very dfficult habit to break. Once you start being Sherlock, it is hard to resort back to being a regular Marple. Your powers have grown. You are invincible. How do you stop yourself from doing something that you don’t realise you’re doing until you’ve done it.(Go on, go back and re-read that till you get your head around it.) I have no answers because I am currently very deeply in this myself. But I will share with you my technique that I have found sometimes works and gets me in a good mindset. Said technique is titled … “Fuck it,” OOO look at Chloe coming up with the least-bait wannabe badass technique ever. AGAIN, this reminded me of some socks I saw today by a brand called concrete humanity (name drop – they should probably give me some free clothes now, although I’m not sure it’s typically my style, it’s a bit gangsta) that are plain white and just say ‘fuck off’ on the ankle, lol incredible, if anyone wants to buy me those I’ll give you a shoutout in my next blog and a tenner when I’m famous. No but seriously, I have decided to say to myself that no matter how many times I analyse a situation, it will turn out how it does. I will deal with it then and I will inevitably be okay. I’ve got myself through some rank shit, I’m sure I can handle most things. That’s not to say I’ll do it with the most grace, but you get yourself through it because you have to. And I don’t have the energy to keep this anxious overanalystic shit up. So fuck all these nuts thoughts swirling in my head, and fuck answering my critical spectator voice cos that can just get fucked, and I will live each day as it comes and deal with whatever happens when it does. This sounds like the MOST annoying, over played, overly-simplistic  technique ever but I actually find it works (sometimes). When I give myself a reminder of how life works, and that nothing is guaranteed, and that I’ve been a badass bitch before and I will do it again, that layer of giving too many fucks seems to slightly dissipate. You try it too, and let me know how you get on. Cos no doubt there will be hurdles and speed bumps and mountains along the way that some good old relateability (apparently that’s not a word? definitely is) helps with. Or, if you have another technique let me know! I’m dying over here people. Well, figuratively. Maybe not even that much. Maybe that was slightly dramatic. This is a safe place, my name is Chloe and I am an overanalysing spectator of my own life.

So there we have it, a bit of a soul baring sharing session. Please don’t rip me to shreds I feel vulnerable! What would make me really happy is you sharing my blog to anyone you think may benefit from reading the words of a fellow sufferer/major fucking hero, or to anyone who has a pair of eyes. And now I’ve told you I feel vulnerable you probably should do that. It’s the right thing to do. Share for share except I’ll share my soul and you share my blog. mmmm emotional black mail.

Lots of love,