Rut-A-Tut-Tutt

Rut-a-Tut-Tut:

It’s the tune I’ve been singing as of late. Rut. Rutter. Ruttabulous. I’m in a rut and I’m takin’ you all down with me!

I’ve actually been trying to keep my distance so no one else will catch my case of Rutamonia. My immediate family has not been so lucky. The man wonders what’s happened to his normally chipper better-half and I’m left wondering if I’m ever going to see her again. I know what Kao thinks: Ruff. Hello, hello, hello, I’m over here, with the wiggle bum. Yes, it’s me. Where’s my damn food, Beach. And that’s about it. Bella’s not even as nice.

It used to be so easy to pick myself back up and get on with it. World’s got you down? Scribe will stick a smile on her face so no one will really know she’s not as enthused as she should be. I’m tired of writing whiny, selfish blog entries – you don’t need to hear my issues – and I don’t really want to share them for fear that the information will get into the wrong hands and things will be misconstrued. I want to be the happy-go-lucky girl once again who can shrug off troubles like an overcoat.

Truth be told, I may or may not be PMSing. Some months I have it, others I don’t, and I don’t know when it’s going to strike until it’s too late and someone is minus a head. I have a really long fuse but once that fuse is gone, the bite and venom are quick. Just ask my casualties. I try to make them few and far between but some slip through the cracks of my façade and I’m sorry for that. While sometimes the rant is deserved, most times it should have been toned down a notch and gone about with more compassion.

In my house, we were not allowed PMS moments or any confrontation of any kind. Children were meant to be seen and not heard. Since I couldn’t express my true feelings, I soon adopted the passive-aggressive stance. No, it wasn’t short-changing the sheets, but it was lying at every opportunity. “Where are you going?” they would ask. “I’m going to a movie with Cath.” It was not a movie, it was a party, with no parents and probably a whole lot of weed. And beer. And boys.

Stepping out and speaking up in my house meant giving my parents the shitty cutlery, the really, really old stuff with food marks still on it. The good, restaurant-quality cutlery were given to my brother (and not myself because that would be selfish). It went unnoticed, of course, but in my pre-teen and teen heart, I felt a little better.

Today, that’s not the way to go and it’s rare that I’ll pull out the shitty cutlery. I’m all for conversation. Of course, I’m scared sometimes, especially if I’m not sure what the reaction will be. After years of gauging my parents’ moods, a part of me still cringes when I have to express my own wants, needs and frustrations, especially if I’m being critical of someone else. But until I do, how will anyone ever know.

I guess it’s why I’m telling everyone I’m in a rut – expressing my mood, my situation and my need to get the hell out of it. It may explain my mood, my behaviour and my lack of get-up-and-go. It just got up and went and I may need a GPS to find it again. But, I know it’s worth the search because I can’t continue to feed into this melancholia.

Don’t worry – I’ll be back with a more upbeat post soon. Promise. Otherwise, you can give me the shitty cutlery, and I’ll know what you mean.