The wrong shoes

I find things either hysterically funny or terribly tragic. It’s as though I feel too much. In the past, when things were not going well I would do anything to try to ease the pain, and often the things I chose to do would bring about the opposite result. I’m bummed; therefore I’ll drink. I’m broke so I’ll buy myself something pretty when I do get some money. I’m fat, so I’ll eat. I feel unloved so I’ll comfort myself in the arms of a man who doesn’t love me.

The past two nights at bedtime I have watched a self-hypnosis video to improve one’s self esteem. Yesterday morning as I began to wake I was dreaming that I was running around a field pretending to be an airplane, my dog, Bo was chasing me. My online lover (ex) was playing poker; he typed something to me and then said, “That was nasty, I’m sorry.” I stopped for a moment and then said: “Oh, I didn’t notice.” I laughed and then started to run with my dog again. I concluded from this that no matter what anyone says, I am responsible for making myself happy, and that his words can no longer cause me pain. He’s not a nasty person, he never meant to cause me any hurt and I’m sure his departure was partly due to the fact in many ways he felt responsible for my unhappiness. He told me try to remember I like(d) you. This was very little comfort to me, mostly because I didn’t believe him, and the reason why I didn’t was because I wasn’t really liking myself anymore. This has to change, and I am the only one who can fix it.

As a child my moods were just as extreme; I was either sitting in the grass making up little songs and making daisy chains or I was reacting to being teased by my parents, as the English do so well. The reaction was to throw a huge temper tantrum, I would yell something as hurtful as I could think of, run up the stairs as fast as I could, slam the door and then hurl my dolls around the room. If no one came to reprimand me for my insolence and violent behavior I would run back downstairs say something as spiteful as I could think of and repeat the process. At this point I was now in trouble and reprimanded, now I could cry. With my face in the pillow I would sob uncontrollably and inconsolably. I have seen my daughter behave in much the same manner and I feel her pain viscerally.

There wasn’t always any logic to my extreme emotions; even the wrong shoes could cause me anguish. My Mother said I had awkward feet as a child; skinny ankles, narrow heals and wide toes. This meant buying the cheap shoes from the fashionable stores was not an option, and shoe shopping was a traumatic experience for me. Once I was bought a pair of fashionable shoes and within a week they began to fall apart, my Mother returned the shoes to the store, the manager put up a big fight as to the reason why the shoes fell apart: that I had caused their demise by abusing them. We got the refund and my mother marched me off to Clarkes to buy me some ugly ones that would last and fit well. I loved the shoes I had abused; my new sensible shoes made me feel ugly and weird. I remember as a child looking first at what women wore on their feet. I believed I could tell the personality of a person by what they chose to attach to the end of their legs, and that the right shoes could make or break the look. Pisces are ruled by their feet; so it’s no wonder that my first retail store began as a shoe store. Incidentally I hate feet, I find the idea that a man would find feet erotic, grotesque. I do not want my toes sucked, or my feet massaged, don’t look at them, don’t touch them, and don’t even think about them.

I ran away from home twice as a child, the reason for the first time was as irrational as the despair I felt at wearing the wrong shoes. I was around eight years old, and I had a bunny named, Thumper. I begged my Mum and Dad to buy us the bunny, our dog, Emily had met him in a pet store window while we were out walking one evening, it was love at first sight, the two of their noses pressed up against the glass, loving each other. I was told we could buy the bunny but I was to be responsible for feeding him and cleaning out his hutch. The problem was I had no idea just how much rabbit pooh and pee stank, and after a couple of weeks I could not stomach the idea of having to shovel out the vile smelling, pee and pooh soaked sawdust. Instead I ran away from home, I walked down the street running into my two best friends along the way and told them I was going to need supplies, like biscuits (cookies), they obliged, and off to the meadows I went to spend the rest of my days. My two older brothers were sent out to find me, they soon caught up to me in a field, I began to run, and they chased, my slipper got caught in a cow patty, but I didn’t stop, like Cinderella I continued to run wearing only one pink fluffy slipper, until I reached a stream. My brothers each took an arm and marched me back home. I could see my mother standing in front of the house, her hands on her hips her face redder than her hair, she was furious. I was sent to my room where I sobbed into the pillow. My father was actually quite sweet to me that afternoon, he said: “I knew where you would be, where you go play hide and seek with Emily.”

The second time I ran away from home was after being grounded for getting a hickey. I was thirteen years old; my best friend Caroline Green had thrown a party at her house, at the party I hooked up with Steven Moore. Steven was the first boy to ask me out. He had red wavy hair; he was very confidant, and funny. I did NOT find him attractive in the slightest, but I wasn’t sure if a boy would ever ask me out in my lifetime so I told him I don’t know. Eventually (later that morning) I said okay. He leaned over toward my desk and said lets meet outside The Flower Pot later, (the local pub) suddenly I panicked: Oh my I was actually supposed to hang out with this boy, it wasn’t just some badge you wear stating I am Steven Moore’s girlfriend? Hastily I told him I couldn’t see him that afternoon as I had already agreed to meet Michael Metcalf, (my neighbor, the voyeur, whom I had the BIG crush on). “You two-timing slag.” Steven exclaimed. Our relationship was now over. At lunchtime I received my punishment for my hideous two-timing ways; in the playground outside the bathrooms I found myself surrounded by about forty kids who chanted slag and slut at me and hurled tennis balls in my direction. I had only been at the school two weeks; it wasn’t exactly the welcome I’d hoped for.

Despite the fact that I had not found Steven attractive in the least he seemed like the key to my potential popularity, so when he asked me to kiss him at Caroline’s party months later; I consented. We spent the night lying on the floor, him biting my neck, sticking his tongue in my mouth, with his hand up my shirt, or up my skirt. My parents had been away for the weekend; my brothers and I were under the care of my Grandmother. Upon arriving home, my Mum was curious as to my whereabouts, why is Natasha already in bed? My big mouth, big brother, announced the vampires had gotten to me, and my mother came flying up the stairs, pulled back the covers and announced I was grounded. The next day after school I walked home with Steven and told him, I was running away from home, did he have any biscuits (cookies) and where could I find shelter. He scrounged some snacks together and then showed me a structure where they kept the dustbins (trash cans), he could remove the dustbin and I could sleep there. “Okay.” I said. And off we went to the soccer field where I would adoringly watch him kick a ball around. My parents eventually tracked me down, and I was grounded.

Steven decided I was too much trouble and the only physical contact we had with each other after that was during a rain shower where my trainers (sneakers) began to foam up from not being rinsed properly after I had soaped and scrubbed them to make them white again. Steven thought my foaming feet were hilarious and as we walked home from school he kept standing on them to create more and more bubbles.