‘My boobs are huge and hurting, my period is late, I’m eating shit loads and I’m crying at the drop of a hat – I must be pregnant with Baby Jesus!’ I thought to myself last week. Genuinely. I considered whether there had been any moments where I could have accidentally slept with one of those sperm carrying species types, also known as men. The thing is, there was a night where I had a blackout due to alcohol last week. Fuck. What if I’d slept with the unattractive ginger barman? However, thanks to a text message trail and an Uber receipt with timings, I have now confirmed the impossibility of sexy times with a man.
Sometimes I forget I’m crazy, on top of being a crazy twenty-nine year-old widow. Bipolar means that I do the most ridiculous things sometimes, which to me are perfectly normal and logical at the time. ‘It’s December, my period was meant to come last week, I haven’t slept with a man – I must be pregnant with the next Messiah’ is quite an understandable conclusion, non?
I said this to several people. They laughed. But a tiny part of me was thinking, ‘Shit. What if I’m right?‘
Alas, for unto us a child is not born. My period arrived eight days after it was expected, dashing my hopes of celebrity fame and a Daily Mail headline. Guess I’ll have to stick with the day job.
December is a weird time where my body and mind go a bit bonkers. It happens every time, with the pinnacle usually being some sort of bad idea for New Year. Last year, it involved being a stone lighter and getting wasted on the beach in Phuket with strangers. I released an environmentally unfriendly and dangerous fire-lit sky lantern in a symbolic fashion because I was convinced it would work its way to heaven to find my late wife. Then I somehow found my way back to my hotel (the most expensive in Patong), slept with the door open, woke up naked, had to check I wasn’t sexually assaulted and missed my transfer to Phi Phi island to go see the Boy Widower I was confusingly attracted to in a mini bisexual crisis. What a spectacularly shit idea.The year before that, as the clock struck 12, I was sitting on the floor in the living room of my ex-girlfriend, letting her win at Scrabble because she’d get upset if she didn’t, kissing her and desperately trying to convince myself I’d found love in a hopeless place, like Rihanna says, and that I’d found a replacement wife. That was another spectacularly shit idea.
Sometimes it’s hard to know where the widow ends and the bipolar woman kicks in. Grief has affected the way I think and my decision making processes, for sure, but they were a bit wonky to begin with. Sometimes it’s hard to know where the bipolar ends and the normal woman who happens to be a bit eccentric kicks in. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal. But that’s ok. I may even have found the woman who’ll embrace it. Maybe New Years Eve this time round will be a good one where I’m not disillusioned or putting myself in a compromising position. Cheers to that.