Today’s post is randomly brought to you from one of the fabulous bloggers participating in -R-’s Blog Share. Please make today’s anonymous writer feel welcome, and be sure to take a peep at the other participating bloggers featured at the end of the blog.

*****
I was a junior in college when I met my real, grown-up first love. He was instantly attracted to me and let me know it, but not in the way your usual frat-tastic college boy does. He asked for my phone number, and called me. He invited me on dates, opened the door, pulled out my chair and picked up the tab. His family was quite wealthy (his parents gave him $600 of spending money each month!), and he spared no expense in taking to me on very "grown up" feeling dates--nice restaurants and weekend hotel trips. He quickly told me he loved me. He told me I was beautiful and smart, and, for the first time in my life, I believed it.

After we'd gone out a couple times, he and I casually discussed going to dinner one Saturday night. At the last minute, I was invited to go out of town on a school trip that my girlfriends were participating in. I called my new boyfriend, ecstatic, to report my plans.

"Guess what!" I squealed into the phone, "I just got invited to go on this trip with the girls and I am so excited."
Silence.
Then he exploded, "WE were supposed to go to dinner on Saturday night!"
I stammered something about it being a great last-minute opportunity.
"Well, I hope I'm going to SEE YOU before you go."

I laughed it off, went on the trip anyway, and he never mentioned it again. All the same, I noticed his overreaction at the time. The tone wasn't his usual new-love enthusiasm, it was downright angry. It seemed strange.

We continued to date. From time to time, I'd notice him getting disproportionately angry at a fellow driver or a professor. He got into a few little disagreements with mutual friends that turned in to him trashing them whenever I mentioned them. But he was also sweet, the king of romantic gestures. He sent me a half-dozen roses every single Friday. (Sent them.) He encouraged me to take an internship, think about graduate school and asked me to edit his term papers.

During winter break of our senior year, my boyfriend came to visit me at my parents' house. After my parents went to bed, we stayed up talking in my bedroom. My boyfriend had recently accepted a job in another city. I hadn't yet begun my post-graduation job search, but I was planning to consider not only the city where boyfriend would be working, but also my hometown.

Now, my boyfriend and I were pretty serious, and pretty in love. I had every intention of ultimately choosing to settle in the city where his job was located. I just felt that, at the beginning of my adult life, I needed to consider all of the options, explore the job market in a number of places, before committing. I tried to explain that to my boyfriend, but the more I explained, the angrier he got.

Soon, the argument got very heated. Knowing my own temper, I tried to stand up to leave the room so that we could cool down. My boyfriend stood in front of my spot on the bed so that I couldn't get completely upright. His physically restricting my space only made me angrier. I barked at him to get out of my way. He crowded closer. I repeated myself, "I am leaving. Get out of my way." He refused again. Finally, I raised my hand and slapped his cheek. He responded by hitting me so hard in the ribs that I flew back onto the bed and the wind knocked out of me.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other, and I saw that he was as shocked as I was that he had just hit me. He quickly moved out of my way, and I silently went to bed in a different bedroom.

The next morning, he snuck into my room and apologized. Well, sort of. He said, "I'm sorry I hit you, but you did slap me first." I tried to explain that, for me, his blocking me from moving out of the room was physical, too. He didn't buy it.

That incident, understandably, stayed with me. We rarely discussed it, though, because every time it came up, the conversation descended into whether he "started it" by crowding me or I "started it" by slapping him. And, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that it shouldn't matter who started it. I'd felt the anger with which he hit me. I knew how out of control he was at that moment, and I knew that it didn't compare to the frustration I felt when I slapped him.

Months passed. We graduated from college, and I ended up taking a job in the same city that he lived in. We moved in together that summer. Around the time that my boyfriend's job started, he began struggling with some mild depression. I encouraged him to seek counseling; he opted to call his mother's psychiatrist and have a prescription for an antidepressant phoned to a nearby pharmacy. While I think antidepressant medication is great for many, many people, it worried me that this doctor was prescribing it to my boyfriend sight unseen.

My boyfriend's new chemical routine did not deter him from taking advantage of his new job's twice weekly happy hours. I noticed a difference immediately. Before the antidepressant, my boyfriend had been a funny drunk. Now, he was belligerent and careless. After a few weeks of this behavior, I talked to him about it. I gently suggested that he call the psychiatrist and ask about mixing the new drug with alcohol. My boyfriend blew me off, and, as if to prove me wrong, went out and got even drunker that night.

When he returned to our apartment, I was angry. He was in a sweet sloppy state, wanting to cuddle and kiss. Stupidly, I let my anger get the better of me and I confronted him about being drunk, while he was still drunk. He was not amused and lumbered into the bedroom, where he threw himself horizontally on the bed, leaving no room for me. I was not thrilled about potentially curling up on the sofa for the evening. I went into the bedroom and yelled at him to at least move over so that I could sleep in our bed.

Then, all hell broke loose.

I remember very little from the ensuing minutes. I don't remember my boyfriend getting out of bed. I don't remember him hitting me for the first time. I remember him pinning me to the ground and hitting me in the face so hard that one of my crowns snapped in half. I remember trying to hit back or get out of his grasp, but being no match for someone six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier.

I remember the moment it stopped. Both exhausted from the struggle and the emotion, we collapsed in bed. The next morning, he called my boss and his own and told them we wouldn't be in to work. He called my dentist and made me an emergency appointment to have my crown repaired. Even though it was July, he handed my a long-sleeved t-shirt to wear to hide the bruises. He took me to the dentist and sat with me as they fixed my crown, even as the hygienist looked suspiciously in his direction when she saw the bruise blooming on my cheek. That afternoon, he went out for flowers, my favorite magazine and a chick flick on DVD.

I would like to tell you that I left then, but I didn't. I struggled with what had happened for a full three weeks, until, one day at work, I walked outside, called the only person from college who I new in the new city. He met me for dinner and told me to leave. I wasn't even very close to the college friend, but he was literally all I had, and I am forever grateful to him for knowing that and pretending he was my best friend for that one night. The next morning, a Saturday, I told my boyfriend I was leaving. Once again, the anger and aggression rose in him. Once again, he stood in the doorway. He yelled. I threatened to call the police, and he backed down. As I packed a bag, he shouted, "You're not really going to leave me." I said, simply, "Watch me."

With my mom's credit card, I booked a hotel room and spent the day looking for a new apartment. By the end of the day on Sunday, I'd signed a lease. My boyfriend and I have communicated a couple times since then, but we remain out of touch.

About a year later, there was an ad on television saying that one in three women will be the victim of physical abuse in a relationship at some point in her life. Perversely, it makes me kind of happy. As physical abuse goes, I got off pretty easy. Two incidents, one broken crown, and I got out quickly. I think of my mother and my sister and I am glad that experience makes me the one in the three of us who has to go through this. I know it doesn't work that way, but I feel as though they're somehow safe. Because I'm the "one in three," they will never be hurt that way.

I don't talk about this experience very much, partly because I really did love my former boyfriend and I have mixed feelings about reducing our relationship to this one thing and partly because I feel that the abuse was so infrequent that I am overdramatizing it. But I will say, here, that this is abuse. One fight that gets out of control and gets physical? It's abuse. If you slap him first? It's abuse. If he was drunk and you picked a fight? It's abuse. If he is an extremely smart, successful and rich college student? It's abuse. It's all wrong, and it's all inexcusable, and you should strongly consider leaving. Now.

*****

The Adventures of Shelagh

Alice's Wonderland

Aly

And You Know What Else

Bright Yellow World

Daily Tannenbaum

Du Wax Loolu

Elise

Everything I Like Causes Cancer

Face Down

Fretting the Small Stuff

For the Long Run

Galoot's Hoot Page

Granted Null

Grumpy Frump

Just Below 63

Lawyerish

Life After AC

Liz Land

Malfeasance

Mamma Ren

Muse On Vacation

Muze News

Nancy Pearl Wannabe

Not What You Think It Is

One New Duck

Rankin Inlet: A Journey Northwards

Red Red Whine

Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills

The Reluctant Blogger

Sass Attack

Sauntering Soul

Sparkling Cipher

Stefanie Says

Three Carnations

Tracy Out Loud

Way Way Up

Tomorrow is the second round of -R-'s fantastic Blog Share writing adventure.

For those of you who aren't sure what the Blog Share is all about, let me quickly explain. -R- uses all of her rad organisational skills and randomly assigns participants to another blogger's home on the web, and they are then able to write about anything at all that they feel like expressing.

The perks? It's all done somewhat secretly. Let's face it, there are always times when we've really been dying to blog about a certain issue or topic, but fall into the old habit of censoring what we write - mostly because we are aware of the fact that our blog is public. Throw in the anonymity, and it's brilliant.

Tomorrow I won't be writing on this blog - but I encourage you to stick around and read what appears. Alternatively, my own anonymous post will be floating around the internet somewhere, so definitely peruse the participant list that will follow the blog post. Enjoy it, and don't forget to leave your fellow bloggers some comment loving! You never know whose day you will make in the process. Hoorah for secrets!

You know you're in London when;

You manage to trip over your own feet whilst walking up the stairs inside the tube station, spectacularly falling forwards on your hands whilst simultaneously smacking your shins against the metal floor and making a loud grunting noise on impact... and the people behind you simply divert their path and walk around your awkardly sprawled out on the dirty floor body without even giving you a second glance.

Not that this happened to me today or anything, oh no. Although I do have a whopping great bruise on my leg, as well as my ego. I wonder where those came from.

How was your day today?

Dear Body,

I refuse to make this post a whinging rant about you. Sure, it would be nice to pass the blame and talk about how miserable you make me, but that is not what this is about. I could talk about my multitude of flaws, but it's not about that either.

When push comes to shove, I just want to be comfortable in you, I really do. I don't want to have to hide you, or feel paranoid in public. I don't want to flinch when my other half looks at me, or have him disappointed in me because I'm not what I'm supposed to be, whatever that is. I don't want to feel like this forever.

I'm sorry that I compare you to other people, because it's really not fair. You are different, you don't fall into a particular size or shape category. How is it possibly healthy for me to walk into a room and automatically assess if I'm going to be the largest person there.. again, and yet I continue to do so. Why do I do this? What is it achieving? What is that doing for me, or for you? It's any wonder I can't be happy, with all the negativity that is going on in my own mind.

If I'm being blatantly honest, the thought of our relationship in the future frightens me. If I can't be comfortable in my own skin at twenty-three, how is it going to be in another five, ten, twenty years? I should be spending my twenties enjoying myself, getting out and about without worrying about body image, but I'm not. I'm unhappy. I treat you badly, I know I treat you badly, and yet I continue in the path of self destruction.

So what is the next step? How do I get to the stage where I can wake up in the morning and be? How do I get to the stage where I am simply thankful that you are functioning and mostly healthy? How do I end this ridiculous cycle of events?

I guess it all comes down to looking after you better - because I'm not looking after you.

I can already hear my inner cynicist retaliating at that statement:

What? But what about all of those days I spent exercising? And eating well? And obsessing over calories? What about those thirteen kilograms I lost last year? What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm never going to be a thin person. Never!

Valid questions, sure. But the logical part of me has rebuttals ready to go:

And what happened after you hurt your leg? You went from exercising daily, to not exercising at all. You slacked off. You pretended you could get away with relaxing, that you were maintaining, that you were happy. You turned a blind eye when your jeans got tighter, when you realised you were gaining weight again. You tested the waters, you got comfortable. Denial - it's not only a river in Egypt, love.

Damned if my logical mind isn't correct. I've let myself go. That's not to say I'm stuffing my face with food or not moving from the couch - but I have let myself down. The good habits that took months to create and months to see results, have disappeared, replaced with laziness and complacency.

I used to be able to pick things about myself that I loved - my hair, my legs, my smile. These days though, I'm so caught up in the negatives that I feel as though I am quite literally falling to pieces. I don't know why my weight is always at the top of the list, but for the longest time I've believed that if I fix my weight? I'll have fixed the problem. If it was as easy as that, I would have fixed the problem years ago. I hate that it's a problem to begin with. I hate that it's my problem.

I've got to learn to love you, body. I'm learning. I'll always be learning. And to sum it all up? I'm dedicating a song to you, which is going to be my mantra from now on.

I promise I'll be giving it a shot. And not just starting tomorrow, either. Starting now.

Always stuck with you,

Aly.

(This post was written as part of a BlogHer initiative.)

How many cups of tea do you reckon are drunk across the UK every day?

a) 75 million
b) 105 million
c) 135 million
d) 175 million
e) 235 million

Discuss amongst yourselves - and leave your guess in the comments. No googling!

Last night was cold, dark and rainy - what better time for a history lesson? I tagged along with a fellow Aussie teacher I recently met, to do the Jack the Ripper walk.

There were loads of other people on the tour, which made it a wee bit hard to hear - but our guide had a nice booming voice and a very funky cap, so that made it all okay. You'll have to excuse my grainy pictures, the light was terrible & my hands so cold!

We visited lots of sites in the East End that are still standing all these years later - including spots where the victims were found. I must say though, the gorgeous dingy building blocks were spoiled by the modern carparks and buildings that were adjacent to them. Old meets new and while it's intriguing to see, it's also a bit of a shame. You've got to leave a lot of what it might have looked like then to the imagination.

I found the Jack the Ripper history and conspiracies really interesting back in high school, and that still rings true today. Definitely worth adding to your list of things to-do in London - I know I'll be going back for a few more different walks in the future.

Busy night tonight ... leaving me pooped.

Bed calling me - Alyyyyy ... Alyyyyyyyyyy ... come rest your weary bones on me!

I'll be back to my regularly scheduled blogging as of tomorrow.

They say bad things come in threes, and I certainly had that proven to me this morning.

It all started when I jumped in to have my morning shower. I woke myself up a little earlier than usual, as I knew I had to wash my hair which always takes longer - but even so, I guess our poor water heater didn't cope with both Jase and I having showers in the morning. (Usually I take mine the night before, to save precious sleep time.) I had hot water for precisely six second bouts, and I can safely say that it was the most miserable shower I've had since arriving here. The dodgy shower was just the beginning, though.

The second batch of bad luck came when I was on my first train to work. The major station that I always end up in to catch my connecting tube to was closed due to a fire alarm, so my train got diverted to a station nowhere near where I wanted to go. After eventually making my way to a tube station, someone decided it would be fun to pull a prank by stopping the train using the emergency brake system - so I had to wait on train-station for about fifteen minutes before the engineers gave it the okay to leave the station. It's busy enough at the best of times, but I'm sure you can imagine how many people were squished in like sardines on that tiny station: just brilliant.

Once I was at work though, I had a really great day - it was shaping up quite well, I got a lot done and I had a really great interview with a teacher. Add the fact that I finished at 4pm, and I was in a fantastic mood. One of the girls who works in reception is leaving at the end of the week, so had her goodbye drinks at a local pub up the road, so I spent a few hours there, trying out a few nice English ciders. (Hic.) Just when I thought my bad luck had ended, I gestured a little over enthusiastically with my hands whilst talking to a colleague, and ended up wearing her glass of wine. Thankfully I had a change of clothes in my bag with me, but that didn't help the fact that my bag ended up smelling like a college dorm room. Or that I looked like an idiot in front of my peers.

No-one sat next to me on the train ride home though... and I can't imagine why not.

So there you have it: three sort of minor (yet still horribly annoying) events that almost spoiled my day. As for now? It's time for drunken singing - join in if you know it!

He drinks the whiskey drink, he drinks the vodka drink
He drinks the lager drink, he drinks the cider drink
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times,
He sings the songs that remind him of the better times!

I love LOLcats. I love LOLdogs. I love all the LOLanimals in between.

I think the reason they jump out at me so much is because most of the images featured are just brilliant - because they're cute, spontaneous or simply wonderful photographs.

I usually start my morning by checking out the cute critters while I eat my cornflakes. For the most past, you'll find me awwing with the sappiness, squeeing over the cuteness or just plain giggling over the craziness. The captions really do top it all off, so if the caption is lame? I'll skip it fairly quickly and keep searching for the funnies.

Funnies like this one! (Damnit, I'm going to have that song in my head all night long.)

The fact that the captions are written the way they are is fairly unique to the pictures - and I'm all for it, definitely. But I'll tell you what drives me absolutely mad? The way that the comments are written... all in LOLspeak. It's cute on the picture, but the fact that people are taking the time to talk like idiots in the responses, well, it's just weird. And annoying. And irritates the crap out of me for no particular reason.

Your challenge today, should you choose to accept it, is to leave a reply completely in LOLjibberish. Let's see how long it takes before our brains explode into mush.

It's currently half term for most of the London schools, so our office hours are a little shorter this week: we're working 9-4pm rather than the usual 9-6:30pm. Instead of heading for home, I decided to head to Oxford Street for a little shopping.

I've become smitten with a cheap as chips store called Primark, where I can get cheap work pants, bras & undies - so that was first stop on my list. I walked away with 45 pounds worth of bits and pieces, including shirts, boxers and socks for Jason PLUS a few more pairs of trousers, tops and lacy knickers for me.

I also stopped into Tiffany's and admired the engagement rings, particularly the one that am completely and utterly smitten with - though felt a wee bit stupid when the saleslady asked me would I like to try it on. Er, it's sad enough that I was even looking at it, trying it on would've made me feel like a complete sad case. It's still beautiful though, don't you think. So sparkly - talk about wishful thinking!

After getting home and doing my usual internet rounds, I was reading this article about the average time it takes for a relationship to go from serious to engagement - the average time is two years, 11 months and nine days, according to this particular study anyway. This led to some huffs of annoyance on my part & some worried looks on Jason's, because hello? Five and a half years! Seriously. SERIOUSLY!

But it did get me thinking - what is the average time frame for the next step? I would've picked around the three year mark as well, I think. What about you?