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This picture popped up in my memory feed on Facebook.

screenshot of twitter conversation

Image Description:

First tweet: #GrowingUpUgly – When guys in middle school would get dared by their friends to ask you out and see if you say yes as a joke

Second tweet: How about growing up ugly and then turning out sort of okay looking but you don’t know for sure be cause your self esteem is shot and you’re convinced you look awful?

I started to write more on FB, but then could feel it starting into a rant, so I’m gonna blog about it instead. About why you should sit next to the people who look lost, lonely or not quite what you see in advertising. I’m 45 years old, and I still struggle with what I look like.

Melbourne, as has most of Australia has been stinking hot just lately. While not actually on fire in the CBD, heading into watch the cricket, I put on shorts and a t-shirt so I was comfortable. Of course my hair decided it was going to settle into a side part, I wore no make-up (CBA) and when I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the bathrooms, I sighed. Long and hard. I know I didn’t help myself today, but really?!

Body Dysmorphia is a funny thing. When I got diagnosed with it, doing my make-up meant looking at parts of my face in a compact mirror, because I couldn’t bear to look at all of my face. I am better than I was, but today and over the past few days, I’ve been struggling with it.

It’s a funny feeling, not being comfortable in your own skin. Wanting to punish your body for just being there.

I never was the most girly girl, but one thing that girls are expected to be is delicate, dainty, small. At 5’10” with ‘Maddie Man-hands’ and clumsy because I still don’t fit into my skin; my perpetual stoop to make myself smaller than I am is now causing me pain.

Thankfully my BD has never crossed into an eating disorder, instead I turned to alcohol to bury my feelings. As I’ve hit three weeks sober, my feelings are all coming up to the surface, hence me having to work through them.

Over the weekend, I had a bad stomach. I didn’t eat anything I shouldn’t have, but yesterday it was not happy. I got home from shopping and nearly wobbled over. A sure sign I’m frazzled. That and that between my shoulders is rock hard.

But I’m not scared of what I’m feeling, I still don’t understand it. Wish that it wasn’t my load to carry.

But without the bullying, would I be the one-person cheer squad that I am now? Would I be the person who says ‘Bless you’ to strangers when they sneeze? Would I be the one person who gave the CEO a kiss on her birthday, because it was her birthday?

I doubt it. I’m using it to my advantage, but boy do I wish I could go back in time and sit next to the little girl I was.

The fork in the road

Buckle up people. You’re in for a ride. This is about Black Dog and mental health…

I had a fever for three days in late August. I got better, although Hubs stayed home to take me to the GP on one day as I felt so awful with it, he was worried about me driving.

I got better, but was sniffly, put it down to hay fever and dug out my antihistamines and soldiered on.

I did the Bloody Long Walk for Mito, 35km. My left foot was sore at about 32km, but at that distance, we just soldiered on. We got bused to the start line; but at the finish line, we had to get a tram back to the City. All up I did nearly 50,000 steps that day. I got into bed when I got home for a nanna nap.

DOMS set in good and proper, I was hobbling like John Wayne, popping anti-inflammatories and paracetamol to get through the next couple of days. Still snuffling.

My DOMS subsides, my foot is still sore so strap it up and head back to the GP on Wednesday night, second visit in two weeks. She pokes it, I don’t scream, we don’t think it’s broken, but I have an x-ray referral just in case I need it.

Thursday night, my nose starts running like a tap. Friday morning, my throat is scratchy and sore. I post about disdaining the person so hard who gave it to me on Facebook.

Friday afternoon, my foot is really, really sore; I book an x-ray appointment at the hospital near work. Still snuffly and sneezing. I get the x-ray done and head home for an early night.

Saturday morning, my body says stop. Just stop.

Tuesday this week, day four in bed, I call the GPs office and get the last available appointment of the day. Third visit in three weeks. Tim looks me over and say well done on getting your ‘flu jab this year otherwise you’d be ‘properly poorly’. I say I wonder what that looks like as I’m feeling terrible.

I’ve got a secondary infection in my sinuses; of course I have. I get a script for antibiotics, and manage to take two doses before bed.

Wednesday morning, I get up out of bed and nearly fall over. I’ve got so much congestion in my head, it’s now affecting my balance. I steady myself and go about getting the morning underway.

Archie wants breakfast in bed with me so we can chat together in the morning, I bring the tray in, lay down next to him and my whole vision is disrupted, I’m hanging on to the bed so I don’t fall off it. I start to feel sea-sick with it too.

When I can move, I sit back upright. This is not good. Hubs had an early start, so was already out the house. All I’ve got to do is get Arch to school. We finish off our morning jobs, teeth, hair, reading. and I get him up the hill. Come back home, prop myself up on pillows and settle into Midsomer Murders on the Netflix.

I get lunch, tidy that away and then settle down for a nap in the afternoon. I get up and fall out of bed. I then start being sick. When I’m done, I try to get back into bed, but keep falling over. I’m stuck on the bathroom floor, sobbing. What do I do now? I text Hubs, then call him, then text him. I text two friends I used to work with. Message another friend I know is in the office, can she page the other two?

I’m still being sick every time I move. The floor rocking and rolling underneath me. I’m crying, snot, vomit. It ain’t pretty. Hubs calls me back, we agree I need help. I call 000 and ask for an ambulance. Not something you do lightly in Australia as it will cost you >$1000, that is one thing that is automatically covered by our inordinately-expensive-for-very-little-reward-health-insurance.

What with one thing and another over the past few weeks, my mood has slipped again. Not badly, but enough for the little depression bastard to start making suggestions to me. Like “You’ve got a balance issue, you could ‘fall’ down the stairs and no-one would know. It would be an accident.”

Here comes my epiphany. I’ve literally got one part of my brain telling me to end it, here’s an easy way out. Handing it to me on a platter. While I’m in the middle of being ill, snot, vomit, sobbing in fear; another part of me. Not my brain, ME. My soul.

“I don’t want you to die”.

me

My phone rings, the health line have called me back to try and work out what’s going on and triage me. We work out I’m not having a cardiac moment, or anything serious; it’s more likely vertigo. She’s going to send an ambulance out to me, it’ll be a little while, but they will have medication to help me feel better.

Fricking vertigo.

I crawl to the doors to open them up, since the burglaries, there’s a screen door on, you ain’t getting through that. I also pull on some yoga pants, I’ve propped myself back in the bathroom with a towel around me when one of my friends calls “I’m on my way” She used to be a nurse, she won’t mind the mess I’m in.

She doesn’t, and when I start bringing up bile, she rubs my back and puts a cold washcloth on my neck. We talk about all sorts of shit, laughing. She gets me some water to my level so I can clean my teeth. I loves her I do. Hubs comes home, they do a handover and she heads back to work.

The ambulance arrives, they give me a wafer to put under my tongue to help with the dizziness and nausea. We go back and forth about me heading to hospital. I’m still not sure I want to go, I’m not that bad after all, I’ve only got vertigo. When he says to me, “You’ll be feeling like you were again all night if you don’t go”, that clinches it.

I’m not going to the inns and outs of the hospital stay, as it’s a big building with doctors in it and that’s not important right now. I was admitted overnight as they were still considering me a fall risk. I’ve been sent home with stemitil that I’ll need to take until more congestion has cleared. If I move my head too quickly, I’m still unsteady on my feet. Bed rest for the rest of the week.

The doctor that discharged me this morning thinks I’ve had the flu for three weeks, the flu jab carried me through, being stubborn carried me through – but my body spoke louder. So I’m listening. I’m stopping, resting and I’m going to find out who it was that told me, audibly. I don’t want you to die.

In all my years of struggling with depression and anxiety, I’ve never had such a clear delineation between it and me. Like Eckhart Tolle’s “I can’t live myself”. It was that big.

I am not my thoughts, you are not yours. Who am I? Let’s find out.

I ate lunch today

Which is an odd thing to be proud of, but I do have a tendency to not eat when I get very anxious or stressed. My throat closes up and I have to force food down me. Last night I had some soup, a real tangy miso and mushroom (new flavour from La Zuppa that I’m loving). I managed a mandarin for breakfast, have eaten my smaller than normal lunch and just had a cup of tea with a chocolate protein bar. We’ll think about dinner when we get to it tonight.

After three days at home blowing my nose like a trumpet and with aches and pains all over, I went back to work today. HR were very sweet, “Are you sure you want to be here?” ‘Yes please. I need something else to think about’. BossLady and I have already had a conversation about my going back to the UK for Erika’s funeral; the lady who was covering my role immediately before I arrived will back-fill, so I also don’t need to worry about it all falling into chaos while I’m out.

I know I’m going to feel sad, lost, angry and so on. Grief will do that to you. But s0dding hell, last night was hell. I went to the spare room in the end. If it wasn’t my legs twitching, which wakes me up, I’d be dreaming so vividly I’d wake up. Maddening.

I’ve got Jasper stuffed in my bra today. Erika gave it to me when I left the UK, ready for my long journey. It’s a thumb stone, polished so you can put your thumb in a smooth groove and fidget with it. Jasper also came into theatre with me when I had my C-Section. I don’t particularly do crystals per se, I like them as aesthetic objects, but it was one of the things I thought of would be easily portable, a comfort and reminder whenever I felt it. Normally I’d put it in a pocket, but I’m in a skirt. Yes, I have several of them.

I’ve caught up with my emails; as in, they’re sorted, categorised and I’m working through them. BossLady’s inbox is going to take more work, she’s practically full so I need to do a major archive operation and plough through them.

I’d love to go to the gym, or for a run, but swimming with Archie last night before his lesson, (read splashing about and playing) was hard work. I’m as weak as a kitten :/ I’ll start again from the weekend. I can’t do everything.

One day at a time.

Work in progress

Sooooo, I learned that I do not honour or am proud of being sober yesterday. We had our Book Club break-up at a wonderful private house in Camberwell. We mooched around the garden, took masses of photos and were offered lemonade, fizz and Pimms. I asked for lemonade.

I got this.

Then my glass was empty, it got refilled with fizz and I didn’t say anything.

Then I asked for a glass of Pimms, because I’d already blown the week out the window.

Sigh.

I don’t got this. Today I looked up AA meetings. I need help as this is bigger than I can handle. :/

—o0o—

In other news, a friend at aforementioned party, took a photo of me that I posted on Instagram and Facebook with the following caption:

Those of you who know me, know I struggle with what I look like. It’s rare for me to have a candid picture taken of me that I like. But I love this one!
#bodydysmorphia #mentalhealth

I’ve had some messages come through about what Body Dysmorphia means, so I’m going to try to explain it; as best I can. I was in Wiltshire when I was diagnosed, so about 2001? I have hid the diagnosis, because like many mental health issues, I was ashamed of it. Only a few close friends, and I mean close, know how much I struggle with what I look like. Some days, it’s so bad, I can only do my make-up looking in a compact mirror, because then I don’t see all my face at one time.

I’m getting ready to go to work, or on a night out and I look at me in a mirror; I take care over my appearance and think, “that ain’t bad”. Then I take a selfie, because I don’t think I look too bad, and WTF is in the camera? Or someone else will take a photo and WTF is in the camera. Some photos of me will never be on my timeline, because WTF is in the camera. So far, so normal, right?

I have also been the height I am since I was 12 years old, I towered over people at school. On my first day at high school, I was told off for not telling someone the way to a classroom, because I didn’t know it. The teacher thought I was being difficult? a bully? obnoxious? who the hell knows.

I would sit down next to girls my age and feel huge next to them. I was taller than them; sitting down on anything, my thighs were bigger; my hands were bigger, I bit my nails through nerves. I took up so much space compared to everyone else. I’m lanky, gangly, walk into things all the time, stooping to try and hide it; so now at 43, my shoulders hurt.

My feet are bigger than my husband’s. I remember so clearly at junior school, one of my favourite teachers trying to address the problem of people picking on me by standing me next to the smallest girl in the class (hello Sophie if you’re out there). Talk about exacerbating the problem. It took a full meltdown for him to understand the impact of him slipping my shoes on to take the rubbish out before he understood how fragile my f*cking feet make me feel. Feet! I am so proud of them because they’ve taken me round endless KMs of running in the past few years. I’d no sooner got rid of one duff nail when Archie trod on two more and I’m waiting for them to grow out, so I’m still trying to hide my feet.

What with being mistaken for a boy for most of my childhood and teens, the feet, the entirely too big, too tall, not girly enough, short hair because it was easier while I was in a swimming pool all the time; who I am, what I look like, got warped along the way. What I look like does not match expectations and people have told me so, all my life. It’s gotten to be so normal for me, even if in reality most people don’t care, but that’s the thing with BDD, depression or anxiety, what you tell your brain make no difference, one iota.

Because the voice in your head is so loud, it deafens out everything else.

I completed a Mental Health First Aid course today, (I am aware of the irony). But you see, I’m perfectly placed to do this, because I know people. I pick up signs when you’re not 100%, I ask questions, peer intently at them, check in on you, because when you’re hiding in plain sight – I see you. Coz, I know all the secrets about appearing normal; functioning when you can barely function or hold it together.

The alcohol thing? Self-medication, because if I’m buzzing, I ain’t feeling the weight of perception on my shoulders. Perception to be all things to all people. Perception that I’m not enough. That I’m less than. That my make-up isn’t on point, as I’ve not contoured correctly, (really? ffs). That some days I can barely move from my bed because my soul hurts. That some days only the thought of Archie means I hold it together, because I don’t want him to be the child that grows up without a parent. That I am sick of people talking over me when I’m trying to say something.

BDD goes hand in hand with everything else I’ve got. But like everything else I’ve got, it doesn’t define me. It makes me, me.

Forty-five days

I’ve been sober for 45 days, the longest in years. I only nearly buckled once, when Archie had his meltdown at a birthday party. I stood in front of the wine rack and goodness me it was so tempting. I stood with my hands to my head as the bath ran; it could have been oh so easy – but I didn’t succumb. I read The Darling Buds of May instead, with my ears under the water. Blissful silence.

I’ve dreamt about drinking a glass of red a few weeks ago, in the dream I tip some down the bathroom sink to wash away the evidence, sobbing at Hubs that I was sorry for doing it. Thank you subconscious.

Some nights I sit at a set of traffic lights in our home town, next to a Taco Bill (franchise restaurant chain), where they serve goldfish bowl sized margaritas. I’ve never had one of them, but I loved their sangria. Gordon’s Gin have a new advertising campaign out. Bus stops all over the place have carefully stylised images of spirits, wines, beers. Until I’d stopped, I didn’t really appreciate how much advertising there was for alcohol.

At work I sit on the Health and Wellbeing Committee, our annual survey results are in. Nearly 70% of the people who responded said that they didn’t want assistance to reduce their drinking at this time, we don’t know if that is the same 70% that said they drunk at least one or two times a week. But we do know 45% of respondents said they drank more than five drinks on a single occasion. Talking about this yesterday, we were shocked it was so high, but at the same time around the table we acknowledged that a drinking culture in Australia is so all pervading, it is hard work to say you don’t or aren’t drinking.

Back in the UK if I said that I didn’t want to drink on a night out, it was pretty much left at ‘OK’ and that was it; here you can get the Spanish Inquisition and nth degree on why not. I’m still not sure on what to say about it yet, not that we’ve been anywhere really, but keep repeating ‘No thank you’ in my head for practice. At Book Club last month, I arrived with a bottle of sparkling mineral water, despite our penchant for vino, no one was bothered if I drank or not.

I can’t say I won’t ever drink again, I’m just not having one today, like I didn’t yesterday or the 44 days before that.

I’ve given up weighing myself. Excuse me here, but FUCK ME it’s frustrating. I got so excited about the number on the scales the other day, then within two days, 5kg appeared out of nowhere. Had I done anything differently? Had I buffalo. Hal Elrod and Jon Berghoff talk in this podcast about “trusting the process” when all else fails and nothing seems to be happening. Taking that into consideration, I’m now looking at my average KM speed when I run. This number has come down from 9.59 min/km at the beginning of January to 8.11 min/km.

I’m feeling stronger every time I go out, three times this week so far, and probably again tomorrow lunchtime, with a longer one on the weekend. Hills still exacerbate my asthma, but I run what I can, walk the rest, run again and each time it’s getting easier. As I puff my way back home, I come down a hill to the flat of the road we live on. By the time I get there, I feel on top of the world. As I said in a little video today on Instagram, if I could bottle this feeling and share it with you, I would.

I finished an awesome book this week, How To Break Up With Your Phone, ironically on my kindle as it’s not coming out as a print edition here in Oz. Before, during and after reading it I have done the following:

  • Taken the email and Twitter apps off
  • Taken Facebook app off, and changed my settings so I have to sign in every. single. time. I want to use it. I’ve also taken my phone number off, so now it’s yelling at me to put it back on. Limited my past posts, tightened up my security and would dearly like to tell it to take a long walk off a short pier.
  • Brought an alarm clock
  • I now charge my phone overnight in the kitchen, the alarm still goes off on my phone, (the clock is only if I need to know the time), but now I wake  up walk to the phone and switch it off. et voila, I’m out of bed.

In four days, I’m sleeping better, using my phone less and generally feel less angst and frazzlement. I still use it for my podcasts, music and if we’re out and I have a query, I’ll still search for the answer. But I am not mindlessly scrolling away because I have nothing better to do; it now lives in the kitchen, not in my hand.

I’m also working on the #MillionaireMorning by Mel Robbins, which is more aligned to me than the #MiracleMorning I like getting up and sitting in silence to let my mind wake up and ease into the day.

I’ve also (re)written a chapter of my book too. Here’s a piece of advice for you, if you’ve got notes, jottings or scribbles of book ideas. Put them into the cloud now. I had half a book on the Mac that got stolen, am now trying to find it again. *sad face*

We’re also working on limiting Archie’s screen time, he dug out Monopoly this morning. Not sure that he’s ready for the arguments that game always brings, I left for work this morning with him and his Dad playing Connect 4. Hubs has been signed off work with a chest infection, stayed home on Tuesday and has moved from couch to bed and back again. I can feel my chest tightening, and am coughing a bit when I get up, one of the reasons I ran today, in case I’m not up for it in a couple of days.

 

 

Shake it up

A morning blog. How out of the normal for me and that’s why I’m doing it.

Morning y’all.

My intention today after my meditation is calm. I love how the word I need for the day finds me as I sit in silence. I’ve been meditating for years, I dip in and out of it, but am trying to build a framework for my days – which more often than not start with sitting in stillness for 10 minutes to figure my shit out.

calm.jpg

I’ve been drifting for a month or so, I lost my way and had a pity party for one. No black dog, no anxiety, just wondering “What do I want?” How can I work towards a goal, when I’ve lost my goal? When I don’t know what I’m aiming for?

I saw my GP this week, my medication has been dropped back down to normal; my counselling sessions *blows kisses to V* have gone from fortnightly to monthly; and whatever funk I was in with myself the last few weeks has blown over. I love this time in the emotional fabric of my life. Coming out of a hole of anxiety or depression and feeling the breath of life on your skin again is something to be celebrated – so I am. Hence my morning blog and shaking it up today.

It’s a clean slate. New beginning and a do over. Just like every sunrise is. Take a deep breath, gird your loins and away you go.

So now what? I’m entering a period of Deep Thought, although have less programming to run, I just need to work out my own question to 42. But I do know where my towel is. So that is a start.

 

It’s been pre-disastered!

garp

When Hubs came home and discovered we’d been burgled he called me first. Practically shrieking at him to get off the phone from me and to call the police, I then whizzed home to tell him about knowing the doors were locked (in case the police came straight away, I wanted him to know what had happened in the morning) before I went to get Peanut.

Me shrieking down the phone is not a pleasant experience. I’m loud enough at the middle of my voice, let alone the top of it.

As I straightened the house, including my undies – The World According to Garp was all I was thinking about. ‘It’s been pre-disastered!’ Yes it was annoying, but it was just stuff, we’re also renting, so it’s not our house. I thought I was doing fine.

We’ve been amazed at the insurers, they approved our claim in less than a week and we’ve begun replacing items thanks to the wonders of electronic transactions and gift cards. What is amazing is this cloud technology, I log in and my stuff appears, out of – well, a cloud, I guess. I heartily recommend it if you get things stolen.

Music was more of a problem, insofar that I’d imported lots of CDs into iTunes, which does not get moved over to the cloud unless you ask it to, (I will be now!) Never fear, there is an app for that: Sharepod. I spent 30 seconds googling, $20 to purchase the full version, and the morning with my iPod plugged in. Over 3,000 songs and audiobooks have been restored, not all of it, but most of it and TBH most of us just listen to maybe four albums anyway.

Hubs has taken Peanut out for the morning, I continue to potter around the house. I’ve had a two week black dog fog descend over me, so while yes it was ‘just stuff’, my mind closed down more than I recognised at the time. I still struggled to get out of bed, get washed, get dressed, eat sensibly. I keep alcohol in the house to a minimum now, because if it’s there – I drink it. If not, I don’t.

Until Thursday where I had a clear day and started to wade through the back-log of Personal Development lists, and watched a TED talk that broke me open. It’s thirty minutes, so longer than a normal one, but really a must-see for us seratonin challenged people.

Today I should have run 10km in RunMelbourne; as you know, I can barely walk. My mind is truly suffering because of not being able to pull on the lycra, lace up my shoes and just get out there. Having found a way to keep Rufus at bay, my trousers fitting and my skin clear, I feel more robbed of this headspace than some possessions that have gone. And it’s my body that is broken – I spent so bluddy long getting running, I am mighty pissed off I now can’t do it. I have the follow-up appointment at the Respiratory clinic tomorrow, I might get some answers then. Fingers crossed.

This is a bit of a mish-mash, but I also realised that writing this sh!t out was helping too, so expect more waffle. Now, don’t be bashful, I can tell you’re thrilled.

Photo credit.

Connecting the Christmas dots

A couple of things made me want to write this to you today: First up, an article on the radio news over the weekend. A economist predicted that families in Australia will stop buying presents this week, and start buying food instead ready for the festival.

No sh!t Sherlock.

As the big day is on Friday, it is likely that your groceries will be fresh if you buy them from now on in. It’s going to be crazy at the shops, be careful out there.

Secondly, Woman’s Hour were talking about the additional emotional labour that is undertaken at this time of year, on top of the normal load. Not just getting the cards out, the presents (and food) in, but making sure people in the family who aren’t well are either visited, or cared for. People working in the caring professions, making sure for every home-visit, that they show up with a smile on their face, not taking out the traffic delays and frustration on who they’re helping and servicing.

Christmas can appear to just happen in some houses, thanks to predominantly to the women in the household. My gran would make Turkish delight, mince pies, Christmas puddings, cakes, boil a ham, the list was endless. Both grandmothers would also write cards and letters, starting in October / November to make sure they all got done. It’s not that my grandad didn’t do anything, I just don’t remember him ever setting a dish on to the table, and like most people I remember occasions through food.

We’re somewhat more egalitarian in our house, Hubs met Peanut and I at the Christmas tree farm, drove the tree home, stood it up in the pot and made sure it was straight, then Peanut and I decorated it. Hubs also ordered the ham, that I will collect tomorrow. I’ve brought the presents, but only because he’s been interstate, but it’s normally something we do each year together. Grocery shopping fills him with horror at the best of times, so it’s just easier if I ask him what he wants and go out and get it.

One of Jenni Murray’s guests was saying ‘It isn’t worth the argument that would be caused if the woman said “No, I’m not doing this, you write your own cards”.’ How did feminism and emancipation get us to the point where it is easier to work yourself into the ground for a day’s celebration, rather than have an argument?

I don’t do Christmas on a grand scale, while Hubs is now not looking like he will need to head to Sydney this week after all \o/ we’ve not changed our (non) plans for the day itself. We’re conscious we need to spend time together, so off for a picnic we will go, just the three of us. However, as it is going to be 36c, we might have to change our planned destination (Hanging Rock) to somewhere more shaded. But I know that all over the country, people will be slaving away in their boiling hot kitchens to put a roast dinner on the table.

I’m from the UK, I love a roast dinner as much as the next person, but why would you do that to yourself? I am also all for tradition, but not at the expense of sanity. Mum and Dad decided early on when my brother and I were little to forgo the roast dinner, figuring we could have that any time. As a family, we much preferred the cold meat, cheeses, pickles, etc. so we cook roast beef, turkey and get a ham joint in (all bases are covered) but they’re cooked before the actual day, so that became our tradition. Continue reading “Connecting the Christmas dots”

I know I’m not my thoughts, but they’re deafeningly loud

Trigger warning

I took myself off to the doctor this morning, the traffic was awful, so Peanut had to come in with me. Unfortunately, this meant I couldn’t speak as honestly as I needed to the GP. I couldn’t ask for help as clearly as I needed to. How do you explain, within earshot of a four year old, that you’re worried about what you’ll do to yourself? That if the never-ending stream of negative commentary in your head gets so loud, there is an apparently easy way to silence it.

Easy for who?

Nobody that is who.

But bluddy hell, I’m struggling here. Rufus has well and truly taken camp on my right shoulder. I’m at my desk when I want to be curled up in bed. Those bed sheets have magical powers, I’m sure of it.

Peanut and I went for a walk this morning, only 2km, but I got up and out the house. It took so long to get a blood-test done, I won’t get a chance to get out again at lunchtime, but I think I will take myself out tonight again too. I haven’t run in so long, my head feels fuzzy. My knee may be sore, but I’ve got to get going again. I’ll strap it up if I have to.

My GP talked to me, arranged for a blood test for iron and thyroid levels, examined me to make sure I wasn’t carrying a virus or anything else that would cause the lethargy and general apathy. He told me to come back in ten days, and to increase my anti-depressants.

In the interim – I need your help. I retreat into myself when I get like this. The circle of my life gets smaller, until I can hold my head up again. You know me, please help me through this. I can’t do this on my own, I’m fed up of pretending I can. I’m hanging on by my fingertips over here.

Resistance is useless

This weekend, I turn 40 years old. I’m not worried about it. Age is nothing more than a number, another year ticked off. I don’t feel 40, I’ve never been as old as I am today, so how am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to feel like?

I am worried about the surprise trip Hubs has organised for me on Sunday night. I’ve been given scant information, which is messing with my chi I can tell you. These are the hints he’s given me so far:

  • Pack a bag (I was worried I was being kicked out of home for a wee while, until he quantified it!)
  • Within 30km of home
  • Dressing up for dinner, slightly higher than is normally comfortable
  • Potential for a walk afterwards
  • Yes you can pack your running kit

I’ve asked him for more details, but he won’t give them to me. Which for someone who likes to know what is going on, to manage anxiety issues and being prepared isn’t sitting well with me. I’m hoping that he gives me more information as we get closer to Sunday, otherwise I’m worried my anxiety will manifest as rattiness – spoiling the whole thing. Continue reading “Resistance is useless”