Blood on Satan’s Claw or An Episode of Anxiety

Originally written 26th October 2016:

Every month I go to a film club in the East End of London. It’s theme is ‘Folk Horror’. So far all the films I’ve watched have been classics I’ve not seen. I was introduced to it via my boss at Oxfam. I really enjoy films – moving images of all kinds- but music videos and films have been a Big Thing in my life. Hammer Horror movies were a stable of my childhood. I suffered from terrible anxiety when I was a child. I could not sleep. I’d be either scared of not sleeping and being late for school or just plain scared*. So I used to come down stairs about 12am to see my Mum in the kitchen. She’d find an old movie on ITV or Channel 4 and make me a fry up,  she’d do her ironing and then we’d go to bed. My Mum had no problem with me seeing such films because she believed, rightly, that I’d see they were not real. The only films I could not watch were Mummy movies because I was terrified of Egyptian Mummies (more of this in another post). She’d not let me watch anything like the Ridley Scott ‘Alien’ films, or the 1980’s ‘Fly’, but old films were ok.

I’ve always suffered from terrible Social Anxiety. Social Anxiety in my case is a cycle, I’d be anxious, get up courage to be social, and then get shot down or have a horrible experience, which would add to the anxiety. But I got to an OK plateau and was fine for about 6 years. Then in 2012** I began to get anxious occasionally, and then constantly. I’d go and do things, but only with strangers- so I’d go to classes, or volunteer- there would be social interaction, but if someone went ‘wrong’, I could walk away. The people I served in the shop were a 5 minute interaction, my College classmates were all older people, who were just kind and ‘grown up’. Last year – my Mum’s sickness and my reaction to it, and the loss of my ESA*** – knocked me back even further. I stopped communicating with friends, stayed in and started having terrible episodes of anxiety  randomly. I’ve not been to Birthday or other parties, even for or with people I care a great deal about. In place of this, in a desperate need to be sociable – to talk to people – I began to attend film and performance nights where everyone was a stranger. However, this has now become a problem. The performance nights (comedy, music etc.) ended, so now it’s just a monthly film night. I promoted the night to keep it going – telling friends via social media. I didn’t want the numbers to drop and the event to end (a very common thing in London). However, this has caused me a massive dose of anxiety. I don’t know who will be there, and if I will know anyone. I prefer to know nobody, than to have social surprises sprung on me.

Added 2018:

*I think it was constant terror of my Mum dying. She had cancer first in 1987 when I was 6-7 the year after my Gran died of the same thing.

** I had Pancreatitis 4 times and nearly died. I think this had something to do with it – the pain was crippling and happened suddenly, including on the Underground where I ended up laid out on a Tube platform. Once the pain passed that day, I carried on to meet my partner, but he called to cancel. I went to Liberty to look at pretty things instead.

***A most terrifying thing. Imagine having your legs chopped off in front of you – it felt like the movies portray that. I still live in terror of the day I have to go through the ESA thing again.

I stopped going to this event.  I have even stopped going to my local film night. My anxiety levels are currently too high to be around people I know. I’ve started talking randomly to strangers – I know that anxiety is how these behaviours begin. I’ll soon be the person on the bus who talks to you when you don’t want them to.


Mistress Quickly

I don’t know where the title’s from, but I think she’s a character in a Shakespeare play.  Two things my Brother’s and Sisters. Two things. I started a new medication – Pregablin. Only 100mg a day in two 50mg doses. The first day it made me sleep – boy did I sleep. After a full 100mg dose I was out for a solid no-pee-breaks-or-liquids 24 hours. This is the med I’ve been putting off using because I needed my life in some kinda balance. But I did it, and it worked great, until life decided to throw me a curve ball. Contemplating writing it makes me angry. Childish burning tears angry. My Dad is going out with someone. A Biddy from Marks and Spencer’s coffee shop. And I’m angry. I’m angry for 4 reasons. Let’s be blunt, I’m angry that he’s going out with someone after my Mum, when I am still in such deep mourning for her I can’t imagine ever being happy again (bereavement counselling is not really working). I’m angry because he said he knew she liked him, he saw it coming and that he was not going to do anything- he wasn’t interested- (I’m made even more livid with the fact he shared this with me – discussed it with me, and then went back on it). I’m angry because he has been helping this lady a lot lately (this I don’t mind) but when I’ve needed help, I’ve never had it. Not in the same way. He’s helping her get a new flat etc. – when I’ve needed such help in the past, he is not understanding – the b*stard wouldn’t even help me get through my degree (but he helped my brother… still does though he earns a quarter of a million pounds a year). Part of his reasoning for helping the lady is that she is ‘silly’ and ‘has nothing’ and ‘can’t help herself’. Ok. I see that, but again, when I’ve asked for help – I’m told to do it myself, or I’m told off… you see where I’m going*. And I’m angry because I’ve spent the last years trying to sort the house out, doing everything I can that he asks. I’ve been ill a great deal (I currently have a chest infection, and I can’t walk properly – waiting to see a physio), and I’ve totally lost contact with the outside world. I have no friends left in my city – they’ve all left. I’ve put all of my energy into what he wants and keeping myself sane, and I’ve lost my life. Yet he carries on, and finds a new one. At this moment, all I can see is his selfishness. The light was shone on it the other day when I spent an evening washing bed linen and clothes to be sorted and thrown out. I cleared so much stuff from one of our ever filled rooms, and then he nagged me about something I’d not done while sitting in a chair eating something. Yeah, you sit there. You sit there and magically expect everything to happen around you. You moan at me for everything, while you throw your newspapers on the floor and your coat on the couch. I can hardly bend to wipe myself on the toilet and I’m not yet 40, you’re 74 and can spring out of bed at 8am. I feel I’ve been so stupid trying to get on with him and do everything to keep him happy since Mum died, when it means nothing. I’ve given up lots of things in my life and he just keeps going in his bubble. But, I’m still dependent on him. If he got mad at me, my life would be horrible in every way. And if I get angry at him, he has much to throw back in my face. He can be vile and he knows exactly how to wound.

So the Pregablin is working. I can’t imagine how anxious I would be without it. Yes, my hair is falling out more. Yes, I still can’t poo. My eyes are dry and the skin under my armpits and down to my elbows is burning (what is that, allergic reaction?) while I have a red rash all over my neck. I found out I don’t have Bowel Cancer (whoopee!). I keep eating only crap now, mainly chocolate – I’ve not had a vegetable for a week. I don’t really know what is going on with my life. I have Calligraphy classes, counselling and volunteering. That’s it. It sounds like a lot but it adds up to 7.5 hrs a week with people who aren’t my Dad. And I don’t talk during 2.5 of those.

This moan has been brought to you by Depression, Anxiety, Anger and the letter RRRRrrrrrrrr.

*Mum always said Dad wanted me to be the type of girl who batted her eyelashes to get what she wanted – helpless little thing. Which I was not. This lady doesn’t do that, but she does the 60+ equivalent of it.

Bone Jumble Tomb

Written on October 22 2016:

Ouuh! Boof! What a time we’ve been having here in Bowermanland. What. A. Time. We’ve got a lot going on, or have had. But first, the Bone Jumble Tomb of the title, or at least a detail of an early 17th century tomb in Holy Trinity Church, Guildford. This is not even the main bit of the tomb, just a bit of the base: gskulls

Still got some polychrome on it and everything.

I include the picture because it’s pertinent. Next week will be 1 year since the death of my Mother. I took this photo in March or April last year, in Guildford. My Aunt, my Mum’s sister had just died – it was before her funeral, or just after. Mum, Dad and I were in Guildford with my Brother and his family, when my Dad’s extended family turned up. It was a totally unique day. I showed Mum the old Alms houses, and the churches – my things. She was puffing and tired and I knew there was something wrong other than her mourning her sister. We all knew. So this image was taken after her Sister’s death and before her own death sentence was known. I’m still interested in such sculpture, my interest in death has never changed. I have been since I was very small and most of my family started dying. I saw my first dead body age 5 or 6. My Granny. Our tradition is to view the body before the funeral. So I kissed the corpse in it’s box. I’d seen her hooked up to chemo, lose her hair, wear a wig, wear a little turban, grow her hair back (completely different than before – grew back curly) and then see her no more. Next was my Aunt. It went on like this for a few years. Then years of calm.

Nagging with Rachel Whiteread

An up-to-date post. All medical I’m afraid*. My basic conditions lurch on, with the added thrill of extreme knee pain. I took myself to my dermatologist who, searching from scalp to foot, found lots of things going on. Seborrheic Dermatitis at one end and Athletes Foot at the other – rather proud of that – having a normal thing that normal people get. The only time anything Athletic will be associated with me (though I won a medal for the slow bike race in primary school). She also confirmed that my hair is falling out good and proper – not the usual vanity ‘my hair is falling out’ ‘no you lose X amount per day…’ type thing. So I have many unguents and creams to apply, and she did a blood test.

My bowels were working really well – post ‘something shoved up there’ – and I decided to adopt a squatting position on the bog to help. I’ve not invested in a ‘Squatty Potty’ yet, but used some boxes I had available. But a day in bed and without food has put that back to ‘trying to shit bricks’.  I really, really want it to go back to the 5 days where I didn’t have to help myself poo. Yes, it was annoying going more than once a day, but I felt better. My skin was definitely better after the chemical clear out. I may investigate monthly doses of laxative to keep it going. Not harsh, just a regular, light dose to keep things going. I’d like to restore my general body function, and getting my anus and bowels to do what they’re supposed to would be a start.

The first of my two annual sore throats appeared – I always get one in January and then either in September or later. This one was presaged by sore glands and coughing. It’s not developed fully yet, or it’s going easy on me. But it’s done its usual wonderment of making my pain go away – so I’ve had 3-4 days of not being able to swallow, but being able to walk…. fucking immune system. I’m still feeling heavy of head, and I’ve been producing solid lumps of mucus the shape of brains…. zzzzz

I have been making myself eat. A potato a day. With beans, veg and yesterday some meat. I’ve got to eat and not just crap. The percentage of crap is quite high still, but I’m not getting hung up on it. Speaking to my bereavement councillor made me realise that circumstances came together to make me get upset about being the size I am. Well, upset about being me, in fact. I’m open to self-harming behaviour, but I’ve never had an eating disorder. However, I believe I definitely passed into the territory. And, I could easily have gone very far down. But, my body having so many other things wrong has saved me. My joints take any chance they can to fail, and exhaustion/ depression is my constant, but it can easily rise – I have to eat to stop these things from really getting a grip. I may want to abstain, I may enjoy not eating and throwing food away, but the big important bits of my body cut out before I can really get into trouble. I suppose I’m lucky. Now I’m going to look into, properly, cooking things I want to eat, and using my wish to control everything, to control that.

*I was lying, here’s the art bit:

I went to an exhibition of Rachel Whiteread sculpture. In the UK, Whiteread is famous for casting the inside of a 2 story house in concrete in the 1990’s. Internationally she’s known for creating the Holocaust memorial in Vienna (apt to be reminded of it at this time of year). Most of her work is casts of objects and many people dismiss it, or explain it, as just casts. Anyone can cast something. Anyone can make a mould… Well apart from that not being true there is the question of what she casts and how. That is where the magic happens, that spark and flitter of chemical reaction, that makes her work art, and Whiteread an artist. Much of her work is negative space made solid. Air, made solid. Things you can’t see and feel in normal circumstance. And then there are the materials she chooses. Her famous house was concrete – was because it was torn down by the local council the same year it were finished. English councils are so forward thinking when it comes to preserving art and heritage… Many of her large works are plaster or concrete through necessity – she wants them to last I imagine, and these materials do. Also they capture enough detail to satisfy her. But there are also magic objects in shimmering resin, benign wax and vast coarse papier mache- the inside space of a hot water bottle, the negative space under a desk and below a chair – that fit together to leave the ghost seat of a sitter. These objects I found unexpectedly tender. The life-size inverted staircases were an exciting jumble of jagged shadows and types of grey. Constant changes in scale that are not dictated by how much money she has to make a work (the destroyed House was an early work) but by her interest and imagination.

It was a very satisfying show, I am glad I dragged myself to it – made the effort. If you don’t know her work, I suggest you have a look.

This is the show I saw:

Oh, and I found myself very drawn to her works on paper. They are not just working drawings for sculptures, but interesting experiments in themselves. Though not listed, I think she may use gesso (plaster made of chalk and rabbit glue) and Snowpake (TM) in her works. Their texture was shiny, shiny opaque pools with delicate colouring. I returned to them 3 times. Only the hot water bottles (Torsoes) and jelly-like resin houses and stool spaces got more of my attention. Next time I’ll post some images….


Written 26 September 2016 – not published or polished

Oh, no, not the time period in the 17th and early 18th century in Europe. The other meaning – the outlandish, fanciful and freakish. I’m not referring to myself (though I am built like a Roman Church or English Palace*) but my situation.

I’m not going to recap completely, but briefly: over years I developed chronic spinal and neck pain, frequent acute pain in my joints, a frozen left foot with limp, a twisted spine and crippling, suicidal depression and anxiety. The physical stuff ultimately derives from a genetic condition called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), which affects the soft connective tissue of my body – so muscle, skin, organs. Only brain and bones don’t contain collagen. I get pain easily and at higher levels than normal people, it responds badly to treatment and injuries take 50% longer to heal than normal people, if they heal at all. My diagnosis was made in 2002 when I was 21 or 22, after a car accident where a whiplash never went away. The scoliosis and depression had been in place since 1995. Because EDS is invisible to the untrained eye, and most parents, the years I spent in pain and exhausted were largely spent being ignored by Doctors, Teachers etc. I had to work extra hard to keep up with people in every way, because I was in constant pain, or depressed or just plain exhausted. I had a mental and physical breakdown in January 2002, when I was in 2nd year at Uni. I repeated the year, Graduated in 2004 and was the first person to get a job. I worked part and then full time, had another mental breakdown in 2006 having developed Non-Epileptic Seizures (NEADS) in 2005. I was put on Citalopram, which I’ve been on ever since. In 2007 my body finally gave out I was in constant pain and after the end of my then work contract, I could not find a job I could do. The Job Centre suggested I go on ESA, the new Disability Benefit. In 2010 I applied and was not awarded ESA, but found Fit For Work. I appealed, went to Tribunal, and won. I was on this benefit, in the Work Group, until 2015. During the 5 years I gradually began to work towards becoming self-employed, as my body is not able to

*Blenheim, as designed by Vanburgh/Hawksmoor

Lichfield and Codeine and Palpitations, Oh My!

Written: 26th June 2016

I have not travelled much in the UK, and near all of my travel (beyond using the Tube and being in London) happened before I was 21. In fact, I didn’t get my own adult Passport until I was 27. Travelling long distances, whether via plane, train or automobile is difficult for me. It causes me exhaustion and pain which I cannot predict. I cannot tell you how a car journey of over 35 minutes is going to affect me. Some journeys of 45 minutes leave me with a migraine, wanting to vomit and on the brink of a seizure, another journey of 90 minutes will leave me fine. It’s a travel Russian Roulette.

Last year, before my Mum was diagnosed with Cancer, my Dad saw a TV programme about Josiah Wedgwood on the BBC. He became very interested in Wedgwood and decided he wanted to visit the Wedgwood Museum in Stoke-on-Trent. But the museum, which had recently had it’s collection saved via a national campaign, was closed for a bit of re-furb and wasn’t going to open again until July. Unfortunately my Mum became ill, and though only 2 months from her diagnosis, in July she was already too ill to travel North. So when 2016 swung into action, my Dad again planned to visit Wedgwood, and finally last week we went. My Dad is 71 and I am 35. Dad has always been an excellent walker and has found my inability to keep up very annoying. His lack of understanding was a source of rancour between us. Please note the was, the past tense. As he’s aged, has become slower and has gained illnesses, he has greater understanding and sympathy. I have become better at ‘powering through’, managing my situation and communicating with him. Now we are about equal in frailty – physically. We get tired the same now, and sore. He gets Gout in his feet and knees, and since having his Gallbladder removed, understands random intestinal distress. So he literally has some glimmer of what goes on. The only element of my condition that still causes friction is the Mental Health side. He has suffered from Depression, but being unique to each person, it means he cannot understand mine. He has suffered from Anxiety and Stress – indeed he had a Stroke when he was 40, attributed to it- but again, this being unique to each person, he can’t ‘understand’ mine. But he does tolerate it. And that is better than an alternative – attacking me for it. Many people get attacked by family for their problems. That does not happen any more.

We planned our trip to Stoke-on-Trent with our frailties in our mind. And to get the most out of it. We made sure we had time – time to be leisurely. We stayed 2 nights in Stoke to make sure that we had a clean, refreshed day to go to Wedgwood.

When Not In Rome & As Through A Glass Darkly

Unfinished drafts from the vault.

Written on May 17 2016

When Not In Rome

In this case Rome is used to represent my wonky, shoddily built body and frequently frazzled, forgetful and low ebbing brain. So when I’m not preoccupied with my shell, what does this snail like to do? What lies beyond all the things I’ve been writing about? Well, I’m going to be honest – not fast movement. No sport.

Written on May 28 2016

As Through A Glass Darkly

Today became a day of thinking, after half a day of reacting. The busy busy of Monday, led to the inevitable crash, but unexpectedly it was an emotional crash. For so long it’s been physical. I’m so used to the physical. The pain, the stiffness, the weary routine of failed plans and weak, un-reacting limbs. The sleeping, the pill popping, the emptiness of physical restriction. Mental, emotional reaction – deep and potent reaction can end in the same physical condition, but it is a beast of a different hue. I’ve had 2 absolute mental breakdowns, and one questionable one. The Questionable One (sounds like a contemporary troubled TV Hero) was during my late teens, when I was undertaking my A’Levels. It’s Questionable because I had been depressed during my whole teenage years – my Tricotillomania began when I was 15 during my French GCSE classes. But what happened later was different – I became topsy turvy, and unable to have my own judgement as something to follow. I was unable to cope with the pressure of school in terms of academic achievement and also in terms of being a female human. I identify, I name the female element because it was key. You see I wasn’t a ‘proper’ girl. I was tall and clumsy and spotty and I didn’t behave like the other girls. I was brought up with boys (my brother and male cousin lived with me) and went to all girls schools until I was 17. This meant that my experience of boys was separate from my experience with girls: I did not experience them together. When I went to my 6th Form this changed. The girls were the same as ever, but the boys treated me with hostility which I was not used to. I was used to bullying and being talked down to (my Brother and Cousin are 5 years older than me and my Dad wasn’t enlightened) but by older males, not contemporaries. It did not help that I had been identified as potentially getting high grades. In addition to this, the teachers were not helpful, indeed they were sometimes incompetent. Once I made it clear that I was a) taking a ‘Gap Year’* and b) not going to Cambridge, things got even worse. I could have set myself on fire and no one would have pissed on me. I was even bullied (shouted at) by 3rd years. This school is one of the best Catholic Boys State Schools in London. It had the Pastoral Care of Satan. All of this contributed to a Gap Year that really was more a gap between the ears.

The Absolutes (terrible Indie band?) were during University and after my first Romantic relationship failed.

Opening the Drafts Box

In the next few days I’m going to publish all the little bits of unfinished writing I’ve got in my Drafts box – over 20 of them. I think I want them ‘out’, but not deleted. I decided when I began this blog that I would be ‘honest’ here, and that includes splatting all the crap I’ve written and not finished. Most of it’s not finished because I got too tired to carry on writing, and when next I returned to the computer the subject written of was over, or forgotten or pushed out of the way by something else. Or I’d changed my feelings so much I didn’t recognise or couldn’t tune in to the person who had written.

Much of this is key to depression: tiredness and mood change and a terrible memory. And I am, foremost I think, a depressive, or someone mentally ill/mentally different. First (it being something you are born with) I am someone with Asperger’s and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. I believe the former has affected me since my first breath, the latter since I was 2 years old. I have definitely suffered from depression since the age of 6. I’ve been in constant pain since I was 11. And disabled from 12. While my vision started to go at 2.5, my hearing waited until I was 18. I couldn’t walk from the age of 12-22, and now I can limp a bit further. Started pulling my hair out at 15.

I don’t know how much of this will be covered in the barrage of half-writtens following, but it may be. Sometimes I write as above just to remind myself.

Having smoke* blown up one’s ass.

*Air, actually.

Medical stuff and life stuff:

Medical: Today – finally had Colonography – 2 days of fasting and chemically induced diarrhea, 10 minutes with a compressor pumping gas up my butt, 10 minutes in a CT scan. There we went. It took a month to organise and 48hrs 20 minutes to do. I’ve had Diarrhea now for 24 hours, and I’m basically dropping (at great speed) Bovril/Bisto – nothing, including Immodium, is stopping it. The 4 litres of air were pumped into my gut, and more than that has been coming out. But it’s over. I await the results.

Yesterday: I phoned the Physio Hotline and found out that actually, I’ll have to wait until March to get an appointment, even though the text I got from them made everything seem INCREDIBLY URGENT: CONTACT US OR BE TAKEN OFF THE LIST! I phoned my Bereavement Councillor to cancel my appointment – in time (I could not have made it through without shitting myself). Oh, and I also had a migraine. Whoopee.

Oh, and the day of the scan my period started. Which must have been an added bonus for the lady putting the tube up my ass. It’s early. Very early. It may be the fasting or perhaps the Gastrografin liquid I had to drink: it’s a radioactive tracer you drink that coats your colon… it tastes vile. I’ve never thrown a medicine away more happily. I hope everything settles down below the waist soon.

Other Stuff:

My Dad and I went to see the Scythians exhibition at the British Museum. It was excellent. I full on proper exhibition. The Scythians are the ancient people who lived in lower Russia – the Steppes. They were nomadic, living in what we might consider Yurts. Horses were key to their culture, as was being excellent archers. But the great thing about them is though we don’t have their buildings or writings, we have them: natural (ice) mummies. It was amazing to see their textiles preserved (properly amazing – they used lots of felt which is pretty impervious, but also woven fabrics), then the many gold items. But really stunning was to see bits of them – pieces of tattooed skin, and whole heads. Astonishing. I read every label and spent 3 hours with them, while my Dad went and had a coffee. Oh, and they inhaled the smoke from burning hemp seeds in a special tent.

That day though, was a bit difficult. I got very spooked – we were running late for the show, I lost my Oyster card while on the underground, the queue for the cloakroom and the toilet was massive, and I started to panic when I’d only just really started the exhibition but my Dad found me to tell me he’d finished. It was like the day I lost my gloves losing that Oyster. It was a 2012 Jubilee card and I remember getting it and showing it to Mum. It also had £6 on it and that bugged me. After the exhibition, my Dad kept trying to buy me books (one of his ways of showing love), which also spooked me, and made me have hints of catastrophe again. He took me to dinner and we discussed lots of stuff that would have made me feel very uncomfortable 2 years ago. Since our getting along I’ve had more Catastrophe thoughts. I must be careful to not let these become a habit. Or a crutch.

I began Batarde Script. Yes, I returned to Calligraphy. And I enjoyed it. Lots of new people, and a real mixture. And a new script. The perfect mix. I’m hoping I’ll continue to enjoy it. The Charity Bookshop I volunteer in is closed for 3 weeks while it has a re-fit, and I’m hoping that this circumstance will aid my enjoying calligraphy. I find the 2.5 hr class very physically demanding – perched on a high stool and bent over a board. It really takes it out of me and causes much pain, as does doing the homework. Having done this and then the next day having Volunteering has really fucked my back and hips/knees in the last 6 months, and I’m hoping that only having one bout of pressured doing* will help. Else I’ll have to re-consider either when I do my volunteering, or if I do it at all. My right knee and hip have become so painful that getting upstairs is difficult. In addition, my knee has become very unreliable – vis – I went to stand up on it the other day and it ‘went’, the pain was so shocking I don’t actually know what was happening with it – if it locked or was too flexible – I don’t know. I tried ‘re-setting’ it, shaking it to loosen it – all the tricks, but the fucker wasn’t playing and the pain wasn’t going anywhere. If I’m going to have to wait until March to have the physio I need, I won’t be able to use it as I have been – so the Bookshop may have to go for a while.

*Any form of regular responsibility where I feel an obligation to perform, even if that I’m performing is just pricing art books from Abe for no pay. Any obligation/responsibility does this to me. It makes me physically and mentally more ill than my baseline.

Eugh, I’m off to fart for Great Britain – that 4 litres is making itself known, and if I’m not careful I’ll shart.


Catastrophe Vole

My favourite animal is still a Sloth, but my ex-partner was, to me, a Vole: very furry with tiny eyes. That’s why the title. Oh, he’s not back – I just wanted to explain. He used to catastrophise as I do, but I talked him out of it.

So, I’m currently being nibbled by the tiny, yet sharp teeth, of the lesser spotted Catastrophe Vole. Lesser spotted these days thanks to a fuckton of meds, lots of therapy and so much else.

But it creeped up my trouser-leg and bit me in the guts today. Because I got things done.

I told you of my list? Well I got some of it in order. I went to bed very early last night, woke at 5 am today and set to work. I phoned my GP at 8:30, hung on and on and didn’t get anywhere. Went to see my Psychiatrist – gave her a big pile of paperwork from the Maudsley about my Asperger’s that she was not sent. Oh, and that also didn’t get to my GP, though both were cited in the CC. at the bottom of the letter. Discussed starting the Pregablin that I’ve had for 6+ months but haven’t yet taken because I’ve not had 6 free weeks to ease in another pill. Decided I HAVE to take it, and see what the fuck happens. Arranged for me to have an ADHD screening and also inducted me in to an Asperger’s study. All in 23 minutes. The Mental Health Unit copied my Maudsley letter onto their records.

After this I went to try on some more glasses, got money out of the bank to pay for a letter from my GP referring me to a Private Dermatologist, and also walked to my local junk shop to look for a pottery jar to put (yet more) pens in.

Got home, phoned GP again, made latest appointment I could for today. Went shopping in Ealing with my Dad and bought my annual diary. Suddenly got very, very ill. Really ill. Kept plodding and looking in the charity shops for a pen receptacle (no luck this time, but usually I strike it lucky), tried on more glasses. Couldn’t keep going, so flumped in the cafe of my local Marks & Spencer. Had a cheese and ham toastie. Felt better. Phoned private Dermatologist to make appointment. Bought a hook for the kitchen* and headed to GP.

I had a list for my GP: dermatology letter, pills I need for my CT Colography that the hospital failed to dispense, check on my recent blood test, chat about my hair loss, and, and – most important – referral for physiotherapy.  He did it all. And the surgery didn’t charge me for the letter. They too copied the 20+ page letter on to their system.

So, so you can see why the Vole got me.

Can’t you?

Something has to go wrong now. I can’t get all this done so easily. Something has to go wrong.

I’m going to fall asleep on the sofa with Shrek on DVD repeat. Perhaps my stye will grow when I’m asleep. That would be a fitting retort from the Universe. That would be ok.

*To hang stuff on the wall. I must remember about eating.

This is a water Vole