Canker Sores & Crapped Pants

I think I may have told you how I made I giant social faux pas? No? Well I did. I invited someone to stay at my house in November and thought it would be ok, but Dad vetoed it and I had to write a grovelling lying apology ‘Sorry we’re getting new flooring…’. The worst thing was the Dad bit. The person was a Professor we met on holiday who I got on with and talked about art too. I believe that she would not mind sleeping on our pristine sofa bed if it meant not having to rent a room in London. But Dad thinks the house is too much of a state. I promised to clear it, but he said no. He’s always said no, even when the house was not a state. I didn’t have birthday or other parties because my Dad doesn’t really like people in the house. He’s only ever let 1 of my friends stay here. My Brother used to bring home people every Friday night as a teen, and Dad was fine with it. In addition when it looked likely that my Cousin Gerard or my Brother would be living with us after their respective relationships fell apart, he quickly began to do rooms up.

Calm down Sarah, stop it, anger is not good.

Anyway, I made a faux pas. Wrote grovelling lie to sophisticated woman. Hid from e-mail fearing she’d hate me. Developed a sore in my nose*. Got my period. Had the second worse constipation of my life (the worst: I was hospitalized).  Developed a stye**. Developed Angular Chelitis***. Had diahoerrea, in my pants, then another painful, lip-biting episode on the toilet. Sty burst. Developed a boil on my chin. And now I have piles. All in 5 days. 5. Days.

Which of the 4 Horsemen of Apocalypse brought this on? Well, anxiety. Anxiety brought this on. You see, e-mail can scare me. Some of the worst episodes of my life have evolved through or been connected to, e-mail. First time I was called a cunt was in an e-mail from a chap at university I thought was my best friend. He *liked* me. Being Autistic I didn’t know. He got angry. He sent me an abusive message. I got so terrified I couldn’t be in a room with him, and I had to report him to the college. I was expecting the Professor from Russia to call me a shameful liar. A cunt in nicer words. Other anxieties: my ex-boyfriend’s sister got married – I only found out through a Facebook update. I blocked any info – didn’t want to see photos. Some got through – but he was not in them. I’ve not heard from him since March- so I got worried. He’s not in any of the family photos. And he was mates with his sister’s Wife. He’s an avid photographer, so perhaps he was behind a lens somewhere. I fucking hope so. I hope he’s ok. But I know I can’t contact him. We didn’t ‘break’ – we faded. I was the only one contacting. He had no money on his phone, didn’t e-mail. I phoned and texted into a void. When I lost my voice from November (Dysphonia), and my hearing was also bad (SSCD) – it made contact difficult. But I kept on. Until March.

So I sit here wearing a vast panty pad, with an itchy, swollen rectum, a boil, a sty, a sore IN MY NOSE, palpitations….

Here’s a video from my youth to cheer you up.

*It’s like a cold sore, and is related to them. It’s fucking painful.

**I first got it in 2004. It’s not flared up in 10 years. I shit ye not. Now the big green bastard is teaching me a lesson.

***Cuts at the edges of my mouth. Yeah, I look swell.

No Canker Sores this time.

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22 Months

It’s been 22 months since my Mother died, and I’ve managed, finally, to sort through some things I found too sad to organise back then. And also some things I didn’t know I had to sort out. The conclusion: my Mum was a crafty mega-hoarder.

I have a lot of things, I don’t like change and I find it difficult to let go. Many of my possessions were ruined in a flood in 2008 and since then I’ve become a super-keeper. Since beginning to refurbish the house, I’ve gotten better. The only thing I would fight to the  death for are my old college files/books/notes. The rest of it I would get rid of… eventually. Art and sewing supplies are the worst as they don’t go off yet you can’t give scraps to charity. I am facing many fabric based choices.

I began tackling our Utility Room (again) as I saw a mouse in the Hall and decided that that was a sign from the Universe.* I found a box of my old shoes. They’re only old in date (2006-8) but they’ve never been worn. I can’t wear high heels, but I desperately wanted too and I got a fetish for them once mainstream shoe shops started doing my size (9). I must have spent most of my wages on heels. Finding them brought back some sad memories, and I’m glad that my local charity shop will be gaining from them. Man, I had good taste and those years produced some beautiful shoes. Fuck. I also found the shoes I wore to my Brother’s wedding (2002/3) which were still perfect, and have lasted longer than the marriage. Since 2002 I’ve been able to walk** and my feet have changed shape, so those shoes are going because my foot would smash them now. And because they can’t be very lucky, can they.

After finding and emptying a big box of my shoes, I discovered 4 boxes of my Mum’s. I’d cleared quite a few when she died, but finding yet more – unworn – was a bit of a shock. I found lots of other stuff bought from QVC (nail varnish, face cream…) and that is also going to charity. Once my Mum stopped working, she must have just shopped.

There has been a marked difference in my feelings going through all the *stuff*. I didn’t feel sad. Before I felt sad that she’d not lived to wear the shoes, use the cream, take the vitamins. This time I chuckled at the mass of items. And also being reminded of my Mum’s taste for the silly. I think she had 3 pairs of pink trainers. This rang nicely with my silly heels – shoes for times, and feet, that never were. So I don’t feel sad. And I don’t feel guilty for getting rid of the stuff. Mum would be more upset at the mice.

Other news: doing all this clearing has fucked up my right shoulder good and proper – the pain is keeping me awake and is barking at me as I type. I always forget that though strong, I’m flimsy.

I was discharged from ENT last week re: SSCD – if or when I want the operation (that was finally described to me) I can ask to be put back on the list. They are also sending me for speech therapy – I’ve been off the caffeine for 6 or 7 months but it’s not helped the underlying problem – my throat feels tight, I can’t produce a singing sound and my voice does disappear. Getting help for this is partly vanity. I am not beautiful, never have been – but I could always produce a good loud noise. I want my noise back. I don’t dye my hair, I don’t use wrinkle cream etc. but I do want my voice to be similar to that is was last November. I want to be able to sing a damn Christmas Carol.

*Universe or Mum – I am not a spiritual person, but I do think sometimes life gives you signs. And I don’t like to ignore things.

** In 1992 I hurt my left ankle on a charity walk, it froze and I limped until I was 22. The foot etc. did not develop and lack of walking left me with long, tiny (size A) fitting feet. I couldn’t even walk up to my local tube station – I had to be driven everywhere and ended up in A&E many times in agony. In 2002 I saw an amazing podiatrist called Ron McCulloch who ‘fixed’ my ankle. I am always in pain in that food, but it rarely goes stiff or swells. I can’t walk miles, but I can totter a bit – it’s variable. I have more problems with my hips, knees and spine re: walking.  Now my feet are a normal width though they do not bend properly and are not properly developed re: muscles/tendons, nor are my calves. My thighs on the other hand are massive.