Look, see how festive I’m being. Ho.Ho Ho.
Another Xmas done and dusted (or glittered as it was this year) if only Santa had bought the correct type of batteries. Alas!
Now I wait.
I wait to discover whether the miasmic pain and fatigue of late are from a source physical or psychological. Bets are still being taken. My money is split between anxiety-provoked organ dysfunction and wholesale pancreatitus. Thanks Dr Google. You always know just what to say at times like this. GPs money is on gastritis (again?Oh come on that’s just not fair!)
I wonder how the psychological asessment process designed for grossly normal people who are stressed or depressed, will cope with all of this (gestures to ludicrous potentially staph infected face). It doesn’t bode particularly well that they didn’t want to see me initially because of my eating disorder history, but I’m certainly not going to go knocking on ED services’ door for health anxiety help!
To be honest I’m a bit nervous about this whole thing. Nervous in an uncharacteristically rational way.
I haven’t had a psychiatric or psychological assessment like this for quite a few years and the last one didn’t go so well. I fell into the gap between two services that wouldn’t help me and so wound up going private. The contradictory stories were that I was too complicated for one department buy not sick enough for the other. Sigh. I’ll have to get the balance right this time.
The form I had to pre-complete scores me as moderately severely depressed and moderately severely blighted with general anxiety disorder.
How weird. I don’t feel that depressed. I haven’t thought about killing myself or anything equally dire for ages, I can still get out of bed of a morning and haven’t gone into the weird slow motion utter braindead phase, so I figure I’m just fine on that front. Adequately functional thank you. Hopefully they won’t try to focus on that shit because this level of depressed or non- is actually perfectly tolerable. What is not tolerable is freaking out at stupid illnesses that I will never get, and about going somewhere where I will have to interact with actual people in a social setting. I really want to be able to do that…to be able to go to a party and not spend the whole time nauseously shaking and clenching my every muscle for fear of falling apart, and double thinking every damned word and movement for fear of rejection or inadvertently falling dreadfully ill. I’m such a shit person to go to the pub with. Seriously. That 1 in 100 times I actually go and don’t make some lame excuse, it’s really not worth it for everyone else’s comfort and conversation! It would be easier if I could have a few drinks and be less of a corner-hugging wide-eyed weirdo but sadly my current internal organ rebellion refuses to allow even than concession. If anxiety is to blame I’ll be pissed off. Bastard self-preserving anxiety stopping me from tolerating cns depressants.
Checking my grades for the phobias and social adjustment mcq it says I have severe social functional impairment (no shit) and who knows what the phobia questions say.
Yuck. All those categories. I know how the game works though. I’m supposed to have lower scores at the end of whatever course they give me. If they even so much as suggest I also still have an eating disorder, I’m likely to punch them in the face. Ok maybe not but at the very least I won’t be impressed.
Creativity has taken a hiatus while I try to figure this mess out. The prize for most unremarkable post of the day goes to me and my tireless fear of life and death.
I spent all night drifting in that wasteland between conscious and unconsciousness. Feeling for every swathe of grey, every vicious muscular twinge, trying to figure out how the brain and body knew to switch off. Wondering when and if that point would come to me, then circling back to the start of the process. Grey on grey and no sign of the subconscious anywhere,just an empty room. It wasn’t until after the furious burst of someone else’s early morning obnoxion retreated that I finally regressed into sleep. Some 20. Mins of cruel and twisted reminders of why I couldn’t drift off before, and I awoke startled, drenched in sweat and wondering if the shine had finally worn off that favourite escape of mine.
The sea was angry that weekend, eager to thrust up and meet the rain even as it fell, threatening to swallow up the town, peeling paint, rusted signs, and faded children’s characters and all. The scent of salt and someone else’s thirty-year-old childhood holiday memories mingled with this desolate backdrop, fraying the edges of expectation and hope. Something narcotic and bitter spewed from the winds, tempting us into belief that this is, infact, not the edge of the world, that reason had not abandoned us completely after all, even after the covetous seagulls seemingly had the good sense to move on. The cruel air whipped us senseless so that we retreated into battered denial, and hoped that there was something glittering here still, that deserved more attention than the congealed food from someone else’s long-gone meal.
In the shelter of the venue lingered the scent of years of ground-in hotdogs and vomited pick-and-mix, melded in with stale beer and that unmistakable fragrance that only ever originates in a crowd of sweating humans. The lights too garish to leave even a corner in questionable mystery. Flashing and squealing arcade machines begged for our attention, drawing us away from their unwanted, untended and dysfunctional siblings. Artless, vacant images hung in a grotesque attempt at glamour, fall too short even for another century.
And then there was the music.
Aural art washed over us all and the collective mood shifted. The brush of ambience tinting over the tatty paint, granting a spell promising to make us forget. The voices of the instruments, human and otherwise, telling intricate stories, one by one, of their lives. The stages shifted from delicacy to aggression, fury to candour, and all the while, taking us further and further into the abyss that we were brought here to experience. Three days of pulsing lights, throbbing with each beat, tapping out a code, a key to survival. The wild and restrained coalesced and in that moment, we were all alive. Spiralling relentless and earth-shaking bass lines that left us feeling like the world around us had liquified and drowned itself, and even in the afterglow we hear the lapping of the current overhead where the gales had every right to be.