Sad days and dizziness


Those ghastly bouts of anxious dizziness returned last week. Is it any wonder with unintelligible data at work and unfathomable propaganda and bigotry spreading through the damned nation. This isn’t the first time that my colleagues and I have experienced the frustration of purdah. It sounds like something glamorous and clandestine but its just muzzling us from having an outward opinion about political goings on. So no liking my friends Facebook posts then. Curses.

I won’t bore you with how disappointed and aggrieved I am with the decision that the ‘good’ people of Britain have made…because you can read it from one of the other millions of others telling the same story up and down the Isles. My conclusion, however, is this: Democracy is not democratic when votes are obtained by deception. I would vote for free unicorns for all and a guaranteed government funded chocolate cake every day but I have the intelligence to realise how unlikely those things are to be real, and that slaughtering all of our cows to make way for those unicorns is almost certainly a terrible idea. I know cows aren’t the most exciting animals and they cost a lot more than unicorns to feed, but they are also less prone to disappearing in thin air. Ah. Has the Penny dropped yet? (because the pound certainly has).

It’s kind of fascinating that the most well educated and financially-orientated areas voted one way….it’s almost like we could see what might happen…but it isn’t black magic guys…it’s just common sense, something woefully lacking in a vast swathe of the commoners.

I can only hope that those vertiginous shaky spells of mine were in no way prophetic…the same goes for the biblical hailstorm we had today.

My therapist says I need to be more positive and worry less…these are testing times.

Stand up and light that oilburner folks, let’s get out of here!


Action doesn’t happen of its own accord.
If everyone just rolled over, laid down and waited for someone else to deal with niggling or gargantuan issues, then we’d be forever stuck in a dark cave waiting for someone else to light the oilburner to find our way out.

Why are so many people so content to stand back and expect that regardless of what the problem is, or how closely it relates to them, they can just throw the reins to the winds of fate? It is someone else’s problem.

I wouldn’t mind so much but everyone seems to be so opinionated with it, so righteous, so quick to criticise. I wonder if they ever really think about how they would handle actually taking action and making a difference? Not just pontificating about what should be done, but genuinely doing something.

The world is so full of expectant spectators. They wait like TV audiences, waiting for the next episode so they can gripe about a show they couldn’t be bothered to vote for.

Next time you have the opportunity to be involved in shaping the outcome of something that will after your life, take it, or keep your criticisms to yourself.

As a distinctly apolotical beast, this rant may seem uncharacteristic, but I seem to be increasingly standing up and taking responsibility for whatever unpalatable roles there are at work that require someone to represent the murmering masses, that no-one else wants to do. They all want action, but they won’t do it. I know I’m not really the girl for these jobs, but I feel strongly that someone has to step up, so why not me.

You have to pick your battles, that’s what the say isn’t it? No one person can do everything, but if everyone did something, wouldn’t that lighten the load?

Precious little enough of our worlds are within our own control.
Why give up what opportunities you get?

I may have a utopian vision but come on folks. This isn’t 1984.

She resuscitates the hopeless

Ah, lovely fate with your twisted sense of humour. How I, on occasion, despise thee.

I’m totally putting everything that goes wrong at fate’s door because the only other possibility is that some pixies snuck in and lobotomised me while I was sleeping, and I don’t particularly like the idea of unsolicited trepanning, so yes, let us give fate a single raised eyebrow and disappointed look, rather than turning all that anger inwards.

It started off with a juice in the cereal bowl incident. This always upsets me because it doesn’t take that much effort to focus on the size, shape, weight and colour of the bottle in hand, buuuuut, my muesli finally got to taste that apple juice it’s been lusting after all week, and I can only imagine that it made the museli feel sick because, knowing that I was at least in part responsible for this situation, I tried to eat said cereal and juice combo but with no avail. And so it was, with a screwed up ‘yuck’ face, I started over with my breakfast making. The second pre-caffeine attempt at juice met with an even worse fate…a trip to see the deep pile rug. Now that’s going to smell lovely if I didn’t get it all out. I should come with strict instruction not to let me get out of bed until I’ve had a cup of tea, its just too dangerous for fruit juice and carpets the world over.

Work seemed to be trooping along just fine, even though I was neck deep in someone else’s soup of data that I had to polish into a gem. I was just seeing some headway when something didn’t fit and a penny dropped. The world stopped spinning for a second, I double checked and then ALL the pennies dropped, I mean, we are talking a veritable monsoon of pennies here. Not only had I spent days dragging myself through the unbearable tedium of this task, but, it would seem, I had overlooked one minor but very crucial aspect.

I forgot that I reanalysed the samples and got data that was a bazillion times better than the original, or, I forgot to check that I was really using the right files (with admittedly almost identical names). Just. Brain? Remember that thing you are meant to do? No? Yeah, exactly, I thought so….you’ve lost the ability to remember haven’t you? This is deeply frustrating because now I have to do all that bullshite processing again. It practically killed me through boredom the first time, how can I think about doing it again? Oh I see, you remember the pain of the data processing just fine, typical! At times like this a temporary lamobotomy might be useful. I’d be far less pissed off about the whole thing and less prone to chewing off my fingers or stabbing myself in the neck with a biro (somehow I did that today by mistake, put on a cardigan while forgetting I was holding a pen. Now I think I may have inadvertently tattooed my neck in a not so cool kind of way).

And another thing. Where the hell did my (insert whatever item I want or need right now) go? I remember having it, and picking it up and planning to put it some place safe and then nothing. Just a black void in my head where the vital information should be. A void that is quickly filled by worrying about whether that cupcake I ate yesterday had been sitting around too long in the wide open world. For fuck’s sake! I spent the entire cycle journwy to work repeating to myself that I needed to charge my bike light as soon as I got in so I wouldn’t forget. I remembered right up until I got to the plug socket and then boof, gone into the void and at 8pm, of course the light was still predictably dead. On the cycle home I repeated to myself that I needed to phone someone to say happy birthday as soon as I got home…then I walked through the door and boof, gone, and I spent a good deal of the day reminding myself about this one, did I do it. No, of course not. And I feel shitty as hell about it.

Past PSMP really tries to be helpful, but sadly has zero logical skills, and refuses to write things down to remind Future PSMP because clearly she’ll totally remember because 1. It’s OBVIOUS and 2. It’s important.

So, as I opened by blaming fate, I’d like to close on that note too. Rather than take responsibility for my ridiculous neuronal spaghetti, I’m going to say, this is what I was served and I shall simply have to tolerate these fatalistic flights of fancy. Or, i’ll have to start fashioning dresses for myself from post-it notes.

Please don’t hate me when I forget, erm, like, everything. I promise you it’s much more frustrating for me than it is for you.

“I’m not that medieval, sometimes, I write my thoughts down
I can never remember, who I am
Who I am, where I am, what on earth, I’m doing here”

  ~idlewild, everyone says that you’re so fragile

I know what you said, but that doesn’t mean that I understand which hat to wear

You sit me down to watch a TV show about health anxiety that makes me uncomfortable (due to being comparably mildly inflicted, and finding their behaviors grotesquely inspiring) and tell me in less than eloquent ways, that this stomach-churning anxiety I allegedly feel coursing through me on a daily and irrational basis is simply a fictitious product of what would, if it were real, be munchausen syndrome. That I’m not happy unless there is something wrong with me, and implying that I haven’t really achieved anything in overcoming a 15-year eating disorder because I’ve just replaced it with something else to fixate on. You seem to think that you understand exactly what is going on, that I’m copying someone else, and that I don’t need comforting or therapy or medication because there is nothing wrong with me and I just need to grow up and get on with things. At times like this, I just want to cry.

(Before I continue, I put on the hat of honesty with baubles of self-doubt)
I am in the referral process for CBT for anxiety. I recognised that this issue is infringing too much on my life and needs to be tackled (preferably without meds). I’ve had anxiety (mostly health and social-related) since I was about 5. I had my first panic attack at that age not long after I cut my hand on a broken mirror and realised that I was actually mortal, and not magical after all. It’s been downhill from there. It didn’t occur to me before now, before those suggestions of fake illness, that I might not be deemed ‘sick enough’ to be helped, but now I wonder. Do I really have anxiety? (puts in analytical hat) Well I have the physical symptoms, racing heart, chest pains, tension headaches, ibs, nausea, sweating, shaking, numb extremities, dizziness, the familiar racing thoughts, sleep disturbance, exhaustion, and terrible waves of nauseating fear, and I’ve been diagnosed and medicated for it before, but (puts on elaborate self-doubt hat) what if I’m making myself feel all that now so I can basically get attention? That would be so messed up. If that were true then surely THAT would need some psychological straightening out?

I was feeling positive about the prospect of new therapy and another bright shiny door towards freedom opening, but voices all too real and present, seem determined to tell me what I am and what I am not.(dons wizard’s hat) Few things upset and piss me off more than being told what I am, who I am, what I represent. I detest being defined as a portrait of a person that I don’t identify with. You think I haven’t changed? Well I’ve got news for you buddy…

So why, if I’m so worried about my health, can I let a dog lick my face, and cuddle a muddy horse? Why can I drink from a hosepipe but not take the last cup at the water dispenser or use a fork with any suspect marks on it? Well (balances analytical hat ontop of wizards hat) that, my darling, is a lesson in inconsistent and irrational thoughts.

“If you were my head
I would be heard”~K’s choice, my head

untangling this bedragled psyche

My subconscious is trying to tell me something. I really wish it would be a bit more direct and less distressing in its cryptic and undulating efforts.

Yes, I’ve been dreaming again – and no, we are not talking rainbows and unicorns and happy fluffy clouds.

Attempting to fall asleep is challenge enough on nights when my overactive parnaoia tells me that I don’t breathe enough and if I fall asleep I will die from asphyxiation (way to go brain, I thought you had a doctorate?). But eventually I made it there and hoped to escape the fears and frustrations of real life but what met me was actually far far worse.

I dreampt that my grandmother was still alive, albeit gravely ill. A grand concert had been arranged in her honour in a huge theatre hall – the place was packed out with her friends and family and everyone else who loved her even from afar. I sat close to the stage with her and she seemed worried – she was asking me about her symptoms that she was scared about. I reassured her as best I could, knowing deep down that these signs were  portent of the  shallowing of her vital signs into the beyond. I had to leave for a moment, and when I returned she had gone – whisked away, I was told, to hospital with my mother and brother. No-one could tell me which hospital or what had happened, and I ran out immediately to see if I could catch up with them before the ambulance left but there was nobody there. What followed was a typical dream scenario – I needed to return to my seat to recover my phone to ring the hospitals but I couldn’t find my way in. I repeatedly found myself being spun around in corridors and wandering down precarious steps with the lights flickering off, I simply could not find my way back despite the growing frustration and  fear, the right door refused to show itself and my exhausted unconscious eventually spat me out of the building, leaving me unable to get back in.  A female friend hugged me and took me back to her hotel room to try and get some rest, and she went to bathe while I fruitlessly tried with my sudden inability to read or recall numbers, to use the predictably dead room phone. When she came back out, she was dressed in red and black lingerie with deep red lipstick and dramatic black eye makeup, she glided on over to me, clearly determined to distract me from my distressed state, but despite the allure I chose the weight of rejecting someone over the guilt of not trying every possible route to getting to my grandmother before she died. When I left the hotel, the world had been sucked inside out, and the theatre no longer stood where it once had. I was at the centre of a hurricane of sadness and guilt with no place to go. Unable to resolve this dream scenario, my subconscious moved on to another plane and whatever happened thereafter was nothing to me, nothing to put between the trauma of what happened there.

How can one person contain so much unexpressed guilt, be it real or not. What the hell do I feel so guilty for? If I don’t work out the puzzle I wonder one day if I will just explode and scatter all this oppressive horror back into the cosmos where it belongs.


“they really don’t believe her
she keeps it all a secret
found the Golden Muses
doesn’t need to prove it

(She Waits)
she’s a time bomb” ~kidney thieves, Arsenal


Something disturbing, something awesome and something darnwell painful

what a day!

I’ll start with the something awesome. I went to visit my gran and mum and rummaged in my old room. I found a story book that I wrote as a young kid with my best friend Emily…I still need to read through it as I can’t remember what happened, all I know is my handwriting was dreadful where Emily’s was neat and her illustrations far surpassed mine in skill!

Naturally SO has decided to take the piss, claiming it’s a story about pony pony and pony walking along, saying hello to ponypony and walking along saying pony pony pony. That childhood magic was broken entirely with his comment.

Ok something painful, I have acquired a saddlesore the size of a planet. SO thinks it’s ok to keep slapping my arse, mimicking a flicking motion at me while calling me ‘saddlesore’ or ‘bumflick’ and then taking the piss riotously when I say the sore is below my sit bone. Apparently as he’s never seen a sit bone on an anatomical diagram and continued making ‘humourous’ japes about sitting down on his SIT bum etc.
Sigh, maybe if I had looked it up before and given the medical term ‘tuber ischiadicum’ known as the sitz or sitting bones, perhaps he would have been less vile.

Ok now something disturbing. I found out that when my grans partner who is diabetic, became very ill, he was hospitalised. This is fine, then he was released to her and my mother to care for, but he had forgotten how to deal with his insulin injections. Instead of straight away calling the necessary people to find out how to deal with him, they believed him when he said it was ok to use the same needle for a week. Anyone with the slightest hint of common sense knows you NEVER re-use a needle…only the seriousness of the situation didn’t sunk in…eventually when he was rehospitalised they learned the truth…new needle every time…but they could have killed him. And somehow my mother was able to tell me this tale through bouts of laughter. I am horrified…they used the same needle multiple times a day, did not clean or refrigerate it, used it on multiple insulin vials….I’m just shocked that they didn’t think to ask someone (me) who has experience in sterile techniques etc….I just run cold thinking about it. I know that they were under pressure dealing with him but I could have furnished them with more information than they had and contacted the right people in the NHS had they only asked but I had no idea what was going on! So yeah…it just makes me wonder what games people are playing. There is more to add but I can’t write that here…I’m just glad the guy managed to survive without severe blood poisoning against all odds.

Anyway I will see if I can scan in that story.