Friday, February 5, 2016

Tomorrow, I hope to spend some time making my bedroom less of a musty, clothes-strewn pit.
I hope to hoover away dust and cobwebs and change my sheets. put stuff in the bin, away, up.

I say hope to, because mostly what happens in Saturday is I lie in bed, flailing around in my head.

PMS (or what might even be Pre Mestrual Disorder) has me in her destructive, hysterical, misery-addled grip. I don't want to say anything... just to stop thinking, keep stopping thinking, don't think about anything, because these reactions are not real, and won't last to this degree.

This is not the week to think about anything.

Though I think Mwa's description of it as being deluded that everyone around you is an asshole until you suddenly realise it's  you being the asshole is the most astute thing I've ever read about PMS. Maybe I have Accute PreMenstrual Asshole Disorder. How do they medicate for that? I hope with more cake. My mother in law left three hefty slices of trans fatty, sugary coffee swiss roll here today, and Bodhi and I hoovered it up - then I debated leaving the third out for Olivia to pretend she hadn't eaten, and I just couldn't face the rigmarole, and what if she didn't, and... I just devoured it instead.

Then Bodhi came in, horrified, and said he was hoping we could share it - shit, child, I hadn't even thought of that! How ghastly am I? I'm tempted to go buy another one tomorrow to make up for it. And also to satisfy my cake lust. But I should at least make something less artificial instead.

I wish I  could spend PMS week in suspended animation, on holiday from my brain.

Sunday, January 31, 2016

ah, piss

My problem-riddled student wanted to have lunch with me this weekend. I dithered, said probably not... today tried to have a chat instead. She told me she misses me - as she always does. Last week she said hello on facebook and said
 '48 hrs!'
 'Longest yet!'

Turns out she counts the hours between getting to talk to me. I had no idea how to articulate how uncomfortable that makes me. The same with her telling me she misses me all the time. I had to try and make it a bit clearer to her today that I don't have space in my life for her needs. And apologised for allowing her to think I did, or encouraging her... sort of. It's very difficult to balance, and I haven't done it right.

She had said she was going to go to Portugal; I was suspicious, but she made it seem fairly legit sounding. Today, in response to me trying to say that I didn't have enough time in my life for the friends I do have, she said 'I have plans... everything will be ok far away' - so I'm fairly sure the plan is to go somewhere else and kill herself.

But... here is the thing with 'saving' someone from suicide - you can't then be there all the time, or become their reason for living. It's a perverse proposition. If my attention is the only thing keeping her happy... she's not happy.

The fucking irony of it - I've a daughter who hates me and who I can't be around for more than 30 minutes without some stupid fight breaking out, a brother who never sees me, a sister I dislike and who dislikes me, a virtually estranged father, a husband who couldn't bear to be with me... but I'm the be and all and end all to an abused, suicidal Brazilian girl. Fuck my life.

I would love to call my friend Cassie, who I adore, and with whom I laugh like no one else, and who gets in touch with me once every ... 4 months? But I know she's busy, I know she's tired, that she has every-day friends in her life that she needs to see, so I let her come to me.

I would love to walk up to ... I don't know, my tall male colleague, and ask for a cuddly hug that went on for longer than 20 seconds so I'd get an oxytocin hit, but I recognise that this is inappropriate.

It's my fault for allowing it, though... the saddest thing is that I won't do it again - offer that level of help, in case of a repeat. I hate that she's proved my cynical, job--ends--here colleagues right. I feel stupid, and culpable, and stressed by it all. But I can't keep up a charade of friendship because of that. 

Friday, January 29, 2016

weary and wishing

I left the house slightly later than intended, and readied myself to sit in traffic. There was no traffic, there was a clear road. I drove down it, peering around, and wondering if was somehow Saturday.

Then I got to the traffic lights, and realised they were out.

Let that sink in - normally, a good 15 minutes of traffic on a given school day. No lights... empty road.

Do you think the council knows about this?

At the lights, the phone wires in the trees were hissing and cracking blue sparking lights. That was quite scary, but two ESB vans were pulling up, so I assumed all was under control.

Our own power has stayed constant through this series of storms we've had. Lucky.

My headache is threatening a comeback. I am weary, weary. Weary of foot, and head, and heart.

Here is what I would like, what my soul and body crave: I would like to take off any constrictive clothing I might be wearing, and crawl into a big, soft bed, where a warm, solid, affectionate man is waiting with open arms. I want to be drawn in to somebody's chest, and held against their heartbeating, letting the healing magic of skin to skin right my hormone balance and restore a sense of peace and calm.

I would like to be snuggled under fluffy covers, read to, and allowed to full asleep with a sense of security and well being, however transient (or... fake) that might be.

That is what I would like. Recently I've got better about not yearning for it much, but some days the longing sneaks back in. Tired days. I would like a hand to rub the stress out of the back of my head and neck. I would like to be squeezed tight. 

morning impotent whinge

I have to leave the house in 18 minutes, and I'm sitting here in my towel. It's blowing a gale outside, Storm Gertrude, to be exact. Loud wind and rain automatically make me want to Stay In Bed.

Yesterday I had to take the second half of the day off (two whole hours, gasp!) because I had a meeting with the psychiatrist for Olivia. It finished after 12, so I could have gone back to work for an hour, but I'd booked the time off, and it's probably bad etiquette to ask someone to sub for you and then kick them out part way. So it felt weird, but I went and had a coffee with my friend and we walked the dogs in the pissing rain. (I'd hoped we'd get home before the rain, but we didn't quite).

That was nice.

She'd just got awarded a domestic carer's allowance, I thought there was no way she'd get it on first application, so I'm delighted and bolstered, and now I'll apply too, instead of hiding from the task. Ah, Jo.

Anyway. Now I have to go in 15 minutes. Tsk. Really glad it's Friday! 

Saturday, January 23, 2016

my stupid facebook meme

Jo is still in bed at 2.05pm even though she's getting really hungry.

Jo is emotionally disabled. 

Don't be like Jo. 

Friday, January 22, 2016

I just read an account by a man who got a virus and lost the ability to talk for three years. He lost his job and got divorced as a result too.

Then his ex put him in touch with a doctor who cured him very simply, just like that.


I feel a little like I can't talk either, for no real reason. I feel clammed up. I want to write things and I just .. .can't quite do it. It's too hard to articulate, too laborious, not that interesting anyway, and then the moment passes and ... bleh.

I have no idea who I am any more, to tell the truth.

Anyway, I liked Mwa's post about gravity and gratitude, and fell down a rabbit hole in trying to formulate a response so I gave up, and thought I'd share this thing instead. I love this woman's ideas. I would like to do her course and then become a teacher in Ireland, as there aren't any classes here. But .. I won't. Instead I'll share the video with you in case you'd like it.

I praticed trying the glide walk today. I have no idea if I was doing it properly, but it did seem like I was using butt muscles instead of thigh muscles to propel myself, but I could have been making that up a bit. Interesting to try, though. Imagine re-structuring yourself and having no more back/hip/shoulder pain etc? Nice idea. 

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

I've been in a ... I can't think of the word, I want to say headlock, but it's more like an impasse, for the last several months, over the bite splint that my dentist made for me to help my TMJ problems.

It has worked quite well for that, but I've found, since I got it, that grinding on it has worn away at the back of my upper front teeth until they're kind of open and rough and slanted feeling at the tips, and the chipped bit at the front is ... more chipped on the surface. This seems to have caused my pronunciation to change, and I'm struggling to pronounce my 's' and 't' without whistling a little, which is not good in my line of work.

I went back to the dentist and she told me it wasn't possible for plastic to wear down enamel. When I continued to have problems she looked into the research more and confirmed this, and when I was still insistent that the changes happen after I've worn the guard, she sent me to a specialist and I paid €150 and two hours of my time to be condescended to, have my lifestyle belittled, and told to relax again, the way the dentist who first gave me the TMJ and started me grinding told me to do yoga. 'What is it my wife does?' he asked in plummy tones, 'mindfulness?'

I went back again to plead for a new soft guard like I used to have, but they won't make me one as it's too bad for my jaw. She gave me a free consultation with the expert who is, I think, her partner, who worked really hard at not being condescending, and instead explained that I have a condition the name of which I haven't retained, but it seems to be a fancy word for hysteria - I've become hyper sensitive to the inside of my mouth, and things which nobody else would notice are bothering me. It's serious, he says, as it causes people so much distress and anxiety. He underlined my anxiety issues, asked about panic attacks, about how all this affects me, was sympathetic rather than condescending - sympathetic because I have this mental illness he was describing. Because it's not possible for the guard to wear down teeth, so therefore I am either doing it myself at other times, or ... just crazy.

I feel extremely conflicted. One because my son sat there listening to the whole thing silently, and looking back, I'd rather he hadn't heard all that.
Two because I feel incredibly sure of the changes and discomfort I recognise in my mouth when I wake up in the morning.
Three because I was just talking to someone about the phenomenon of medical professionals dismissing and making light of women's complaints about their health and the alarming statistics about how much life is lost as a result...
And not least because there is, of course, the possibility that they're right and I'm delusional. And if this is the case, I'm seriously delusional, and should I be allowed out unsupervised if I'm this unwell?

All along the dentisty people contradict themselves a lot, or so it seems to me - plastic can't damage enamel, but the bad type of guard I had could because it concentrated the pressure in one spot, but this one couldn't, even though the way I have been grinding on it has also concentrated all the pressure in one spot, oh it's not the same. I'm hyper sensitive to what's going on in my mouth, but at the same time, I'm doing the damage during the day without noticing...

But then, I am depressed, I am anxious, I do have a chronically stressful situation to live with.  It's not that much of a leap to suggest I'm fucking crazy as well.

I'm finding this all very hard to take - I always do. Oh, god, I want to reset to when I was eighteen, and I was relatively thin, I had no fillings and I didn't grind my teeth or pull my hair out, and my vagina was still relatively robust and my perineum wasn't scarred and my eyebrows were nice and full and my skin was resilient and my breasts, while not ones anyone would pick out of a catalogue were at least firm and youthful, not that I understood that. And I didn't have a headache that had gone on for two weeks.

I feel like I'm disintegrating. I don't know what to do. He filed the splint down for me, and smoothened it, which is what I'd thought she'd do the first time I went back to her with it, and instead she got defensive and upset.

Ugh. I feel like the whole thing with the suicidal student has knocked me into a downward spiral. I've no defenses agaisnt this tooth stuff. I don't know how to get back on track. And I don't know how to be a dynamic, brave, selfless Autism Parent either. Disintegration. 

Sunday, January 17, 2016


Oh, my sides.

The Iona Institute are a small group of Catholic nutballs who oppose all deviations from religious control with wild hyperbole and twisted logic. They seem to have quite a lot of power - forcing the national tv station to pay them tens of thousands, for example, because the gay man they were telling gay people should be stopped from having children suggested that removing the right to be a parent from gay people is homophobic. They clutched their pearly rosaries at the suggestion, and suuuueeeed. RTE caved instantly. If you want to look up the fantastic speech the gay activist maded in the wake of this, youtube 'Pantigate'.

I just read an article by said Institute on how all of us liberal fans of freedom of individual expression who idolised Bowie so much should look at his life, and see how much happier he was once he stopped doing cocaine and wearing dresses and makeup, and settled down with a nice woman and wore suits, like a sensible man should. See what doing all those things did for his life! Give up your gender bending ways, kids, it's so much easier if you don't fight...

I thought I'd grown out of laughing at the ridiculousness of such archaic conservative religious wafflings, which I loved so in my youth. But no. This is as hilarious to me as it would have been when I was fifteen. Thanks for the laugh, Iona Institute. God bless your tenuous grip on psychology, and reality.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

I would like this

Perhaps I should put it on my vision board, and conjure myself up a white bathroom suite while I'm at it. *nods*

Monday, January 11, 2016

I'm not a Bowie fan. Never was. Not that I dislike him, at all, quite the opposite, but he was never mine. Not like Robert Smith or Black Francis or Glen Hansard or whoever. I don't own a Bowie album. Axl bought the Greatest Hits some years ago (probably ten years ago, considering how time flies and I was vaguely surprised to realise I knew most of the songs. Not recognised them, but knew them, to sing along to. Despite not being a fan, his songs are part of my wallpaper.

I watched the first half of his Lazarus video last week, and I thought ... God... scary - what is this? With the rag blindfold with the blacked out eyes, this Beggar Death figure with a husk of a voice. And listening to the radio, I thought, who is this music for, depressed goth teenage forty year olds? A new audience? As an older audience, I was embarrassed to indulge in such ... well, you know. Self indulgent depressive teen music. I've finally pretty much left that behind. This was music for lying in the dark to. Drawing Tipp-ex pictures on your homework journal to.

But I was wrong. It was dying music. A swansong, a goodbye before he left. It's music to confront your own mortality to.

My reaction to seeing his death announcement when I woke up this morning was No. No no no. I think that's my stock reaction to unexpected death, if I think back. No no no, this thing is too awful to be. How many of us googled it, assuming it had to be a hoax? Having been through loss, I feel utterly tenderised by it. David Bowie's death won't impact on my life much - I can live without the idea that I won't get to hear new Bowie music again. But the overwhelming grief of the world's loss of such a fine, intelligent talent and personality - the wonder of him - the people who do grieve the loss of his music in their lives, his influence-  and all the people who he loved, whose light he shone on - it's their loss that is hurting me today.

I feel that grief must be a design flaw. I know it's not just human, this desperate capacity for love, it's in the animal world too. But it's so debilitating. Our need for our parents, for our children, out awareness of loss, of the stretch of the rest-of-our-lives-without-them out in front of us. When I cancelled my honeymoon, and my mother died, I was crushed with the realisation that I would never be really, wholly happy again. Self fulfilling prophesy, I guess, too, but grief feeds so much negativity. It washes everything grey. When I hear stories of other people's loss, or in this very special case feel the loss of the wider world so acutely, it sharpens my fear of that grief again so keenly. I confess, I'm terrified of it.

The worst thing about Bowie going, is how few icons there are left now, and how there is nobody of their calibre to replace them. There are no new Bowies and Springsteens - I don't think there are even any Kurt Cobains anymore. Everyone's insipid now, flashes in the pan. It's too easy to rise to dizzy heights these days, and then fade away into the distance so very fast. And it's all fucking X Factor profit driven meh, if you'll excuse the grumpy old woman moment.

I hope someone comes to save music, and let it really live again. Or maybe Bowie just did his work too well, and we don't need it too much any more?