1. Go swimming. This was originally going to be 'Go swimming every week' and then 'Go swimming every month' and then I decided to be vaguely realistic.
2. Get the house spotlessly clean. For at least one day.
3. Sew at least once a week.
4. Do an hour of housework a day each weekday.
-STOP-
That list fucking sucks. Ahhhh. When I first started this entry it was supposed to be an AWESOME list of FUN and AWESOME. Now it's a to-do list of chores. I have a feeling my list should actually be more like 'Learn to ride a motorbike!' 'Take salsa classes!' 'Have coffee with a hobo!' 'Run away to Paris for a week!' but that doesn't seem like a good list to write. I think it would probably just depress me.
Money is set to be bad this month. It's always bad, but this month its going to be especially bad. Mr A has the next 11 days off work and we'll be able to speak to the council about benefits we should be recieving, but that will take at least 3 weeks to come through. In the meantime we'll be living on vapours. Funtimes. Once again I'm disgustingly thankful that we use cloth nappies and I breastfeed. We wouldn't be able to afford nappies or formula this month.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Sobriety, illness, PND, and pork
Today has been bad. Like, really bad. Like, raging-PND-that-you're-not-supposed-to-admit-to, mentally-counting-all-the-pills-in-the-house, shaking-in-a-corner bad.
First of all, Mini-A is being a shit. It's not really her fault, she's teething and has a cold and that sucks for her, but she is also being a shit. I have bruises and welts and scabs and broken blood vessels from where she has been....what word fits? It's not assault or abuse because there's no intention. It's not playing, because that makes it sound much less malevolent than it is. She hurts me because she's angry, because she doesn't know her own strength, because she's frustrated. At under 10 months old, I really can't expect much from her in the way of self restraint. But days like today when I've been pummeled near non-stop and when she isn't hitting she's shouting, are tiring days. It doesn't matter that it's not her fault. It' not mine either and I just have to live with it.
We've talked about the PND before. It's there. It doesn't go away. But it's more managable some days. However today I got to the end of the day and I just wanted to not exist. I have been Sober With A Capital S for most of the last couple of years, falling off the wagon once or twice. The 2nd anniversary of the first major wagon fall is pressing down on us right now. Two years ago this month a dear friend took her own life and mine fell apart. I didn't do anything for 6 months. I lay in bed, I didn't talk to my husband. I drank. I smoked. I was a terrible person to be around. I have no memories of it. They just aren't there. So with this looming over me and Mr A's job getting more stressful every week and with A.B being 'difficult' and with my physical health ebbing, you may go some way towards understanding why I have a drink balanced on my knee right now. This drink and writing this entry is the only thing stopping me getting dressed and walking out the house. Ostensibly,to buy a packet of cigarettes, but in reality, I know I would find an excuse not to come back. Right now, it's That Bad.
Ask most mom's why they do what they do for their children, why they want the best for them, why they work so hard for them, and they'll be able to sum it up in one word: Love. Because they love them.
My huge shame and my greatest regret is that do my best, work my hardest, and try to do everything 'right' to make up for the fact that I don't love my daughter. It's the one thing she needs most and it's the only thing I can't give her. Instead I give her breastmilk and carefully chosen clothes and child-rearing methods that I've painstakingly researched to try to fill the gap that post-natal-depression has left between us. Maybe if I do a good enough job with everything else, it won't be too bad. Her father loves her, and I raise her kindly and carefully. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't matter that I'm incapable of loving her. Maybe it will mean that when mental illness inevitably shuffles me off into the ante-room of existance it won't be too bad for her. It may even be a relief to finally be free of her un-mothering mother.
Meanwhile, I will lactate and make her pork chops (her favourite) and play the airplane game and pick out pretty clothes so that when she looks back on the pictures of herself as a baby, the pictures I'm never in, she'll feel the fact that even though I didn't love, I did care.
First of all, Mini-A is being a shit. It's not really her fault, she's teething and has a cold and that sucks for her, but she is also being a shit. I have bruises and welts and scabs and broken blood vessels from where she has been....what word fits? It's not assault or abuse because there's no intention. It's not playing, because that makes it sound much less malevolent than it is. She hurts me because she's angry, because she doesn't know her own strength, because she's frustrated. At under 10 months old, I really can't expect much from her in the way of self restraint. But days like today when I've been pummeled near non-stop and when she isn't hitting she's shouting, are tiring days. It doesn't matter that it's not her fault. It' not mine either and I just have to live with it.
We've talked about the PND before. It's there. It doesn't go away. But it's more managable some days. However today I got to the end of the day and I just wanted to not exist. I have been Sober With A Capital S for most of the last couple of years, falling off the wagon once or twice. The 2nd anniversary of the first major wagon fall is pressing down on us right now. Two years ago this month a dear friend took her own life and mine fell apart. I didn't do anything for 6 months. I lay in bed, I didn't talk to my husband. I drank. I smoked. I was a terrible person to be around. I have no memories of it. They just aren't there. So with this looming over me and Mr A's job getting more stressful every week and with A.B being 'difficult' and with my physical health ebbing, you may go some way towards understanding why I have a drink balanced on my knee right now. This drink and writing this entry is the only thing stopping me getting dressed and walking out the house. Ostensibly,to buy a packet of cigarettes, but in reality, I know I would find an excuse not to come back. Right now, it's That Bad.
Ask most mom's why they do what they do for their children, why they want the best for them, why they work so hard for them, and they'll be able to sum it up in one word: Love. Because they love them.
My huge shame and my greatest regret is that do my best, work my hardest, and try to do everything 'right' to make up for the fact that I don't love my daughter. It's the one thing she needs most and it's the only thing I can't give her. Instead I give her breastmilk and carefully chosen clothes and child-rearing methods that I've painstakingly researched to try to fill the gap that post-natal-depression has left between us. Maybe if I do a good enough job with everything else, it won't be too bad. Her father loves her, and I raise her kindly and carefully. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't matter that I'm incapable of loving her. Maybe it will mean that when mental illness inevitably shuffles me off into the ante-room of existance it won't be too bad for her. It may even be a relief to finally be free of her un-mothering mother.
Meanwhile, I will lactate and make her pork chops (her favourite) and play the airplane game and pick out pretty clothes so that when she looks back on the pictures of herself as a baby, the pictures I'm never in, she'll feel the fact that even though I didn't love, I did care.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Moms, Jewish Convents, Zombies, and Foxes
I feel the need to show you the e-mail I just sent my mom, to prove to people that the way I write my blog is not a million miles from who I really am. I sometimes worry people think Blog-Me is an act I put on. Because I put on a lot of acts. I'm that sort of person.
Also, it's fucking amusing. To me, at least. And hopefully to my mom too. And even if she has no sense of humour, fuck it. It's mothers day, she has to pretend to love everything I do.
It's now 5:52am. So I'm out. Like a light. Except they don't go out, do they? They go off. So I never understood that phrase. You don't turn a light 'in', a light doesn't go 'in', it goes 'on', so why does it go 'out'?
Important fuckin' questions, y'all.
Also, it's fucking amusing. To me, at least. And hopefully to my mom too. And even if she has no sense of humour, fuck it. It's mothers day, she has to pretend to love everything I do.
I was going to phone but some arsehole (Mr A) has helpfully removed the batteries from the phone without telling me, rendering it useless. Good thing I didn't need to phone the fire brigade or anything, RIGHT? ARSE.
Anyway, I hope the boys gave you (let you buy yourself) nice presents, and that you have a good day of chilling in the pool and reading. Bliss!!
Love you
x
PS: Have included a picture of A.B at her boyfriends 1st Birthday party. They have a love/hate relationship. There is LOVE! for a minute, and then there was hate for about 6 hours. Have also included a picture of said boyfriend, because he's fricking gorgeous and she's a lucky chick, snagging herself a handsome older guy. We've already told her though, this age difference? Alright when you're 9 months old. Not so alright when she'll be 15 and the equivalent age ratio would make a boyfriend 20. Mr A is still trying to figure out the Jewish equivalent of Convent school. I keep telling him they don't have one, it's just Schul and a lot of guilt and Yiddish and eye-rolling, but he refuses to believe there isn't somewhere paranoid Jew-y fathers can send their daughters. He says the Jews invented paranoia and it's basically why Christianity exists because you have to be pretty paranoid to think a guy that says he walks on water and turns it into wine but doesn't turn massive bodies of water into wine is a serious threat. I have to admit he has a point, but I don't think that changes the fact that the Jews seem to know better than to lock a bunch of teenage girls up in a school with only religion and hormones for company. Jews may be paranoid but they're not delusional. Except Jesus. He was a little delusional. But that's alright, he had cool party tricks. Plus he was pretty much the original zombie and everyone loves zombies.
PPS: Also, a fox. Because it was sweet and you have wallabee's and stuff, but can you look out your kitchen window and see a fox? NO, Madam. You CAN'T. So I must bring the fox. And bring the fox I shall. Consider yourself outfoxed.
PPPS: It's 5:40am. Does it show?
It's now 5:52am. So I'm out. Like a light. Except they don't go out, do they? They go off. So I never understood that phrase. You don't turn a light 'in', a light doesn't go 'in', it goes 'on', so why does it go 'out'?
Important fuckin' questions, y'all.
Friday, 7 May 2010
I pack it in real good
That title is pleasingly suggestive. It is making me giggle.
So it's 8:30am and so far today I have:
-Showered
-Dyed myself pink
-Scrubbed myself raw
-Tried out two hairstyles
-Fallen out of bed twice
-Had breakfast AND coffee
-Looked up all my directions for travelling later
-Had a stare-down with a rabbit
-Made scathing and witty political commentary via Facebook
-Made unscathing and unwitty skin-dying commentary via Twitter
-Waved off Mr A with a parting shot about not loving me because I'm pink now, just to keep him on his toes
-Given extremely serious thought to being productive in the kitchen
-Decided not to give into insanity (re: kitchen)
Now, given that by 8:30 on most mornings I am still dragging myself out of my comatose state while begging A.B to go-back-to-fucking-goddamn-sleep-please-baby-breath-mummy-loves-you-please-sleep-PLEASE, I think that this is actually pretty awesome going.
However, there are a few problems in this sudden burst of productivity. Most pressingly, I am pink. Bright pink. This would be fine if all I had to do all day was mooch around the house, scrubbing myself with Q-tips soaked in bleach. However, I actually have to leave the house in an hour and I'll be doing TWO seperate social functions today. A picnic with a friend and my very first kid's birthday party as a mother. It is pretty damn exciting. I feel like this is a rite of passage. Which I am going to complete while PINK. Secondly, I am also now pretty tired. Awesome. I'm going to fall asleep in that poor kids cake and ruin the whole damn party. All because I have a need for hair the color of raspberries.
So it's 8:30am and so far today I have:
-Showered
-Dyed myself pink
-Scrubbed myself raw
-Tried out two hairstyles
-Fallen out of bed twice
-Had breakfast AND coffee
-Looked up all my directions for travelling later
-Had a stare-down with a rabbit
-Made scathing and witty political commentary via Facebook
-Made unscathing and unwitty skin-dying commentary via Twitter
-Waved off Mr A with a parting shot about not loving me because I'm pink now, just to keep him on his toes
-Given extremely serious thought to being productive in the kitchen
-Decided not to give into insanity (re: kitchen)
Now, given that by 8:30 on most mornings I am still dragging myself out of my comatose state while begging A.B to go-back-to-fucking-goddamn-sleep-please-baby-breath-mummy-loves-you-please-sleep-PLEASE, I think that this is actually pretty awesome going.
However, there are a few problems in this sudden burst of productivity. Most pressingly, I am pink. Bright pink. This would be fine if all I had to do all day was mooch around the house, scrubbing myself with Q-tips soaked in bleach. However, I actually have to leave the house in an hour and I'll be doing TWO seperate social functions today. A picnic with a friend and my very first kid's birthday party as a mother. It is pretty damn exciting. I feel like this is a rite of passage. Which I am going to complete while PINK. Secondly, I am also now pretty tired. Awesome. I'm going to fall asleep in that poor kids cake and ruin the whole damn party. All because I have a need for hair the color of raspberries.
Monday, 3 May 2010
10 Things You Should Hate About Me
1. I over-use the words Really, Seriously, Actually, Ridiculously and Also. I don't think I can get through a paragraph without using one of them. It's a disease.
2. I have bad taste. In everything. I like tasteless things on both ends of the spectrum, too. I'm talking 'Mommy drinks because I cry' t-shirts for babies AND floral ruffled romper suits. My bad taste does not discriminate.
3. I swear like a sailor. I also swear in front of the baby. Fuck it. The day she accidentally swears in front of her grandparents will be the proudest day of my life.
4. I'm needy. Ridiculously so. Like right now? I'm considering waking my husband up so he can tell me I'm pretty.
5. I'm a snob. Pretty much about everything, but only if I don't like you. I WILL argue with you for years about the pronunciation of 'scone' and I will totally sneer at you if you have Twilight as your 'favourite book' even though I've read the entire series cover to cover four times. It's just how I roll.
6. I'm not a nice person. I'm just not. I'm not one of those people who is just *nice*. I'm pretty much only nice if I love you. Luckily, I love easily.
7. I'm unflinchingly self-obsessed. ME ME ME ME ME. Everything is about me.
8. I have no self-esteem, which makes me paranoid, obsessive, mean, spiteful, pathetic, whingey, two-faced, and introverted. You will almost never see the 'real me' unless you know me for years, or unless I am SO DRUNK, but now that I'm sober, that's unlikely to happen. (sobriety is fucking boring as hell.)
9. I'm so vain I can't even think of ten things you should hate. So you tell ME what the tenth thing is. What do you hate about me?
2. I have bad taste. In everything. I like tasteless things on both ends of the spectrum, too. I'm talking 'Mommy drinks because I cry' t-shirts for babies AND floral ruffled romper suits. My bad taste does not discriminate.
3. I swear like a sailor. I also swear in front of the baby. Fuck it. The day she accidentally swears in front of her grandparents will be the proudest day of my life.
4. I'm needy. Ridiculously so. Like right now? I'm considering waking my husband up so he can tell me I'm pretty.
5. I'm a snob. Pretty much about everything, but only if I don't like you. I WILL argue with you for years about the pronunciation of 'scone' and I will totally sneer at you if you have Twilight as your 'favourite book' even though I've read the entire series cover to cover four times. It's just how I roll.
6. I'm not a nice person. I'm just not. I'm not one of those people who is just *nice*. I'm pretty much only nice if I love you. Luckily, I love easily.
7. I'm unflinchingly self-obsessed. ME ME ME ME ME. Everything is about me.
8. I have no self-esteem, which makes me paranoid, obsessive, mean, spiteful, pathetic, whingey, two-faced, and introverted. You will almost never see the 'real me' unless you know me for years, or unless I am SO DRUNK, but now that I'm sober, that's unlikely to happen. (sobriety is fucking boring as hell.)
9. I'm so vain I can't even think of ten things you should hate. So you tell ME what the tenth thing is. What do you hate about me?
Saturday, 1 May 2010
One of those days
When I really really really wish I had woken up with an infectious disease that would force me to stay home.
Firstly, my wake-up. A package came in the morning, which required me leaping out of bed when the doorbell went and flying down three flights of stairs, detouring halfway to grab a dressing gown, standing on A.B's little plastic octopus of EVIL, screaming 'FUCK FUCK FUCK OWWWING FUCK!' while trying to wrestle the dressing gown on (one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Of course.) AND grab my keys (my house is a fricking fire hazard, you have to lock yourself in at night, with KEYS. One day we WILL all die at the bottom of the stairs) AND hope that A.B didn't decide to crawl out of bed and wasn't at this very moment in time lying bleeding on the floor. I got there in the end though, dropped the keys, picked them up, found the right one, opened the door to my postman's right arm, the rest of him already being halfway to the next house. But it was ok, because in this package was clothes I had ordered. My first Maxi dress, a HOODSCARF with EARS and button-eyes (pretty sure Jae will divorce me, but that's ok. I'll have my hoodscarf for comfort), a very cute tea dress, a nautical headband (thick horizontal navy and white stripes with a matt gold helm! So cute!) and a pair of those shoes that are supposed to be small enough to fold up and put in your bag.
I get upstairs and A.B had NOT crawled off the bed. This was the high point of my day.
First of all, the shoes. I bought them in a 6. This was taking into account that I was a 5 and that my feet grew a little while I was pregnant. I figured a 6 was generous enough. I figured wrong. They weren't even big enough for me to get on properly. I screeched 'I AM NOT A FUCKING SEVEN!' at them. They looked back at me silently, as if to say 'Hey lady, if the shoe fits...oh no, wait! BURN!' It is a bad day when you get zinged by your shoes.
Then, my outfit. When we got up and I got dressed, it was SUNNY and WARM, so I basically built my entire idea of what I would wear around that. Then, 20 minutes before we had to leave, the sun is all 'Nah, I'm going back to bed, Laterz.' and I am Fucked. I managed to just about figure out another outfit, but I'm one of those people who cannot tolerate last minute, unexpected change. I don't mind EXPECTED spontaneity. I don't mind if I KNOW I'm not going to know what's happening. But if I plan something and then something comes along and messes it up completely, I get twitchy like a crack addict without a fix.
Then I leave the house and we're running late so despite knowing I should really really really really take the bus, I don't. I get in my car and I decide to drive to the coffee date with the aforementioned mom-friend who isn't actually a friend, just a mom I know. We have literally nothing in common besides the fact that we were both pregnant at about the same time. Almost immediately, I find myself either directly behind or directly in front of a police van. Awesome. Because I'm not a nervous enough wreck, what with the plan-switching and the shoe-mocking and all. No. I need to have a Police Presence. I am, in fact, so busy trying to drive carefully around the police that I fucking crash my car. Ok, I didn't. I dinged it on a width restricter and you can't even tell. But my heart stopped beating and I was roughly 300% positive I'd written my car off. Because I'm an optimist like that.
Next, I didn't have enough change for the meter for very long, so I put in everything I have with the intention of asking for change once I get inside, but they won't give me any and then my 'friend' turns up and I forget about the fucking parking meter in favour of making chit-chat (are you seeing where this is going?). An hour later I realise, and jump up and rush to my lovely beautiful wonderful brand new car to find a bright yellow envelope stuck to it.
Fucking. Awesome.
Oh. Oh, oh, OH, BUT IT GETS BETTER. Because not only was the ding and the outfit and the parking fine and all that enough, no. But as I'm sitting in my care trying to pay the fine I get a tweet through on twitter (no, really? A tweet on twitter? Say it ain't so) telling me that I'd been caught doing something that I technically should not have been doing, and I was in Big Fucking Trouble.
So basically, I had the day from hell and I wish I had woken up on Thursday covered in spots and chosen to spend my day quietly erasing all evidence of my wrongdoing and NOT driving, or parking, or getting dressed. Because that really would have been preferable to the rain of shitness that I was privy to instead.
And I am sending those asshole shoes back and asking for a pair in 6+1. Because I'm not a fucking seven.
Firstly, my wake-up. A package came in the morning, which required me leaping out of bed when the doorbell went and flying down three flights of stairs, detouring halfway to grab a dressing gown, standing on A.B's little plastic octopus of EVIL, screaming 'FUCK FUCK FUCK OWWWING FUCK!' while trying to wrestle the dressing gown on (one of the sleeves was pulled inside out. Of course.) AND grab my keys (my house is a fricking fire hazard, you have to lock yourself in at night, with KEYS. One day we WILL all die at the bottom of the stairs) AND hope that A.B didn't decide to crawl out of bed and wasn't at this very moment in time lying bleeding on the floor. I got there in the end though, dropped the keys, picked them up, found the right one, opened the door to my postman's right arm, the rest of him already being halfway to the next house. But it was ok, because in this package was clothes I had ordered. My first Maxi dress, a HOODSCARF with EARS and button-eyes (pretty sure Jae will divorce me, but that's ok. I'll have my hoodscarf for comfort), a very cute tea dress, a nautical headband (thick horizontal navy and white stripes with a matt gold helm! So cute!) and a pair of those shoes that are supposed to be small enough to fold up and put in your bag.
I get upstairs and A.B had NOT crawled off the bed. This was the high point of my day.
First of all, the shoes. I bought them in a 6. This was taking into account that I was a 5 and that my feet grew a little while I was pregnant. I figured a 6 was generous enough. I figured wrong. They weren't even big enough for me to get on properly. I screeched 'I AM NOT A FUCKING SEVEN!' at them. They looked back at me silently, as if to say 'Hey lady, if the shoe fits...oh no, wait! BURN!' It is a bad day when you get zinged by your shoes.
Then, my outfit. When we got up and I got dressed, it was SUNNY and WARM, so I basically built my entire idea of what I would wear around that. Then, 20 minutes before we had to leave, the sun is all 'Nah, I'm going back to bed, Laterz.' and I am Fucked. I managed to just about figure out another outfit, but I'm one of those people who cannot tolerate last minute, unexpected change. I don't mind EXPECTED spontaneity. I don't mind if I KNOW I'm not going to know what's happening. But if I plan something and then something comes along and messes it up completely, I get twitchy like a crack addict without a fix.
Then I leave the house and we're running late so despite knowing I should really really really really take the bus, I don't. I get in my car and I decide to drive to the coffee date with the aforementioned mom-friend who isn't actually a friend, just a mom I know. We have literally nothing in common besides the fact that we were both pregnant at about the same time. Almost immediately, I find myself either directly behind or directly in front of a police van. Awesome. Because I'm not a nervous enough wreck, what with the plan-switching and the shoe-mocking and all. No. I need to have a Police Presence. I am, in fact, so busy trying to drive carefully around the police that I fucking crash my car. Ok, I didn't. I dinged it on a width restricter and you can't even tell. But my heart stopped beating and I was roughly 300% positive I'd written my car off. Because I'm an optimist like that.
Next, I didn't have enough change for the meter for very long, so I put in everything I have with the intention of asking for change once I get inside, but they won't give me any and then my 'friend' turns up and I forget about the fucking parking meter in favour of making chit-chat (are you seeing where this is going?). An hour later I realise, and jump up and rush to my lovely beautiful wonderful brand new car to find a bright yellow envelope stuck to it.
Fucking. Awesome.
Oh. Oh, oh, OH, BUT IT GETS BETTER. Because not only was the ding and the outfit and the parking fine and all that enough, no. But as I'm sitting in my care trying to pay the fine I get a tweet through on twitter (no, really? A tweet on twitter? Say it ain't so) telling me that I'd been caught doing something that I technically should not have been doing, and I was in Big Fucking Trouble.
So basically, I had the day from hell and I wish I had woken up on Thursday covered in spots and chosen to spend my day quietly erasing all evidence of my wrongdoing and NOT driving, or parking, or getting dressed. Because that really would have been preferable to the rain of shitness that I was privy to instead.
And I am sending those asshole shoes back and asking for a pair in 6+1. Because I'm not a fucking seven.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Idiot. And Zombies.
It's 3:40am, I have a mild fever (what's up with that? I'm not even sick.) and I have a coffee date with my mom-friend who I get on least well with and have least in common with and am most judged by in 8 hours and I need to sleep at some point, so naturally I decided this was the best time to change my blog layout.
Equally naturally, I did a fucking shitty job, and now it looks shitty. My blog looks like it has a terminal illness. Fucking awesome.
___
So the other day a friend(/psychopath) challenged me to tell her about something that I had invented that someone else had taken credit for, or she was going to kick me out of our secret society and shame me in front of all our friends, and I was all HELL NO BITCH and so I submitted this. For your viewing pleasure:
Equally naturally, I did a fucking shitty job, and now it looks shitty. My blog looks like it has a terminal illness. Fucking awesome.
___
So the other day a friend(/psychopath) challenged me to tell her about something that I had invented that someone else had taken credit for, or she was going to kick me out of our secret society and shame me in front of all our friends, and I was all HELL NO BITCH and so I submitted this. For your viewing pleasure:
It was a dark night. I was sweating profusely, my skin taking on a green sheen. The leprosy was taking hold, and worst of all, it was joining forces with the tapeworm. I'd already lost a couple of toes down the back of the sofa and as I slid the needle into my arm, I felt the muscles start to disintegrate and the flesh come apart. The situation was getting seriously fucking dire.
I withdrew a vial of my blood, just enough to complete my experiment. Exhausted, I handed it to my assistants, Raul and Georgie R. I gave them detailed instructions on what to do and shuffled off to rest in the drawing room of my mansion.
Suddenly, I heard a commotion. Something crashed to the floor, there was a roar of anger and outrage. George came streaking out of the labratory, grabbed a broom and ran back. I lifted myself up on my elbow and fell back down when the flesh on my forearm ripped and slid off.
The sound of wood hitting flesh over and over rained down upon my ears for ten minutes, and then silence. There was nothing for 3 hours, and then a low groan that got louder and louder arose. Metal rattled against metal and every now and again I could hear George muttering to himself. 2 days later, he brought in an elixir that cured the strange leprotic illness and 3 days after that, he sent me to a spa for recovery. When I arrived home a week later the labratory had been cleaned out, the corpse was gone, as were George and Raul. There was no evidence of our experiments. This struck fear into my heart, but I decided it was better to let it lie, lest the authorities ask what exactly we were doing in the sewer under the graveyard that night.
I well regretted that though, when my humble assistant turned his hand to film making and a few years later George Romero was some kind of sodding cult hero and rolling in it! I INVENTED ZOMBIES, GOD DAMNIT. WHERE ARE MY FUCKING ROYALTY CHEQUES, HUH? THREE MONTHS OF MY SKIN FALLING OFF FOR FUCKING NOTHING. TWAT.
If you don't read anything else, read this.
Jenny wrote a blog at the beginning of the month that I've only just read (why do I always forget to add her to my sodding bookmarks? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.) and I feel so, so strongly that if you haven't already read it, you must.
That's all.
"Hi. It's me."
That's all.
Monday, 26 April 2010
It can always get worse.
So, you know how I was whingeing the other day about being tired and wah wah wah, I wasn't going to get any sleep, and oh how terrible my life is? Well then my baby went grey around the mouth and suddenly being tired was seriously the tiniest teeniest least of my problems. We spent all day in A&E, me trying to hold myself together, A.B trying to eat the furniture, Mr A trying to calm me down and keep me calm.
She's fine. But it just goes to show that anytime you think things are bad, they can probably get worse.
I'm having a really grumpy week this week when it comes to food. I'm just absolutely desperate for things I really can't have. We bought some DF chocolate cake today hoping it would tide me over, and it tasted like eating packing peanuts. It was awful. So now I've wasted £4 or whatever it was on cake I'm not going to eat. I snuck some to A.B and she spat it out. Or, rather, she opened her mouth, pulled a face, and thrust her tongue out until it fell to the ground, where she gave it a disgusted look and crawled away. This is the child that will eat dirty socks.
I would chew my own hand off for some cheesecake. Or some scones with jam and cream and real butter. Or a donut! Mr A had donuts today and I don't even like donuts but I WANTED ONE.
My IBS is flaring up something chronic the last day or so too, so I am hungry for things I can't eat for another 3 months at least, and I'm in near constant agonizing pain. Which you'd think would put me off the idea of allergens, but all it does is make me think 'Well if I'm already in pain, what's the harm?' and puts naughty thoughts in my head. And then I have to go 'Remind yourself you said that tomorrow morning at 4am when A.B has chronic diarrhea and is vomiting on your face.' and that's JUST about enough to put me off. For the moment.
I'm so tired and moody, so I will sign off, because at a certain point, it just becomes ranting, and no one likes ranters.
She's fine. But it just goes to show that anytime you think things are bad, they can probably get worse.
I'm having a really grumpy week this week when it comes to food. I'm just absolutely desperate for things I really can't have. We bought some DF chocolate cake today hoping it would tide me over, and it tasted like eating packing peanuts. It was awful. So now I've wasted £4 or whatever it was on cake I'm not going to eat. I snuck some to A.B and she spat it out. Or, rather, she opened her mouth, pulled a face, and thrust her tongue out until it fell to the ground, where she gave it a disgusted look and crawled away. This is the child that will eat dirty socks.
I would chew my own hand off for some cheesecake. Or some scones with jam and cream and real butter. Or a donut! Mr A had donuts today and I don't even like donuts but I WANTED ONE.
My IBS is flaring up something chronic the last day or so too, so I am hungry for things I can't eat for another 3 months at least, and I'm in near constant agonizing pain. Which you'd think would put me off the idea of allergens, but all it does is make me think 'Well if I'm already in pain, what's the harm?' and puts naughty thoughts in my head. And then I have to go 'Remind yourself you said that tomorrow morning at 4am when A.B has chronic diarrhea and is vomiting on your face.' and that's JUST about enough to put me off. For the moment.
I'm so tired and moody, so I will sign off, because at a certain point, it just becomes ranting, and no one likes ranters.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Tired.
So we're getting closer and closer to figuring out what's 'wrong' with me. We think we've cracked it but it's early days. I don't have a terribly sympathetic set of doctors....they already think I'm a raging hypochondriac so going to them with a self-diagnosis is always best avoided. But no one has diagnosed me and they can't diagnose me unless I say something is wrong...therein lies the problem.
This should feel good. It should feel like hunting big game...drawing closer and closer, so tantalizingly close I can hear it's heartbeat and smell its sweat. But it doesn't. It feels like circling the drain, getting further and further down, trying desperately to fight the tide. Because if it is what we think it is, it's not a case of me needing to pull my socks up and get in a good headspace and work out my issues and plow through. Which, much as I hate it and am bad at it, is pretty much the only way I've survived so far. I would have to stop plowing through and start accepting limits, and I'm just not sure how well I can do that.
This morning I am so tired my body aches all over. A.B decided that 4am was an awesome time to wake up for the day, and I hadn't slept, counting on her not waking up til 7:30 so I could rest until then and go to sleep earlier tonight. 3 and a half hours of awake-baby more than I was counting on had me shattered by the time 7:30 rolled around and Mr A left for work. It's 9:40am and I'm near sick with exhaustion. My vision won't keep up with where my head is turning, my muscles feel like they're unravelling, and my stomach is heaving. I need sleep but I can't have it and that's the worst. The aching resentment of being denied what I want so much.
Bah. It's only 9 hours til Mr A gets home. I'll just have to survive somehow. Pity the foo' who cold-calls me today....
This should feel good. It should feel like hunting big game...drawing closer and closer, so tantalizingly close I can hear it's heartbeat and smell its sweat. But it doesn't. It feels like circling the drain, getting further and further down, trying desperately to fight the tide. Because if it is what we think it is, it's not a case of me needing to pull my socks up and get in a good headspace and work out my issues and plow through. Which, much as I hate it and am bad at it, is pretty much the only way I've survived so far. I would have to stop plowing through and start accepting limits, and I'm just not sure how well I can do that.
This morning I am so tired my body aches all over. A.B decided that 4am was an awesome time to wake up for the day, and I hadn't slept, counting on her not waking up til 7:30 so I could rest until then and go to sleep earlier tonight. 3 and a half hours of awake-baby more than I was counting on had me shattered by the time 7:30 rolled around and Mr A left for work. It's 9:40am and I'm near sick with exhaustion. My vision won't keep up with where my head is turning, my muscles feel like they're unravelling, and my stomach is heaving. I need sleep but I can't have it and that's the worst. The aching resentment of being denied what I want so much.
Bah. It's only 9 hours til Mr A gets home. I'll just have to survive somehow. Pity the foo' who cold-calls me today....
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Damnit, Janet.
So last night I was lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, and I had THE MOST AWESOME idea for a blog-post ever.
So naturally, I have completely forgotten not only what it was but what it was even vaguely related to. Quelle Surprise!
Instead I'm going to go into some light-hearted heavy talk. Do you mind? I don't care.
I have mentioned in previous posts that I'm physically disabled, and that I have a lot of medical issues, and that I've had a fair few mental health problems. I want to phrase that in a less dramatic way but there just isn't one. It is what it is.
Today I went out to see a friend for coffee. The sun was shining, the weather was pleasant but not TOO warm, and because it's only April, we didn't have the horrible muggy stifling summer air that seems to make Londoners so irate all the time. All in all, it was a really great day to be out. I had a great time chatting with my friend (who is A.B's Godmother) and come time to go home, I decided instead of getting on the bus and jolting about for 40 minutes I was going to stroll partway home. It's not THAT long a walk. At least, it wasn't in my head. Before I started. So I set off, and I have Justin Timberlake and the Glee Soundtrack on my iPod and the weather is awesome and I was feeling great. I got about halfway home and decided to just carry on instead of waiting to get on a bus now. I thought I'd save myself the 90pence.
MISTAKE.
See, I have always been slightly double jointed. Not quite circus-freak bendy, and not as bad as some have it, but my joints don't always stay where they should. This got really bad when I was pregnant when my hips parted like the red fricking sea. I was in absolute agony for most of my pregnancy. Some days I couldn't even walk, because I couldn't make my legs work. They just...wouldn't do what I told them to. All my ligaments and muscles felt stretched and it felt like I was resting a bowling ball on the bones of my pelvis. My doctor essentially told me to suck it up. And I did, and I made it through with no treatment, medication, or even sympathy, because at the time I believed everyone when they told me I was being a great big pansy and I just needed to woman-up and get on with it. Except, since giving birth, my hips now like to play this game where they randomly screw with me. I'll be walking along and suddenly they go funny and I feel like one of those toys where you push down on the base and it releases the tension holding the parts together and they collapse. You know those things? Of course you do. Anyway, that's what happens. Usually I soldier on, lean extra hard on the pushchair and deal with the pain until I can sit down. If it's especially bad, I might actually fall down. This, is embarrassing. But as awful and horrible and annoying as having my hips randomly come apart is, it is good, in a way. Because it helps me feel that what I was going through while pregnant was valid. I WAS in pain. There was a medical problem. They ignored it. I didn't need to 'toughen up'. I needed assistance. I wasn't weak and young and stupid, I was genuinely in trouble.
Validation is a big thing for me. I seek it everywhere, with everything. One particular problem I have is using the label 'disabled'. The United Kingdom government officially recognises me as disabled. Quite a lot, in fact. If I look at it coldly and logically, I know I am. I am less able than the average person. So why do I have such trouble with using that term? Why do I not feel validated? Which is why Mr A ends up yelling at me because I forget my limits and push myself and then end up making myself sick, or messing up my mobility for weeks. Because when you look normal on the outside and everyone expects normality from you, it's hard to remind yourself that what is normal for you is not the same as what is normal for other people.
Why do I need validation when it comes to my pregnancy? It's over, isn't it? It's done with, it's gone, it's in the past. Why dwell on it? Why keep trying to find the hidden meaning in it all?
I think because we always planned to have 3 kids, but then A.B's conception came as a surprise, and I had a very bad pregnancy. I was high risk, I was very ill, and we spent 9 months worried out of our minds. I didn't have it nearly as bad as a lot of people, but I had it bad enough for a 20year old with no friends or family around to lean on for support. So I relied on medical professionals who I can now see let me down terribly. And it was so bad, we decided we could never ever put ourselves through it again. But if I can identify what made my first pregnancy so awful and work on thinking about what I would have done differently if I was given a second chance, then I can open myself up to the possibility of more children.
I got home, in the end, and flopped down onto the sofa, whereupon my legs immediately went numb and my hips set fire to themselves, but I looked at my awesome little girl, pulling on her dad's hair and so close to walking and talking that it aches, and I thought 'This is a good hurt. This s a hurt of opportunity.'
So naturally, I have completely forgotten not only what it was but what it was even vaguely related to. Quelle Surprise!
Instead I'm going to go into some light-hearted heavy talk. Do you mind? I don't care.
I have mentioned in previous posts that I'm physically disabled, and that I have a lot of medical issues, and that I've had a fair few mental health problems. I want to phrase that in a less dramatic way but there just isn't one. It is what it is.
Today I went out to see a friend for coffee. The sun was shining, the weather was pleasant but not TOO warm, and because it's only April, we didn't have the horrible muggy stifling summer air that seems to make Londoners so irate all the time. All in all, it was a really great day to be out. I had a great time chatting with my friend (who is A.B's Godmother) and come time to go home, I decided instead of getting on the bus and jolting about for 40 minutes I was going to stroll partway home. It's not THAT long a walk. At least, it wasn't in my head. Before I started. So I set off, and I have Justin Timberlake and the Glee Soundtrack on my iPod and the weather is awesome and I was feeling great. I got about halfway home and decided to just carry on instead of waiting to get on a bus now. I thought I'd save myself the 90pence.
MISTAKE.
See, I have always been slightly double jointed. Not quite circus-freak bendy, and not as bad as some have it, but my joints don't always stay where they should. This got really bad when I was pregnant when my hips parted like the red fricking sea. I was in absolute agony for most of my pregnancy. Some days I couldn't even walk, because I couldn't make my legs work. They just...wouldn't do what I told them to. All my ligaments and muscles felt stretched and it felt like I was resting a bowling ball on the bones of my pelvis. My doctor essentially told me to suck it up. And I did, and I made it through with no treatment, medication, or even sympathy, because at the time I believed everyone when they told me I was being a great big pansy and I just needed to woman-up and get on with it. Except, since giving birth, my hips now like to play this game where they randomly screw with me. I'll be walking along and suddenly they go funny and I feel like one of those toys where you push down on the base and it releases the tension holding the parts together and they collapse. You know those things? Of course you do. Anyway, that's what happens. Usually I soldier on, lean extra hard on the pushchair and deal with the pain until I can sit down. If it's especially bad, I might actually fall down. This, is embarrassing. But as awful and horrible and annoying as having my hips randomly come apart is, it is good, in a way. Because it helps me feel that what I was going through while pregnant was valid. I WAS in pain. There was a medical problem. They ignored it. I didn't need to 'toughen up'. I needed assistance. I wasn't weak and young and stupid, I was genuinely in trouble.
Validation is a big thing for me. I seek it everywhere, with everything. One particular problem I have is using the label 'disabled'. The United Kingdom government officially recognises me as disabled. Quite a lot, in fact. If I look at it coldly and logically, I know I am. I am less able than the average person. So why do I have such trouble with using that term? Why do I not feel validated? Which is why Mr A ends up yelling at me because I forget my limits and push myself and then end up making myself sick, or messing up my mobility for weeks. Because when you look normal on the outside and everyone expects normality from you, it's hard to remind yourself that what is normal for you is not the same as what is normal for other people.
Why do I need validation when it comes to my pregnancy? It's over, isn't it? It's done with, it's gone, it's in the past. Why dwell on it? Why keep trying to find the hidden meaning in it all?
I think because we always planned to have 3 kids, but then A.B's conception came as a surprise, and I had a very bad pregnancy. I was high risk, I was very ill, and we spent 9 months worried out of our minds. I didn't have it nearly as bad as a lot of people, but I had it bad enough for a 20year old with no friends or family around to lean on for support. So I relied on medical professionals who I can now see let me down terribly. And it was so bad, we decided we could never ever put ourselves through it again. But if I can identify what made my first pregnancy so awful and work on thinking about what I would have done differently if I was given a second chance, then I can open myself up to the possibility of more children.
I got home, in the end, and flopped down onto the sofa, whereupon my legs immediately went numb and my hips set fire to themselves, but I looked at my awesome little girl, pulling on her dad's hair and so close to walking and talking that it aches, and I thought 'This is a good hurt. This s a hurt of opportunity.'
Friday, 9 April 2010
Don't cry over wrongly prescribed milk
There is a running joke among some friends of mine and I that I just cannot catch a break when it comes to Baby A.B's allergy and the associated problems. First off, exclusively breastfeeding a baby is hard. Exclusively breastfeeding a baby when you are physically disabled is really hard. Exclusively breastfeeding a baby when you are physically disabled and then that baby turns out to be very seriously allergic to milk so you have to cut all traces of any dairy whatsoever is really REALLY hard. I lost weight, I got sick, I had no energy, I couldn't eat easily and without having to put a lot of thought into my food (a major major problem for an ex anorexic.), I couldn't eat out, or at other people's houses, I didn't trust anyone to cook for me...it was and is, very very difficult. Cutting out dairy also kicked my dormant intolerance of milk into overdrive, and I am now VERY intolerant of it. Hoorah!
Like I said, cannot catch a fucking break.
Dealing with the Dr's has been some of the worst. First I was told there was no such thing as an allergy to milk, and even if there was, there was no way she would get milk through MY milk. I knew this was wrong, but Mr Doctor Man with his big medical degree decided he was NOT WRONG. Even though he was. He refused to refer me to the Paediatrician I needed to speak to. So I went to a different doctor and got my referral. The paed immediately agreed she had a dairy allergy and said the milk exclusion diet I'd started was the best thing to do and gave me a pat on the back. So we toddled off, happy that our problems seemed solved. But they weren't! Because now her classical reflux was fixed by excluding dairy, she still had silent reflux! Joys! We only saw the paed again at the beginning of March, and she wrote an order for the GP to prescribe us an acidity regulator and some dairy-free formula in case we need it. So we toddle off and collect our medication, but the GP has declined to prescribe the formula, and since I wasn't told the paed had recommended it, I didn't know we were supposed to be receiving it. Then we find out that the medication we've been prescribed is HIDEOUS tasting, and only keeps for a fortnight. So we have to get the prescription filled every two weeks, which is hideously inconvenient when the associated paperwork takes four days. This week the GP also put the formula on the prescription, which Mr A picked up and dropped off, because I was stuck inside staring down the Vacuum Hose of Anxiety, but he gets home and I find out that the GP has only gone and prescribed the wrong formula! The stuff that he's prescribed is a supplement and it isn't even suitable for children her age! It's 12 months plus, and neither he NOR the pharmacist noticed that they'd prescribed and ordered this shit for a fucking 8 month old baby. So I had to go out today and dick around, going from pharmacy to GP's office getting things corrected.
Can someone tell me how I am supposed to trust these people with my and my baby's life when they can't even check age suitability labels when prescribed what is essentially medication?
Twats.
Like I said, cannot catch a fucking break.
Dealing with the Dr's has been some of the worst. First I was told there was no such thing as an allergy to milk, and even if there was, there was no way she would get milk through MY milk. I knew this was wrong, but Mr Doctor Man with his big medical degree decided he was NOT WRONG. Even though he was. He refused to refer me to the Paediatrician I needed to speak to. So I went to a different doctor and got my referral. The paed immediately agreed she had a dairy allergy and said the milk exclusion diet I'd started was the best thing to do and gave me a pat on the back. So we toddled off, happy that our problems seemed solved. But they weren't! Because now her classical reflux was fixed by excluding dairy, she still had silent reflux! Joys! We only saw the paed again at the beginning of March, and she wrote an order for the GP to prescribe us an acidity regulator and some dairy-free formula in case we need it. So we toddle off and collect our medication, but the GP has declined to prescribe the formula, and since I wasn't told the paed had recommended it, I didn't know we were supposed to be receiving it. Then we find out that the medication we've been prescribed is HIDEOUS tasting, and only keeps for a fortnight. So we have to get the prescription filled every two weeks, which is hideously inconvenient when the associated paperwork takes four days. This week the GP also put the formula on the prescription, which Mr A picked up and dropped off, because I was stuck inside staring down the Vacuum Hose of Anxiety, but he gets home and I find out that the GP has only gone and prescribed the wrong formula! The stuff that he's prescribed is a supplement and it isn't even suitable for children her age! It's 12 months plus, and neither he NOR the pharmacist noticed that they'd prescribed and ordered this shit for a fucking 8 month old baby. So I had to go out today and dick around, going from pharmacy to GP's office getting things corrected.
Can someone tell me how I am supposed to trust these people with my and my baby's life when they can't even check age suitability labels when prescribed what is essentially medication?
Twats.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
The thing about blogging
The thing about blogging is this:
When you're feeling up, you're too busy being up and out of the house and enjoying life to sit down and commit words to your thoughts, and anyway, what do you have to say? Everything is great! There's only so much you can say about how much stuff rocks.
When you're down, you have plenty to say, but lack either the motivation to sit and figure out your head-fuckery, or the inclination to depress your readers with your woe-is-me bullshit.
So you start a blog, with every intention of updating regularly and using it properly, but then you go through a low patch, and then a high patch, and then another low patch, and before you know it you haven't updated in a month and every day that goes by is another day full of things you don't want to talk about.
The Good:
I have gained weight! I am now pushing 98lbs (7stone for UK readers, 44.5kg to antipodeans) which at almost 5'7 is not great, but it's a darn site better than the 92lbs I'd been hovering at for so long. Hopefully this is the push my body needed to start gaining weight properly.
The Bad:
Money isn't wonderful right now. We had a major one off expense last month that gobbled up Mr A's whole paycheck and sort of crippled us until next payday. We're maxed out, everywhere, and that sucks.
The Ugly:
Today I was ambushed by the worst anxiety attacks I've had in about 2 years. If I thought it was awkward having them before, having them in charge of a 8 month old beastlet impossible. I'm going to have to go beg a doctor to think about prescribing me something, but since I can't even get them to give me an appointment for a medication review for Booby-Breath, I don't know how much luck I'll have.
Ciao, beautiful people.
When you're feeling up, you're too busy being up and out of the house and enjoying life to sit down and commit words to your thoughts, and anyway, what do you have to say? Everything is great! There's only so much you can say about how much stuff rocks.
When you're down, you have plenty to say, but lack either the motivation to sit and figure out your head-fuckery, or the inclination to depress your readers with your woe-is-me bullshit.
So you start a blog, with every intention of updating regularly and using it properly, but then you go through a low patch, and then a high patch, and then another low patch, and before you know it you haven't updated in a month and every day that goes by is another day full of things you don't want to talk about.
The Good:
I have gained weight! I am now pushing 98lbs (7stone for UK readers, 44.5kg to antipodeans) which at almost 5'7 is not great, but it's a darn site better than the 92lbs I'd been hovering at for so long. Hopefully this is the push my body needed to start gaining weight properly.
The Bad:
Money isn't wonderful right now. We had a major one off expense last month that gobbled up Mr A's whole paycheck and sort of crippled us until next payday. We're maxed out, everywhere, and that sucks.
The Ugly:
Today I was ambushed by the worst anxiety attacks I've had in about 2 years. If I thought it was awkward having them before, having them in charge of a 8 month old beastlet impossible. I'm going to have to go beg a doctor to think about prescribing me something, but since I can't even get them to give me an appointment for a medication review for Booby-Breath, I don't know how much luck I'll have.
Ciao, beautiful people.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Dear Chest Infection
Hey! Hi! Sup?
Do you think that maybe perhaps we could have a discussion vis a vis your apparent desire to make your previously temporary residence permanent? Only, and I mean no offence, but you're not really my favourite tenant. I mean, ok, you're not quite as bad as A.B was. There was no way SHE was getting her tenancy deposit back, it's just that well, we never really agreed on you moving in, did we? You kind of took it upon yourself and I didn't really put up a fight like maybe I should have, but I was tired and everyone said it would only be a temporary arrangement. So I thought 'Hey man, I can be cool, I can be hip, I can be down with it' and I thought I'd let it slide. But now I'm getting a little ticked off. It was one thing to break all the pipes in my sinus', one thing to clog up my lungs like Chewbacca taking a nap in the shower, one thing to do that weird trick where everytime I stood up the room tipped upside down (how did you manage that, by the way? I must know. Excellent dinner party trick.) I could be a good sport. I could grin and bear it for a week or two. I could keep refilling the mug with honey and lemon tea and pretending I didn't notice you keeping me up all night and coughing in my baby's face.
But really, it's just gone too far now.
Five and a half weeks!
Five and a half weeks is not 'crashing just a couple of nights til I get my own place sorted'. Five and a half weeks is not 'I know a guy with a spare room, I just need to save some money for a deposit'. Five and a half weeks is almost squatters right and you know what? I am just NOT cool with this anymore.
Look. I still want to be friends, but I feel you're taking advantage of my generosity here. I know I should have called it quits when you took 4% of my body weight. I probably should have spoken up when my voice went, but..well..my voice was gone. And yeah, you could say it was my fault for not saying anything when I spent the entire night coughing/retching in the bathroom so that I wouldn't wake Mr A and A.B up, but I was trying to be nice. I was trying to be a good fucking Samaritan, ok? OK??
I'm sorry it's come to this, but I'm afraid I'm asking you to leave. Now. Or I really am going to call the police.
Or, at least, get Mr A to do it, since I seem to have lost my voice again....
Do you think that maybe perhaps we could have a discussion vis a vis your apparent desire to make your previously temporary residence permanent? Only, and I mean no offence, but you're not really my favourite tenant. I mean, ok, you're not quite as bad as A.B was. There was no way SHE was getting her tenancy deposit back, it's just that well, we never really agreed on you moving in, did we? You kind of took it upon yourself and I didn't really put up a fight like maybe I should have, but I was tired and everyone said it would only be a temporary arrangement. So I thought 'Hey man, I can be cool, I can be hip, I can be down with it' and I thought I'd let it slide. But now I'm getting a little ticked off. It was one thing to break all the pipes in my sinus', one thing to clog up my lungs like Chewbacca taking a nap in the shower, one thing to do that weird trick where everytime I stood up the room tipped upside down (how did you manage that, by the way? I must know. Excellent dinner party trick.) I could be a good sport. I could grin and bear it for a week or two. I could keep refilling the mug with honey and lemon tea and pretending I didn't notice you keeping me up all night and coughing in my baby's face.
But really, it's just gone too far now.
Five and a half weeks!
Five and a half weeks is not 'crashing just a couple of nights til I get my own place sorted'. Five and a half weeks is not 'I know a guy with a spare room, I just need to save some money for a deposit'. Five and a half weeks is almost squatters right and you know what? I am just NOT cool with this anymore.
Look. I still want to be friends, but I feel you're taking advantage of my generosity here. I know I should have called it quits when you took 4% of my body weight. I probably should have spoken up when my voice went, but..well..my voice was gone. And yeah, you could say it was my fault for not saying anything when I spent the entire night coughing/retching in the bathroom so that I wouldn't wake Mr A and A.B up, but I was trying to be nice. I was trying to be a good fucking Samaritan, ok? OK??
I'm sorry it's come to this, but I'm afraid I'm asking you to leave. Now. Or I really am going to call the police.
Or, at least, get Mr A to do it, since I seem to have lost my voice again....
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Happy Mothers Day to me!
It's my first Mother's Day today and I am very pleased with it. It's a nice day outside but I am INSIDE, in my pajamas. I had honey and lemon tea brought to me in bed and I got to read a chapter of Wuthering Heights in peace while Mr A dealt with the first nappy of the day (and the two after that!). I didn't get any cards or presents or flowers, but last Sunday was our wedding Anniversary and I still have the massive bunch of flowers he bought me then, and he's giving me a huge doll house as a birthday present in June, and so last week I got a lovely box delivered with a bit of furniture and some cats and a conservatory. Yes, I really am one of those crazy doll house people. I know its lame. Really, I do. But I can't help it. I've loved doll houses since I was a little girl. I built them for a while myself. In one house we lived in I had a walk in wardrobe and I turned it into a doll house. I didn't have money to buy the lovely 'proper' doll house stuff so I made do, building furniture out of toy construction kits, making food and dolls out of plasticine, using anything and everything I could find that I could turn into something for it. I only really stopped playing with it altogether when I was 15 and ran out of space in the tiny house we'd moved into. We're currently negotiating exactly what house to get, but he's given me an unreasonably large amount of money to spend on it. Sickeningly large. I think he's just very pleased that he never has to think too hard about what to get me for my birthday/christmas ever again!
Anyway, I'm going to totter off and carry on enjoying my mothers day. It's the biggest scam mothers ever invented. It's basically an excuse to lie in bed and have other people do the chores you don't want to. Brilliant! Whoever invented it is a genius.
Anyway, I'm going to totter off and carry on enjoying my mothers day. It's the biggest scam mothers ever invented. It's basically an excuse to lie in bed and have other people do the chores you don't want to. Brilliant! Whoever invented it is a genius.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Today I am mostly...
Today I am mostly watching Death Note and then hopefully going to sign for my car, and then hopefully going to go look at pushchairs. Mine needs to be replaced, and I've spent the last couple of weeks trawling through websites trying to find the Perfect Pushchair that does everything I want it to. We thought we might go for the Bugaboo Bee but it's far too small, and the basket was impossible to get to easily. For shame! Now we're probably going for the Mama's and Papa's Sola.
I am addicted to pushchair shopping. I think it's because I never really got to do it when I was pregnant. We were flat broke and couldn't afford to shop for what we wanted, we just had to get what was in our price range (or rather, what we felt comfortable asking my parents-in-law for, which wasn't much) and we ended up with something I really disliked almost immediately. So getting another crack at the whole thing is very exciting. I'm like a kid in a candy store! The only regret I have is not being able to do this earlier, when I would have gotten more use out of whatever it is we end up getting. Once she's about 12-18 months old well probably get this for nipping around in. I'm a sucker for the vintagey, uber-girliness of it. The part of me that has been very very poor for the majority of the last 3 years and who never had much money as a teen is screaming "Buy something cheap! You can get a perfectly good stroller for £50!" but where's the fun in that? The part of me that owns 50 pairs of shoes and three ball gowns and 6 cocktail dresses despite never having gone to a ball or a prom or a cocktail party is going "OHMYGOD SHINY". I think we both know which part will win.
If I had it all to do again, with unlimited funds, I'd probably go for the Bugaboo Bee Plus (the Bee's younger sister, which has solved the Bee's main problem of being impossibly small, but with a whacking great price hike) which is super cute and pretty much everything I need in a pushchair, except that it costs about half the husbbot's monthly wage. So perhaps not for us, then.
Thus concludes possibly the most boring blog post ever written. Thank you and good night.
I am addicted to pushchair shopping. I think it's because I never really got to do it when I was pregnant. We were flat broke and couldn't afford to shop for what we wanted, we just had to get what was in our price range (or rather, what we felt comfortable asking my parents-in-law for, which wasn't much) and we ended up with something I really disliked almost immediately. So getting another crack at the whole thing is very exciting. I'm like a kid in a candy store! The only regret I have is not being able to do this earlier, when I would have gotten more use out of whatever it is we end up getting. Once she's about 12-18 months old well probably get this for nipping around in. I'm a sucker for the vintagey, uber-girliness of it. The part of me that has been very very poor for the majority of the last 3 years and who never had much money as a teen is screaming "Buy something cheap! You can get a perfectly good stroller for £50!" but where's the fun in that? The part of me that owns 50 pairs of shoes and three ball gowns and 6 cocktail dresses despite never having gone to a ball or a prom or a cocktail party is going "OHMYGOD SHINY". I think we both know which part will win.
If I had it all to do again, with unlimited funds, I'd probably go for the Bugaboo Bee Plus (the Bee's younger sister, which has solved the Bee's main problem of being impossibly small, but with a whacking great price hike) which is super cute and pretty much everything I need in a pushchair, except that it costs about half the husbbot's monthly wage. So perhaps not for us, then.
Thus concludes possibly the most boring blog post ever written. Thank you and good night.
Friday, 12 March 2010
I'm awesome, but...
So, I'm awesome, but I'm not a fucking miracle worker, ok? Do you know what I CAN'T do? Fly. See through solid objects. Laser people with my eyes. Survive on 2-3 hours sleep a night, every fucking night. Except that A.B seems to think I can. And I mean, part of me is ok with that. Every mom wants her kid to think she's superwoman, right? Except that the power to fly and the impression that I have eyes in the back of my head are not superpowers that are likely to make me want to throw myself out a window.
It IS partly my fault, and I feel I should own that. My insomnia is exacerbating both our sleep issues (for me, the cause/result is obvious; for her, if I'm not in bed she doesn't sleep as well) so ok, hands in the air, I am kind of 'causing' this whole problem.
But do you know what ELSE I can't do? Control the way my brain works, and how much melatonin it chooses to produce and when. And yeah I could probably not taunt my insomnia by drinking caffeinated drinks, but the choice is drink a few cans of coke and survive the day, or don't, and risk falling asleep while holding the baby, or cooking, or in the bath. And when I stopped drinking coke I wasn't actually getting to sleep any earlier (ok, maybe an hour) but I WAS exhausted and drained and zombie-like throughout the day. At least now I'm exhausted but awake, right?
A.B is shouting at the TV in a really determined but very weird and creepy way. She sounds like a gremlin transforming. Ever since she got her tooth she seems to think she's really a particularly aggressive guard dog, barking and growling and shouting at everything. But mostly at me. Sigh.
In other news:
Dear Vanessa Hudgens,
Do you know what's CRAZY? Some of us have bigger stresses in our lives than spots. Isn't that like, insane? Insane. Unless Neutrogena has valium in it, I really don't think it's going to solve my stress.
Dear Elliot Minor
Owl City wrote an amazingly pretty, happy song, and you have to GET ON THAT and reproduce it almost note for note and release it? That sucks, and so do you. Go swivel. NO HUGS FROM THIS LIGHTNING BUG.
It IS partly my fault, and I feel I should own that. My insomnia is exacerbating both our sleep issues (for me, the cause/result is obvious; for her, if I'm not in bed she doesn't sleep as well) so ok, hands in the air, I am kind of 'causing' this whole problem.
But do you know what ELSE I can't do? Control the way my brain works, and how much melatonin it chooses to produce and when. And yeah I could probably not taunt my insomnia by drinking caffeinated drinks, but the choice is drink a few cans of coke and survive the day, or don't, and risk falling asleep while holding the baby, or cooking, or in the bath. And when I stopped drinking coke I wasn't actually getting to sleep any earlier (ok, maybe an hour) but I WAS exhausted and drained and zombie-like throughout the day. At least now I'm exhausted but awake, right?
A.B is shouting at the TV in a really determined but very weird and creepy way. She sounds like a gremlin transforming. Ever since she got her tooth she seems to think she's really a particularly aggressive guard dog, barking and growling and shouting at everything. But mostly at me. Sigh.
In other news:
Dear Vanessa Hudgens,
Do you know what's CRAZY? Some of us have bigger stresses in our lives than spots. Isn't that like, insane? Insane. Unless Neutrogena has valium in it, I really don't think it's going to solve my stress.
Dear Elliot Minor
Owl City wrote an amazingly pretty, happy song, and you have to GET ON THAT and reproduce it almost note for note and release it? That sucks, and so do you. Go swivel. NO HUGS FROM THIS LIGHTNING BUG.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
9-0-2-1-UH-OH
Oh, snap, look at that. I'm back. Like a sack. Like a sack of CRACK. ("Say crack again." "Crack." 100 internet points to whoever gets it first)
So I have 90210 paused and loaded and waiting for me to click play and instead I am what? Here? Updating? Like an updating type of person? Crazy business.
What's new? We saw the paediatrician and I met the two craziest people in Sidcup, on the bus. This made me really really really want my car, NOW. The first was seriously mentally ill, obviously, so I feel bad talking shit about her, but seriously, she had a hair stuck in the scum in her teeth, and she clearly hadn't seen the inside of a bathtub in at least a month and she sat RIGHT NEXT TO ME (I like my space. I like it ALOT) and talked at me the entire journey, despite the fact that I was quite obviously reading a book and drinking a coke (common bus curtesy says if someone is reading, you leave them the shit alone) but luckily she didn't try to touch A.B, otherwise I could possibly have hit her. A woman in the pharmacy today touched A.B and I had to restrain myself from physically assaulting her. Do.Not.Touch.Other.Peoples.Babies. I know I sound crazy here, but seriously. You don't know me, you don't know my baby. Please do not come up to us and ignore me and while I am holding her TOUCH HER.
Anyway, second person was a 14 yr old boy who took it upon himself to beat the shit out of a 11 yr old boy in front of a bus full of witnesses. It happened so fast that no one could stop him, but we all offered the younger kid tissues and water and sympathy and I gave him my number and I'll be acting as a witness for the police. I nearly offered to walk home with him but he was with a group of friends and I think I would have just embarrassed him. It made me feel so old, mothering a boy in secondary school. I'm not old enough to be this mumsy!
Anyway, the paediatrician gave us an order to give to our GP to write a prescription for the meds she needs. That was last Tuesday, and through a series of cock-ups by my husband and then the GP, we only got the meds this morning (thursday, 9 days later). We can't really expect miracles just yet but we're hopeful that in time, they'll help.
Men baffle me. The other night I was ironing Mr Arienette's shirts and suddenly a black cloud descended on me. I could tell I was in a bad mood all of a sudden and that we'd end up having a fight, so I suggested he go to bed (I wasn't sending him off, he'd been saying for about an hour that he was tired and going to bed 'in a minute') so that we didn't get all ugly with each other. And what does he do? CONTINUES to sit on the sofa gormlessly playing with some Blu-Tack! I repeat a few more times that he should go to bed, or ask when he's going to bed, stating I really don't want to fight with him but I'm in a bad mood, and since I cannot remove myself from the situation, it's better if he removes HIMSELF. He continues to NOT leave the room.
I don't get it. I really don't. You don't want me to be bitchy and whiney and start a fight with you over 'nothing', yet when I inform you that a fight is likely brewing and give you an opportunity to avoid it, you choose to ignore me? WHAT? WHAT??
I could understand if he wasn't ready for bed, but he was, he was just too damn lazy to get up. From now on, I shan't bother. If I get into another bad mood I'm not even going to try to diffuse the situation. Why should I, when he's not only going to not help, but actually going to make things worse by rejecting my attempts to be nice?
A.B's carseat arrived, as did huge order of dairy-free yum. The only problem is I have no self control and therefore have eaten over 15oz's of dried papaya cubes today, and about 4 DF chocolate rice crispie bars. I'm terrible!
I also bought a dress for Mr A's Friends & Family work do, which I will go into later.
For now though, the glossy hairstyles and over the top story-lines of 90210 are calling my name.
So I have 90210 paused and loaded and waiting for me to click play and instead I am what? Here? Updating? Like an updating type of person? Crazy business.
What's new? We saw the paediatrician and I met the two craziest people in Sidcup, on the bus. This made me really really really want my car, NOW. The first was seriously mentally ill, obviously, so I feel bad talking shit about her, but seriously, she had a hair stuck in the scum in her teeth, and she clearly hadn't seen the inside of a bathtub in at least a month and she sat RIGHT NEXT TO ME (I like my space. I like it ALOT) and talked at me the entire journey, despite the fact that I was quite obviously reading a book and drinking a coke (common bus curtesy says if someone is reading, you leave them the shit alone) but luckily she didn't try to touch A.B, otherwise I could possibly have hit her. A woman in the pharmacy today touched A.B and I had to restrain myself from physically assaulting her. Do.Not.Touch.Other.Peoples.Babies. I know I sound crazy here, but seriously. You don't know me, you don't know my baby. Please do not come up to us and ignore me and while I am holding her TOUCH HER.
Anyway, second person was a 14 yr old boy who took it upon himself to beat the shit out of a 11 yr old boy in front of a bus full of witnesses. It happened so fast that no one could stop him, but we all offered the younger kid tissues and water and sympathy and I gave him my number and I'll be acting as a witness for the police. I nearly offered to walk home with him but he was with a group of friends and I think I would have just embarrassed him. It made me feel so old, mothering a boy in secondary school. I'm not old enough to be this mumsy!
Anyway, the paediatrician gave us an order to give to our GP to write a prescription for the meds she needs. That was last Tuesday, and through a series of cock-ups by my husband and then the GP, we only got the meds this morning (thursday, 9 days later). We can't really expect miracles just yet but we're hopeful that in time, they'll help.
Men baffle me. The other night I was ironing Mr Arienette's shirts and suddenly a black cloud descended on me. I could tell I was in a bad mood all of a sudden and that we'd end up having a fight, so I suggested he go to bed (I wasn't sending him off, he'd been saying for about an hour that he was tired and going to bed 'in a minute') so that we didn't get all ugly with each other. And what does he do? CONTINUES to sit on the sofa gormlessly playing with some Blu-Tack! I repeat a few more times that he should go to bed, or ask when he's going to bed, stating I really don't want to fight with him but I'm in a bad mood, and since I cannot remove myself from the situation, it's better if he removes HIMSELF. He continues to NOT leave the room.
I don't get it. I really don't. You don't want me to be bitchy and whiney and start a fight with you over 'nothing', yet when I inform you that a fight is likely brewing and give you an opportunity to avoid it, you choose to ignore me? WHAT? WHAT??
I could understand if he wasn't ready for bed, but he was, he was just too damn lazy to get up. From now on, I shan't bother. If I get into another bad mood I'm not even going to try to diffuse the situation. Why should I, when he's not only going to not help, but actually going to make things worse by rejecting my attempts to be nice?
A.B's carseat arrived, as did huge order of dairy-free yum. The only problem is I have no self control and therefore have eaten over 15oz's of dried papaya cubes today, and about 4 DF chocolate rice crispie bars. I'm terrible!
I also bought a dress for Mr A's Friends & Family work do, which I will go into later.
For now though, the glossy hairstyles and over the top story-lines of 90210 are calling my name.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Fevers and mirrors
I haven't updated in like.....a long time. I've been really sick and my husband took off thursday and friday so I could stay in bed for four days straight, and it really did the trick. It does however mean I'm behind on EVERYTHING.
I'm about to rush off to the doctor's to pick up A.B's prescription and then I'm out all day (chilling at a SuperMall with another Allergy Mom) but I will be back later and I will be blogging the shit out of the last week or so.
PEACE.
I'm about to rush off to the doctor's to pick up A.B's prescription and then I'm out all day (chilling at a SuperMall with another Allergy Mom) but I will be back later and I will be blogging the shit out of the last week or so.
PEACE.
Monday, 1 March 2010
Let's talk about Post Natal Depression
(from Wikipedia)
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That was how far I got writing this entry before I snapped the laptop lid down, grabbed a book and my pone and went to run a bath. Then I went downstairs and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Then I started re-hanging all the clothes my husband hung out to dry early tonight. Then I tidied an already tidy area of the living room. Then I went upstairs again and got into the now very full, very hot bath. And that's where I stayed for an our and a half until the water was cold and A.B started crying for a feed. I fed her, then checked my e-mail. Then my Twitter. Then the forum I belong to. Then I browsed a couple more blogs. Then I checked my e-mail again. Finally, I opened this window back up. And now I want to do nothing more than to close it again.
I'm not exactly a novice when it comes to depression. I've had it for at least 8 years. In the last three years I've had two nervous breakdowns. I've been suicidal, I've self harmed, I've tried to starve myself into non-existence, I've used drugs and alcohol to alternatively attempt to numb the pain, and when that didn't work, to obliterate any trace of the memory of the pain. But none of this really prepared me for PND. PND was another animal altogether.
Thoughout pregnancy I was told to expect it, with 'my history'. So I was very pleased with myself when my baby came along and I took to motherhood very well. I instinctively seemed to know what I was doing and everything came so easily to me. To myself and everyone around me, I was doing really really well. But then when A.B. was about 4 months old, I woke up one morning and realised that I could see in colour again. I had no idea when I had stopped seeing in colour, just that now I could. I realised that for most of the last 4 months I had been on auto-pilot. I hadn't really gotten out of bed. There was always a very good excuse, of course...I was sick, I was tired, giving up dairy made me weak...there was always a very very good reason why it was ok for me to not get up for weeks at a time. And after all, Bug was fine! She was happy and thriving and advanced for her age. I couldn't possibly be doing anything wrong.. There couldn't be anything wrong.
But there was.
There really, really was.
The thing about PND is it makes you feel like a terrible person. No matter what the literature and your friends say, the voice in your head says 'How the fuck can you be unhappy when you have a beautiful baby? Do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes?' and you feel guilty. You've spent your whole life conditioned to believe this is the Happiest Moment Of Your Life and then it comes and you feel nothing. You feel empty. I love my daughter, she's my everything and I would die for her, but that love doesn't change the fact that there is a serious hormone imbalance in my brain that saps away my ability to fully engage in life.
After I woke up that day I vowed never to spend a day in bed again. I thought I was out of it. I though I was All Better Now. But I wasn't. Apart from the odd very very very rare day (like today when I have flu and my husband has ordered me to rest) I get up every day and I go downstairs. But really, it's just a change of scenery. For a few months I did nothing more downstairs than I was doing upstairs, I was just doing it on the sofa instead of in bed. This year I've been trying to leave the house more often, something I haven't done alone since A.B was born. In the last couple of weeks I've been trying to get back on top of the housework that's been piling up for months, but every now and again the PND-wave will swamp me again and I'll retreat back to where it's safe, I'll go into survival mode and anything more than that can fuck off.
Looking back, I recognise that I started showing signs of PND pretty early on. I remember her being about 5 days old and I already looked like I'd never been pregnant at all. I looked around at my in-laws fussing over my baby and I felt no connection. Or rather, I felt like I had no right to feel a connection. I felt like a nanny. This feeling intensified over the weeks, not helped by comments that people made about the fact that I didn't look like I'd just given birth, and I wasn't behaving like most new-mums*. All this made me feel so disconnected. My own body showed almost no sign of having recently given birth, apart from the bleeding, which seemed to go on forever. I lay in bed sometimes expecting a knock on the door from A.B's real parents, asking for her back.
Right now, I just live my life day to day. I make plans when I feel up to it so that I have motivation to keep moving forward, and when there's a break in the clouds, I enjoy the sun and make the most of it. I don't know when this will lift, I only hope for the day that it does. And I only hope that that day comes before A.B is old enough to see in my eyes that mommy isn't always 'here'.
*They meant it as a compliment, really, but in the fog, it just made me feel more and more like an experienced childminder than a new mother.
Postpartum depression (PPD), also called postnatal depression, is a form of clinical depression which can affect women, and less frequently men, after childbirth. Postpartum depression occurs in women after they have carried a child, usually in the first few months. Symptoms include sadness, fatigue, insomnia, appetite changes, reduced libido, crying episodes, anxiety, and irritability. Current data suggests that 5 to 9 percent of women will develop postpartum depression, but less than one in five of these women will seek professional help.
-----
That was how far I got writing this entry before I snapped the laptop lid down, grabbed a book and my pone and went to run a bath. Then I went downstairs and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Then I started re-hanging all the clothes my husband hung out to dry early tonight. Then I tidied an already tidy area of the living room. Then I went upstairs again and got into the now very full, very hot bath. And that's where I stayed for an our and a half until the water was cold and A.B started crying for a feed. I fed her, then checked my e-mail. Then my Twitter. Then the forum I belong to. Then I browsed a couple more blogs. Then I checked my e-mail again. Finally, I opened this window back up. And now I want to do nothing more than to close it again.
I'm not exactly a novice when it comes to depression. I've had it for at least 8 years. In the last three years I've had two nervous breakdowns. I've been suicidal, I've self harmed, I've tried to starve myself into non-existence, I've used drugs and alcohol to alternatively attempt to numb the pain, and when that didn't work, to obliterate any trace of the memory of the pain. But none of this really prepared me for PND. PND was another animal altogether.
Thoughout pregnancy I was told to expect it, with 'my history'. So I was very pleased with myself when my baby came along and I took to motherhood very well. I instinctively seemed to know what I was doing and everything came so easily to me. To myself and everyone around me, I was doing really really well. But then when A.B. was about 4 months old, I woke up one morning and realised that I could see in colour again. I had no idea when I had stopped seeing in colour, just that now I could. I realised that for most of the last 4 months I had been on auto-pilot. I hadn't really gotten out of bed. There was always a very good excuse, of course...I was sick, I was tired, giving up dairy made me weak...there was always a very very good reason why it was ok for me to not get up for weeks at a time. And after all, Bug was fine! She was happy and thriving and advanced for her age. I couldn't possibly be doing anything wrong.. There couldn't be anything wrong.
But there was.
There really, really was.
The thing about PND is it makes you feel like a terrible person. No matter what the literature and your friends say, the voice in your head says 'How the fuck can you be unhappy when you have a beautiful baby? Do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes?' and you feel guilty. You've spent your whole life conditioned to believe this is the Happiest Moment Of Your Life and then it comes and you feel nothing. You feel empty. I love my daughter, she's my everything and I would die for her, but that love doesn't change the fact that there is a serious hormone imbalance in my brain that saps away my ability to fully engage in life.
After I woke up that day I vowed never to spend a day in bed again. I thought I was out of it. I though I was All Better Now. But I wasn't. Apart from the odd very very very rare day (like today when I have flu and my husband has ordered me to rest) I get up every day and I go downstairs. But really, it's just a change of scenery. For a few months I did nothing more downstairs than I was doing upstairs, I was just doing it on the sofa instead of in bed. This year I've been trying to leave the house more often, something I haven't done alone since A.B was born. In the last couple of weeks I've been trying to get back on top of the housework that's been piling up for months, but every now and again the PND-wave will swamp me again and I'll retreat back to where it's safe, I'll go into survival mode and anything more than that can fuck off.
Looking back, I recognise that I started showing signs of PND pretty early on. I remember her being about 5 days old and I already looked like I'd never been pregnant at all. I looked around at my in-laws fussing over my baby and I felt no connection. Or rather, I felt like I had no right to feel a connection. I felt like a nanny. This feeling intensified over the weeks, not helped by comments that people made about the fact that I didn't look like I'd just given birth, and I wasn't behaving like most new-mums*. All this made me feel so disconnected. My own body showed almost no sign of having recently given birth, apart from the bleeding, which seemed to go on forever. I lay in bed sometimes expecting a knock on the door from A.B's real parents, asking for her back.
Right now, I just live my life day to day. I make plans when I feel up to it so that I have motivation to keep moving forward, and when there's a break in the clouds, I enjoy the sun and make the most of it. I don't know when this will lift, I only hope for the day that it does. And I only hope that that day comes before A.B is old enough to see in my eyes that mommy isn't always 'here'.
*They meant it as a compliment, really, but in the fog, it just made me feel more and more like an experienced childminder than a new mother.
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