The Amanda Show, Episode 2


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So. That was said to me, several months ago now, and anytime I feel a little worthless or down, I use that as a stick to beat myself with: “Of course no one’s invited you this weekend, why do you expect them to?–it’s not always The Amanda Show. Of course your semi-friends/acquaintances didn’t recognise you in the shop, even though you recognized all 3 of them, even the one you’ve only met twice–I mean, why should they recognize you, it’s not like it’s The Amanda Show. Of course no one’s replied to your emails about your uni assignment, why should they, they all have lives, and just because you’re doing group work doesn’t mean it’s The Amanda Show.” On and on and on it goes, until I can barely assert myself even when I know… I mean, I’m 90% sure… I mean, I’m fairly certain… I mean, is it even possible I could be in the right? Maybe not. I’ll just stop talking. It’s not always The Amanda Show, after all.

When it happened, I told someone what had been said to me (someone who, at the time, I considered one of my closest friends–someone who I thought loved me) and I’m pretty sure they laughed. (Can’t be completely sure, it was a FB chat.) Last week, we were talking about… oh, let’s call it the differences in our perspectives on morality… and this is how one part of the conversation went:

Me: The point’s not whether or not ____ could stick around forever, it’s that he doesn’t twist everything to be my fault, as if none of the other people involved have any say in it. You try to pretend I’m the one calling all the shots, and it’s just not the case

Them: It isn’t always the Amanda show.
Do those words, from a fairly objective place, not haunt you?

From a fairly objective place. A woman who’s several years older than me, who’s just gained a lot of weight while I’ve lost a bit, who’s very ill and understandably jealous of people who are not, who wants to be up on a stage again but who doesn’t have the energy, who remembers what sex was like and thinks she’ll never have it again (whereas I do, admittedly, have it fairly often with some of my friends)… this is an “objective” place? (She also spends a lot of time chatting to my friends, including some of the ones I sleep with, but not really to me, so… she’s not even possibly going to be “on my side” really, is she?) First of all, who could see her opinion as “objective”?

And secondly, how can that even be an objective thing to say? “Your own life is not about you. Stop living it as if it is. Don’t…” (well here I get stuck, since I genuinely don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do–sleep with fewer people? Do it, but don’t be so open about it? Don’t talk when I’m in a group?–although the very person who said it, once *also* made the statement, “I can see why people fall for you, because I’m talking absolute drivel right now, and you’re looking at me like I’m the most fascinating person in the world”–so I’m guessing I do an alright job of listening to other people talk…)

Objective, huh? In the vernacular of Inigo Montoya, you keep using this word, but I do not think it means what you think it means.

I’m uploading pictures from a night out, right now. It was meant to be my early birthday (because I’m in lectures on my actual birthday, and the closest weekend to my birthday, the day after my birthday, we’re going to someone else’s birthday weekend) and every time I go to upload a picture of myself, I stop and think, “Is this too many? Will this one make it too much? Are there other people in the shot with me? It’s not always The Amanda Show, and it wasn’t even *really* my birthday…” (a fact which I kept apologising for, and when someone else had “Happy Birthday” sung to them by the bar staff, one of my friends wanted to have the same done for me, but I begged him not to, because I hate having a roomful of people looking at me and it’s not even my birthday anyway; but I might’ve borne it with good grace and just felt a little awkward, if I hadn’t already been thinking we were spending too much time on The Amanda Show…)

It took me years to get to the point where I could take a selfie and upload it, like, without taking 50 and picking the best one (I still do a bit of weeding out the worst ones). Getting to the point where I didn’t die of embarrassment to see my make-up smudged, or a little belly bulge, or my hair looking a bit dirty… that took years. I’m still not comfortable having my picture taken–but I’m *also* not comfortable with the fact that, most of the time, I feel utterly out of place and far from home and as if one of these things is not like the others/one of these things just doesn’t belong… I’m trying to ground myself, trying to put myself into some sort of group, trying to form some sort of attachment to my surroundings, trying to make a habitat where I feel like I can live and grow and be happy, and now, I feel like I’m completely in the wrong for that.

In the end, I took fewer pictures of everyone than I normally would. I usually always have my phone out, I’m constantly getting group shots and selfies with people, and I DID have a few bursts of that, but… I just couldn’t do it, last night. Not like I usually do. I mean, someone had set up a tabletop game for me, and it wasn’t even my birthday. Someone else wanted to get the bar staff to sing to me, and it wasn’t even my birthday. Someone else bought me a drink, and I tried to refuse, because it’s not even my real birthday (in the end he said, “Aye but we’re celebrating your birthday now, what’re you having?” and I did)… and I had a good night, because lots of my friends got up and sang, and they were all surprisingly good (except one of our friends, who we all know has the voice of an angel, no one was surprised by her bringing the house down) but I was also constantly talking myself down, reminding myself that it’s not all about me (we were meant to be out for my birthday, I repeat again…) and if I thought people didn’t want pictures or video taking I just stopped, I didn’t ask for clarification or go take a photo of someone else or whatever, I just put my phone away.

And I tried so hard to smile and be friendly and go along with everyone else, and when a drunk acquaintance kept wanting to kiss me I’d give him a hug and a peck, and when my friends were onstage I cheered and danced (so nervous dancing in public!) and when another friend was sat down with back pain I offered her some painpills (non-prescription) I had in my bag… and all I can think now, while trying to get the pictures on FB, is how many can I upload, before it looks like all I do is take pictures of myself? How many of my own face am I… allowed?… to add, before it’s The Amanda Show, and all I care about is myself?

The Amanda Show, Episode 1


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A few months ago, in the middle of what I perceived as a traumatic event (a relationship breaking up, I thought because the other party wanted it to) someone made this statement to me:

“I love you, but you have to remember, it’s not always The Amanda Show.”

The person who said that does *not* love me–she knows me a little, and largely disapproves of my living a life that actually looks a bit similar to hers, but LESS self-centred–but more than that, she doesn’t even know me enough to understand how those words would hit me.

End of 2011, I went through a bad patch. By which I mean, I was past the point of wondering if I should kill myself, and planning it out as carefully as I could. In the end, a few things stopped me (as they always do, for people who genuinely want their pain to stop but don’t manage to do it): 1, I was the primary carer for my very young children, at the time, and although I was *pretty* sure they’d be better off without me anyway, I still held out a little hope that that was just my depression talking; 2, even if I *did* think they’d be better off without me, I didn’t want them to find me (I didn’t think THAT would do their little psyches any good–better for me to just disappear, rather than them finding Mommy unresponsive in a pool of blood); and 3, I wasn’t sure whether I needed to take them with me.

I know how that sounds, obviously. It’s the ugliest thought in the world, but… I mean, they were so little and helpless, and I was clearly their favourite person out of all the other people in their lives, though I couldn’t see why… so yeah, I was struggling with the, “Well it’s wrong to kill them, but they’re SO young to be without their mother, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stick around….?” –and then of course, I started taking some medication (just a basic anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety med) and within a month, less I think, I was looking back at that and thinking, “Oh Jesus CHRIST what was wrong with me, how could I have even…?????”

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’m trying to make up for lost time. On my good days, I take the kids out (sometimes spending more money than I have, further racking up debt I can just about afford to pay off in another 30 years, no I’m not exaggerating there) and we do as much as we can, before I just can’t do any more.

When I’m with my friends, it’s much the same; I will pick up the bar tab, if I can, and cover someone’s meal, if I can, and I will get my partner to give lifts and lend out my sofa and spare room and do whatever is possible, to get as many of us as possible, all in the same place, having a good time.

And for all of it, I am the undisputed *queen* of the camera phone. This year alone, I managed to fill 4 separate folders (kept on my desktop, sloppy I know) all with at least 200 pictures in them, of us all just out having normal friendship days. That’s not counting the folders full of pics of the kids; although there are probably less of those, since I’m happier to push adults to let me take pics, than I am to push my (still semi-non-verbal, autistic) children. In a number of the photos, I am front and centre, grinning a pretty unattractively toothy grin, make-up on, pushed into a good bra and wearing colours that suit me and doing everything I can, to make it look like, on that day, I was happy and I had a good time and there were people around me that love me.

Is that what’s meant by “The Amanda Show”? My admittedly unending need for people to show me signs of affection, and, where possible, to have it documented? “On this day in 2015, from approximately 21:30 to midnight, Amanda was in a pub surrounded by people she knows, who are all smiling and laughing and some are even posing for selfies with her, and even though she’s at the edge of the group and struggles to talk to more than 1-2 people at a time and she’s so drunk she’d have trouble standing if she closed her eyes, hey, she looks happy” (and even though I know that I was probably a little too drunk–I *am* drunk, or I’m not laughing and smiling, in a large group–I still feel a little better, looking at a photo like that)… is that what they mean?

Is it as simple as the fact that if I’m sleeping with someone and they suggest I sleep with someone else, I usually do it? Is that what they mean by “The Amanda Show”? But… I mean… I’m openly polyamorous, so why would that surprise anyone…? And actually, the person who made the comment has had A LOT more dick than I have, and you know what? I think that’s great, more power to them. But unfairness gets to me. I genuinely don’t understand why it’s okay for one person to have multiple lovers but not another–how can someone accuse me of being a narcissist for engaging in behaviour that they themselves engage in?

Also. I am a person who has to be drunk (are you seeing a theme here…) to get up and sing karaoke with a friend (I have literally never sung on my own, in front of people, since reaching adulthood) and this is a person who made their living on stage, for a while (not on a proper stage, I mean they did a sort of entertainer-at-Butlins style job, but even so). I mean. That’s an ACTUAL show. This person left their child with grandparents to travel around singing onstage when the kid was 14 or so–I’m currently suffering the tortures of the damned being away from my kids 3 days a week, to try to get a university degree, to eventually make my kids’ lives better–and I’m the one who’s obsessed with my own personal show?

I just don’t get it, I don’t understand. I mean, I get that the person who said it is unwell (seriously unwell, think of a bunch of life-threatening illnesses and it’s one of those) and may well have been high when making the statement (morphine is not the friend of cognition) and maybe it just sounded glib and amusing in the moment, because I *was* fairly upset over a romance gone wrong (and I have a long-term partner, and it was not that relationship that was going wrong, and polyamory is not widely accepted, evidently, even by people who practice it themselves….).

But for me. For someone who spends every day feeling useless, ill-equipped to deal with life, for someone who’s grabbing onto as many lifelines as she can (because *I* have a life-threatening illness too, it’s just that no one believes depressed people are in any real danger until they actually kill themselves) to be told that, actually, she’s taking up too much space and other people’s time and energy… I mean…

Is it *not* always the Amanda Show–in the same way that your show is the Whatever-Your-Name-Is Show, and everyone is the star of their own show, etc etc–just, how am I supposed to take that? “You have to remember, it’s not always The Amanda Show.”

What does that even mean? It means… stop talking about myself? Stop asking for help with my problems? Stop taking multiple lovers? (I was with 2 men at the time, not a hundred, not that it even matters; but if you’re stuck off uni for a year due to a registration cock-up and both the guys work full-time and your kids go to school full-time and EVERYONE is getting on with their lives except you, for the moment, it’s not inconceivable that you can give a reasonable amount of love and attention to 2 other people.)

I don’t know how it was meant, but I know how I took it. I took it as someone telling me that my entire life (aka The Amanda Show) had run for too long, and should just be taken off the air.

How Much Longer?

My children are living without me 3 days a week, now. They miss me, they really do, and in some ways, they are marginally less well-looked-after than if I looked after them. But they won’t die of it. Even my daughter can speak, now (she doesn’t do it often, but she does) and they are both much better at asserting themselves than they were, in 2011.

My sister will have her second baby soon. I wish I could be there for that–they’re going to name her after me, kinda. (Same middle name.) I like my middle name. I like my sister and her husband and kids.

My eldest younger brother will graduate soon, ish. He wants to be my favourite male character from literature when he grows up (Atticus Finch). I wish I could come see that. I wish I felt like I really know my youngest siblings, but I don’t. They grew up without me. I left home and never really came back, and they’re teens and adults and they haven’t regularly seen me since they were babies/toddlers.

I’m supposed to be doing a psychology degree, now. 3 days a week–the 3 days I’m away from my kids, essentially by myself, trying to study and mostly failing–I sit in lectures and tell myself that in 2 more years, I’ll have a degree and it will be worth it and I’ll look back on this time fondly, with a sense of accomplishment, and I’ll be so glad I did it.

9 days in a row, now. 9 days, where I’ve sat in front of my pc and tried to listen to cheerful songs and read webcomics and make myself do my uni work, as tears run down my face for, oh, no particular reason.

It’s my birthday, soon. I’ve already had a lovely celebration–I met Weird Al, and told him I’ve got my own parody group (I don’t, really, I thought I did, but it turns out I don’t) and he was one of the nicest people you could imagine. It was great. I met someone I absolutely idolize, and it was *better* than expected. Who gets to say that? Not many people, I bet.

I suppose I’m just ungrateful. If I loved more, or worried less, or tried harder, or had upped my meds sooner, or had never left home, or had gone to uni when I was younger… *sigh* Bad decision follows bad decision follows bad decision, and I don’t even remember what the good decisions would have been.

Falling in love. There’s a slippery slope. You can actually love people *too* much, you can frighten them away with the intensity of your feelings, you can force them to admit that they’d actually be happier without you… and *then* what do you do? When you love everyone and no one wants you to…. ?

I’m too much even for the people who love me. That’s not hyperbole, it’s demonstrable fact. No one can put up with me, at the levels I need, to feel secure/loved/happy/stimulated/valued.

I understand that starting university is a big change. I get that sometimes, people let you down (I was meant to be a little less isolated, I have friends in my uni town, but… well, shit happens, I guess). But when you have to go on psych meds just to be able to handle speaking in front of your classmates, and you’re spending all your time waiting around for people who are meant to be your friends to have time for you (not their fault that they made better decisions than I did, and they have jobs and uni of their own, by the way) and you miss your partner and kids (but not that much, you actually miss the people you’ve turned your life upside down to be near even more than you miss your partner and kids) and every second of every day is spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the uni to figure out you’re not that clever, for your partner to realize he’s doing too much of the work, for the person you’re actually in love with to seal the deal with the girl he’s chasing, for your parents to die and your nieces and nephews to be born and your siblings to graduate and you know you’ll never make it back home before any of it happens….

How long are you meant to leave it? How long, until you give in and accept that it’s *never* going to get better?

Daft Poetry


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I’m currently sitting here in my under-things. The house is too hot and no one in the Northeast of England has air conditioning (including me) but that’s not really the reason… really, the reason I’m sat here, half-dressed, is because I can’t be bothered to put the rest of my clothes on.

Or do much else.

However, when I woke up this morning (because I just could not do any more sleeping–and may I just say, 12 hours of sleep is ludicrous, both in general, and in the specific) and went to lie down on the couch (I shit you not) this little bastardization of, “Green Eggs and Ham” was bouncing around inside my brain. As far as I know, in spite of all the rip-offs of that poem in the world, this one is mine:

I do not like this wonky brain,
I do not like it in the rain,
I do not like it in the sun;
It is not fun for anyone.

I do not like it with the meds,
They make me less fun in the beds.
I like it even less without,
Without, I rant and cry and shout.

I do not like this panic attack,
It makes me tend to over-snack,
I do not like this mood that lags,
I do not like these crying jags.

I do not like these sleepless nights,
But the sleepful ones just don’t feel right.
I do not like my crazy brain,
I wish that I could just be sane.

And there you have it. What I woke up feeling like, today… while off my meds.

Daylight Savings Shit


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I don’t know what it is about all this light; but it really makes me nervous.

It’s summertime, and living in the northeastern UK, that means I get about 4 hours of near-darkness every night. Unless it’s cloudy as well, the light in the sky doesn’t ever completely disappear, though… and at 3 a.m., the vista begins to brighten again.

I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. I feel like people are watching me/something’s in the room with me/bad things are about to happen. I hate this. This anxiety is the reason I bother with meds–mood-wise, I’ve been a little lower than most of my friends all my life, and I’m used to that–but this feeling of impending doom, this certain *knowledge* that I am in danger… this is the suck.

What’s worse, this light-all-the-time nonsense RUINS my sleeping patterns. I have trouble sleeping at night, in the dark; but I can’t sleep AT ALL at night, in the light. Once it’s properly daytime, and the sun is fully up, *then* I can sleep; seriously, I do my longest stretches of sleeping in the middle of the day, when my fella’s at work and my kids are at school and the sun is shining like a beacon of doom at the apex of the sky. What the actual fuck? I’m sure my circadian rhythm isn’t supposed to behave like that. Bizarre Serotonin/Melatonin interplay, fucking my shit up, again.

If I go a bit weird(er) for the next few weeks, you’ll know why… oh, when will Daylight Savings Time end?

Mood Diary–A Recent Entry!


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This started out as a mood diary entry from a couple of days ago, but once I got into the swing of it, I altered it a little for public consumption.

The fact that I even need to *do* a Mood Diary tells me a lot about how this individual affects me; I’ve been regulating my moods without the help of a diary for over a year, now. (By the by–I originally began using the diary not long after “meeting” this guy… again, this tells me a lot. Anyways, the entry:

Mood–a 4, maybe. Alternating between wanting to cry, and wanting to strangle someone with my bare hands.

Mostly the latter, to be fair.

I’ve just been advised (by someone who continually paints me as the villain of his entire life, up to the point of blaming me–someone he’s only ever “met” online–for his poor performance at university, his insomnia, his mood swings, etc etc) not to give in to Karpman Drama Triangles, in which he’s cast as the perpetrator, I as the victim, and my fella as the rescuer/hero.

It’s the hypocrisy that gets me with him, every time.

How can someone who’s blamed me for everything from their life-long insomnia to their recent academic performance actually have the gall to accuse me of casting them as a scapegoat?

In fairness, he has an ASD; and since he refuses to talk about it, get coping strategies for it, or even acknowledge it (even to his healthcare providers) I understand that his mind blindness and lack of self-awareness will be at crazy heights. Additionally, his skills at projection are unparalleled–there’s nothing he won’t accuse someone of, if he’s done it himself. And I get it, at least in theory; if you won’t even glance at yourself, there’s no way you can notice the details of what you look like or how you behave. In practice… I don’t get how anyone can be so blind.

Me, I look at him, and I see what I could have become, if I refused to take responsibility for my actions, refused to accept my own social awkwardness, refused to acknowledge that sometimes I get the wrong end of the stick (and if I were blisteringly, eternally angry about my situation, AND thought it was someone’s fault but never mine)… the one good thing about meeting this person is, and always has been, that he illustrates very clearly the potential flaws in my personality, and gives me excellent examples of how not to behave.

(And after this point, I’d realized I was going to post:)

That, and sometimes he’s so ridiculous, you can’t help but laugh at him. My sense of humour has saved me from despair more times than I can count.

Anyways, I think I’ll be posting about this guy a few more times. In the interests of protecting his privacy (he once threatened to sue someone because they’d told me he has an ASD) I’m going to give him a pseudonym. Henceforth, in my blog, he shall be known as “Peevin’ Larvae”.

That’s because he’s always peeved about something, and he’s emotionally stunted, ergo, a larva; but he has mood swings so often, the plural makes more sense. So. Peevin’ Larvae. More on him to come soon… I might do a comic strip, if I can figure out a way to condense one of his 2-page-long monologues into 4 or 5 sentences.

And if I learn how to draw. Lol.

PS In a Karpman Drama Triangle, I’d cast myself as the rescuer, just for the record. It’s something I’m working on.

Favourite Songs–Elton John


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I’ve already posted one entry in which I quote an Elton John song; that’s not surprising to me. The Elton John/Bernie Taupin duo possibly literally saved my life when I was 16-17… oh… 25 years?… after releasing the material that had such an impact on me. Their music certainly altered the shape of the life I was living, and the life I’ve lived after that point.

As I’m currently a little under the weather (in a once-a-month style of unwellness) and not up to doing any hard work, I’m just listening to music, and amusing myself by making lists of some of my favourite songs. Who knows, I might need a new mix-tape soon… at any rate, it keeps me out of trouble.

In the case of Elton John, I’m up to 5 faves, so far: “Levon”, “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues”, “Honky Cat”, “Tower of Babel”, and “I Feel Like a Bullet in the Gun of Robert Ford”. Not the most obvious choices, maybe–a rarity, for me?–but all excellent songs. Especially the least obvious of my choices.

If you want to listen to a great song, with some of that biblical imagery I love so much, here you go. If you don’t enjoy it… there could well be more wrong with you, than there is with me 😉

Or not. But I don’t see how anyone could actively dislike this song.

Prayer vs. Medicine (“Mature” Language Warning)


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Browsing my Facebook page the other day, I saw a little notice someone had posted. It was a fairly standard, please-pray-for-such-and-such-who’s-been-hospitalized request… at least, it was until I got to the part where the woman asking made the statement that her dad “had issues” with his prostate a couple of years back, and instead of having medical treatment, he “left it in God’s hands”.

To that I say–FUCK OFF. You may think me harsh, but there is no chance on God’s green earth I’m going to waste my breath/God’s time praying for someone who didn’t have the common sense to address their medical issues AT LEAST 2 years ago when they presented themselves. Everyone can miss things about their own health; don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating extreme hypochondria and life in the doctor’s office; but for his daughter to know that his trouble was linked to his prostate indicates that he *did* go see a doctor, he *did* get some sort of diagnosis and/or treatment plan, and then, he just chose to ignore it.

Fuck you. If you, living in a “1st world” country, want to die of a complex-yet-treatable, virtually curable disease, while millions of people in developing countries are slowly dying of malnutrition and unsafe drinking water and diarrhoea for fuck sake, then I fucking hope you do so.

To be perfectly blunt, I don’t give a good goddamn that you have blood in your urine, and a BP high enough to cause a stroke, and a mass in your bladder. Do you wanna guess what that mass is? My money’s on cancer! Congratulations, genius–by “leaving your health in God’s hands” you have effectively killed yourself! Do you feel better, now? Do you feel that you, and not some meddling doctor, got to make all the decisions about your (lack of) treatment? Do you feel good and pious? Are you pleased that your wife and daughter are going to spend the next months or years EITHER giving you spongebaths, and wheeling you around when you get to weak to walk, and slipping oral narcotics under your tongue as you grunt and writhe in pain, OR mourning you and blaming God for your death and depressing the shit out of everyone around them as they relentlessly pine for you? Are you glad your grandkids won’t really remember you, in 10 years time? Does all of that make you happy?


At the risk of boring my potential audience, I’m going to repeat again–I will not be wasting my prayers on this man. I *do* believe in the power of prayer, positive thinking, good vibes, whatever you want to call it, so I *will* pray for his family (mostly that they’re not emotionally destroyed by his stupidity and carelessness and lack of respect for his own life/the lives of his loved ones). I’ll pray that they come through this alright, and since they’re fundamentalist Christians, I’ll pray for God to send his Holy Spirit to comfort them, and to be with them in their time of loss; and I’ll mean every word. Even if my beliefs don’t match up with someone else’s, I can hope that their beliefs are right enough to provide them with some help and comfort; and I will give as much of those things as I can, which includes leaving a post on a Facebook Wall saying, “I’ll be praying; good luck”. I *will* pray. I *do* wish his family luck.

However, I will leave the man in question out of my heaven-bound petitions, because if I say one fucking sentence about him, it’ll probably be a request for God to just fucking kill him now and spare his family the hassle of looking after his selfish, narcissistic ass.

Depression Poem (from long ago)


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I wrote the original version of this poem when I was… 13? 14?… before my first religious flip-out, anyway. Before I became frightened of using biblical imagery and metaphor, and when I still thought King David was an aspirational historical figure.

Those days may be long gone, but I’m glad my memory of the poem survives enough for me to create a passable, new version of it.

God I used to be cheery.

Mothers weep on days like this,
When the house is empty and the heart is dark,
And no little children run out to play,
Mothers weep on days like this.

Fathers rage on days like this,
When there’s rain aplenty, but nowhere an ark,
When there’s nothing to do and less to say,
Fathers rage on days like this.

Children cry on days like this,
When the sky is black and the heart is blue,
And the stories of monsters turn out to be true,
Children cry on days like this.

Will I ever give up on a day like this?
When my feet are stuck in the miry clay,
And the cavalry’s not coming over the hill,
And nobody’s going to save the day?

I may.

But not today.

If you’ve got a good name for it, please, I would welcome your suggestions. Super-Depressing-Poem-with-Biblical-Imagery is about the best I’ve come up with, on my own… that’s a *bit* of a mouthful.

Medical Tests


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Probably because my depression is so tied up in feelings of anxiety, paranoia, and overwhelming terror, one of the things that makes me feel good is having medical tests done. I wanted to post an entry today that was a little cheerier than the last few, and going through old mood diary entries, I found this:

10th February:
Amazingly for the situation, I am in an excellent mood. 6/7? I have an embarrassing medical examination today (imagine a cervical smear that lasts 20 minutes, and examines the front AND back, and you’ll kinda have the idea) and I haven’t eaten since about 9 last night, and then it was only tea and toast, and yet, I am all sunshine and happiness. Bizarre. Will probably fade once I’m actually at the hospital.

But no! I just had x-ray dye inserted (via catheter!) into my bladder, porridge-like Barium inserted into my colon, and x-rays taken while I relaxed and tightened my pelvic floor muscles… and I was smiling and chatting the whole time. I mean, there was an element of nervous chatter to it, but… you could tell, they’d never seen anyone so happy to be having that particular examination. But it didn’t hurt, and there’s nothing hideously wrong with me (over-active pelvic floor, that’s all, I just need to learn to relax my internal muscles–big surprise, for the Queen of Anxiety…) anyways, it was good news all round, and I’m not squeamish about medical stuff at all (I just love being examined, it makes me feel safe, like if there was something wrong they’d catch it… hypochondriac). But, however, scooting right along, mood an 8 or even a 9, and now, I get to have Taybarns (for being brave and not complaining about being STARVED–it was fine, but Douglas overflows with sympathy at the horror, haha) and, well, just yay.

Maybe all those people who think I’m a weirdo are right, lol.