Time and time again I find myself seeking approval; family, friends and even strangers on the Internet must approve of me and the things I do.
Truly, I'd like to declare my non-conformity and assert a don't-give-a-fuck attitude, but the reality is vastly different. I do care and I do strive towards those holy grail of words "you did well."
I shall now spend the rest of this post with my head hanging in shame.
From some psychology-esque readings people of all walks of life also crave approval from their family and peers. With this in mind I should really be rejoicing; I'm not alone in this. However, I am not comforted by this idea.
In my life my interaction with "real" people is minimal, by choice. The stress of social etiquette and niceties do not really sit well with me. I find those niceties to be no more than socially acceptable lies and I, personally, find that institution revolting. So, if I have so much animosity for the "general" public why on earth should I care if they approve of me or not? Surely in my escapades to free myself from the constraints of socially acceptable lies I would have developed a self reliance, independence and/or the confidence to approve of myself. Apparently this whole concept has completely escaped my attention.
I have to laugh when I realise that even this post will allow my insecurities to flourish as I wait for comments, replies or emails of approval. Truly, it's a cruel cycle.
Of course there is only one thing to do to help quell this insatiable and ridiculous need for approval. I must learn to approve of myself and my abilities so others approval is less potent. Indeed, another facet of my fractured personality that my psychiatrist will have to help me remedy. I feel rather sorry for the poor guy, just don't tell him.
Showing posts with label ranting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ranting. Show all posts
Fatty Diary
I've been looking at an online magazine which has raised many, many, of my old distressing observations of the ostracism experienced by those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty.
Part of a teenage girls mandatory rights of passage, during my teen years, was fawning over popular magazines such as Girlfriend, Cosmo and Sane (the free magazine one could acquire from the music shop "Sanity").
These magazines lacked the substance I needed to really be interested. What they didn't lack was the lashings of self loathing I was required to feel due to my body being bigger and of a different shape to the, very nearly, skeletal images of young women models.
Then, in an almost negligent way, the next two pages would be attributed to "exercises" that would tone and reduce the fat clumping around my arms and butt.
It was fundamental in my development for me to realise that I would never be anything like those skinny, wear-anything-they-want-and-look-great models. Despite a rational realisation of this I still spent many, okay, every day and night thinking about how horrible and disgusting I was because I couldn't wear anything even remotely fashionable.
Now, by the time I reached 16 (coincidentally that happened to be when I was in year 10) I had stopped looking at magazines because the depression and anger that would consume me, because of my self loathing, was uncontrollable.
It comes as a great shock that ten years later I would look at a magazine, even if it was a new online one. Part of me was curious to see if magazines had indeed evolved during my ten year separation or if they had remained frozen in time.
Turns out, they remained frozen.
There was one particular article written by their resident "Green Geek" which spoke about cotton awareness and fashion places who are supporting the fair trading of cotton in third world countries. This is all very good and I'm truly amazed to read that, at least, some things are improving, albeit slowly. The not so amazing part is that only small or "standard" sizes are available at these fair trading shops. Now, if I could just step out of my fat suit I could partake in the tremendously good appropriation of these amazing cotton garments! Where was that damn zip located again?
For those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty, who are curvy, rolly, rotund, flabby and squishy we must continue to be ignorant of the advancement in the fair trading of cotton. We, apparently, are not worthy of helping and supporting this organisation. And neither is our money good enough to be placed with those of "traditional" beauty.
No, we must continue to buy our frightfully ugly, misshapen and, quite frankly, frumpy clothes from stores that do not support the fair trading of cotton, thus preventing us from helping cotton farmers in third world countries.
How delightful that we should miss out.
Of course we could potentially donate money to the cause to all participate in our own way. However, and this is probably only just my view, isn't it backwards to donate money instead of purchasing the items made with this fair trade cotton? Isn't the whole point of these shops and foundations and organisations to make the whole market aware of, and comply with, the fair trading of products, in this case cotton?
Truly, I must be crazy to assume there is a real and genuine care for those in need. How remarkably silly of me!
There is of course one blatant fact that I have neglected to mention here. The clothing industry, media industry and fat haters will never change. Thin and beautiful men and women sell those newspapers, cd's, tv shows, magazines and the other array of socially acceptable paraphernalia.
Personally, I look forward to a time when anyone of any shape or size can be included without ridicule. Tell her she's dreamin'!
Part of a teenage girls mandatory rights of passage, during my teen years, was fawning over popular magazines such as Girlfriend, Cosmo and Sane (the free magazine one could acquire from the music shop "Sanity").
These magazines lacked the substance I needed to really be interested. What they didn't lack was the lashings of self loathing I was required to feel due to my body being bigger and of a different shape to the, very nearly, skeletal images of young women models.
Then, in an almost negligent way, the next two pages would be attributed to "exercises" that would tone and reduce the fat clumping around my arms and butt.
It was fundamental in my development for me to realise that I would never be anything like those skinny, wear-anything-they-want-and-look-great models. Despite a rational realisation of this I still spent many, okay, every day and night thinking about how horrible and disgusting I was because I couldn't wear anything even remotely fashionable.
Now, by the time I reached 16 (coincidentally that happened to be when I was in year 10) I had stopped looking at magazines because the depression and anger that would consume me, because of my self loathing, was uncontrollable.
It comes as a great shock that ten years later I would look at a magazine, even if it was a new online one. Part of me was curious to see if magazines had indeed evolved during my ten year separation or if they had remained frozen in time.
Turns out, they remained frozen.
There was one particular article written by their resident "Green Geek" which spoke about cotton awareness and fashion places who are supporting the fair trading of cotton in third world countries. This is all very good and I'm truly amazed to read that, at least, some things are improving, albeit slowly. The not so amazing part is that only small or "standard" sizes are available at these fair trading shops. Now, if I could just step out of my fat suit I could partake in the tremendously good appropriation of these amazing cotton garments! Where was that damn zip located again?
For those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty, who are curvy, rolly, rotund, flabby and squishy we must continue to be ignorant of the advancement in the fair trading of cotton. We, apparently, are not worthy of helping and supporting this organisation. And neither is our money good enough to be placed with those of "traditional" beauty.
No, we must continue to buy our frightfully ugly, misshapen and, quite frankly, frumpy clothes from stores that do not support the fair trading of cotton, thus preventing us from helping cotton farmers in third world countries.
How delightful that we should miss out.
Of course we could potentially donate money to the cause to all participate in our own way. However, and this is probably only just my view, isn't it backwards to donate money instead of purchasing the items made with this fair trade cotton? Isn't the whole point of these shops and foundations and organisations to make the whole market aware of, and comply with, the fair trading of products, in this case cotton?
Truly, I must be crazy to assume there is a real and genuine care for those in need. How remarkably silly of me!
There is of course one blatant fact that I have neglected to mention here. The clothing industry, media industry and fat haters will never change. Thin and beautiful men and women sell those newspapers, cd's, tv shows, magazines and the other array of socially acceptable paraphernalia.
Personally, I look forward to a time when anyone of any shape or size can be included without ridicule. Tell her she's dreamin'!
Changes
You may have noticed certain changes in my attitude and, possibly, my writing.
This is easily explained. I'm changing. What was once good enough for me is no longer healthy. I have started asserting myself and, as such, I'm no longer accepting negative behaviour directed toward me. For some people these changes are too outrageous and they have decided to no longer be friends.
Normally this would make me sad. However, I am no longer sad over the decisions of other people.
Being honest with my own feelings has been liberating. Sometimes I really do not like what people say and instead of biting my tongue and mouthing platitudes I have been responding honestly.
I have to say, I like the direction my life is taking. It's exciting, honest and real.
Personally, I'm proud of my achievements recently and I will continue to stand by what I believe. Sorry folks, I'm no longer that weak little girl who was easily pushed and prodded. That little girl has found her voice, her confidence and her strength.
This is easily explained. I'm changing. What was once good enough for me is no longer healthy. I have started asserting myself and, as such, I'm no longer accepting negative behaviour directed toward me. For some people these changes are too outrageous and they have decided to no longer be friends.
Normally this would make me sad. However, I am no longer sad over the decisions of other people.
Being honest with my own feelings has been liberating. Sometimes I really do not like what people say and instead of biting my tongue and mouthing platitudes I have been responding honestly.
I have to say, I like the direction my life is taking. It's exciting, honest and real.
Personally, I'm proud of my achievements recently and I will continue to stand by what I believe. Sorry folks, I'm no longer that weak little girl who was easily pushed and prodded. That little girl has found her voice, her confidence and her strength.
The Outing
It does not matter what I do before hand to calm my nerves the actual act of going out is horrendous. Then when I am at the shops (or wherever) the panic is so potent it's like I've been kicked in the stomach.
If that wasn't bad enough, people stare at me.
Seriously, they stare. Not everyone granted (thank fuck for that), but enough to make me really uncomfortable. Now I have no idea why they are staring at me, but I assume it's not because they think I'm"hot".
Honestly, it doesn't even matter what they think. I just wish they'd stop staring. It's completely unnerving and totally unacceptable. I don't go around staring at people. Well, not all the time. And when I do I am careful not to be too obvious about it since I know how it feels. Also if I am caught staring I at least have the decency to stop!
Today was probably worse than most since I found out a "friend" deleted me from facebook. Oh, this happens to be the same person whom I tried to contact when I was really upset. And, the same one that apparently doesn't think I am good enough to even bother responding to. The funny thing is that I never, never, did or said anything even remotely confronting to him. So, umm, what the hell?
Right, I know it's probably not about me and that it's about him, maybe someone said something to him or maybe he just didn't like something I said on facebook, but this whole thing still upsets me. I don't like it when people delete me. I don't have a thick skin like some and that's not a bad thing.
It's also really rude since this person complained bitterly to me about people randomly taking him off their friends lists. Yet, he can do the same to someone else and that's okay? Talk about double standards.
So I found out the whole facebook bullshit before I went out. Way to make yourself feel good Renee. I know right, I'm definitely the sharpest knife in the drawer.
It was awful feeling like that. The whole trying to pretend I'm fine since I was with my mum while hoping like hell I don't see anyone I know since I've actually gained weight from that crazy migraine medication I was taking ages ago. Then there's the people staring at me, the kids screaming in front of me and trying their best to trip me up when they run like crazy little fuckers in front of me. You know what pisses me off about that? If I accidentally hit the little fucker I would be the biggest bitch in the world. I mean if I was window shopping and not completely watching where I was walking and one of the little fuckers ran in front of me and I knocked into it, I would be the one copping abuse. So don't fucking tell me I have to like the little fuckers running around in front of me. *Insert evil stare here*
Then there was the shop assistant from hell.
I walked into City Chic since that's about the only place I can shop in Australia and find things in my size that don't look like an old lady's antique floral covered chair upholstery. The shop assistant starts off by over zealously yelling "Hi ladies! How are you today?" I'm pretty sure the people walking past outside the shop looked to see if she were talking to them.
My mum replied since I was kind of running around grabbing a huge pile of stuff to try on. Okay, so it was three items and I wasn't really running, more like dawdling. Anyway, the shop assistant huffs loudly because we didn't yell back(?) and stomps, yes stomps, into the back room. I resist muttering "niceties" under my breath.
She returns from the depths of hell, I mean the back room and loudly yells at us "Is there anything specifically you're looking for?", to which mum replies "no thanks, we're just looking at the moment." Even I thought what mum said was pretty decent. Apparently not so with Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants. She huffs and stomps to the front counter.
Another customer came in and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants greets them. This time she's not yelling at all but being really lovely and nice. What. The. Fuck.
I tell myself to breathe. This shop assistant is obviously kind of nuts if she thinks we're deaf, dumb and/or blind. I couldn't help it, I shot a glance her way. She was smiling at the new customer as if she were the nicest person on the face of the planet. I really didn't like Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants.
Roughly 5 minutes later I'm scrutinising the clothes on the other side of the shop trying to decide if I really like things. I'm not just fussy in second life! Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants yells out "Do you want me to put anything in the change rooms for you?", obviously she saw the nice little pile in my arms. I reply "no thanks, I'm still looking" and smile my best smile at her. If you've ever seen this smile it's one of a kind awesome. Again she huffs and stomps off. Seriously, wtf?
Anyway, I try on the clothes and decide on two items so we proceed to the front counter to pay. Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants is waiting for us. I groan, inwardly.
She takes the clothes and begins to scan the tags. All is going well. Then she reads out the price and something wasn't right, it wasn't expensive enough. Mum points this out and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants starts huffing and rescanning the two items, finally satisfied she says "It must be on sale" in the most acidic tone I've ever heard. And let me tell you, after working for Telstra I've heard some really nasty tones.
Mum hands over my credit card (I buy too much stuff online if I have it in my possession) and we do all that fun stuff of signing etc.
Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants folds the items and bags them, hands me the bag and scowls at me while I'm politely saying "thank you".
We leave the shop.
Now what the hell was this woman's problem? I've never seen her before in my life nor had my mum or I said anything rudely or in a tone that was rude. She was perfectly fine to the other customers in the store and yet she treated us as if we were deaf and dumb.
If we had have been rude then I could totally understand where she was coming from. If we had have made a mess, spoke down to her, ignored her or anything like that I also would have understood her coolness towards us. Yet we didn't do anything other than enter "her" store to have a look.
Have you ever had this happen to you?
If that wasn't bad enough, people stare at me.
Seriously, they stare. Not everyone granted (thank fuck for that), but enough to make me really uncomfortable. Now I have no idea why they are staring at me, but I assume it's not because they think I'm"hot".
Honestly, it doesn't even matter what they think. I just wish they'd stop staring. It's completely unnerving and totally unacceptable. I don't go around staring at people. Well, not all the time. And when I do I am careful not to be too obvious about it since I know how it feels. Also if I am caught staring I at least have the decency to stop!
Today was probably worse than most since I found out a "friend" deleted me from facebook. Oh, this happens to be the same person whom I tried to contact when I was really upset. And, the same one that apparently doesn't think I am good enough to even bother responding to. The funny thing is that I never, never, did or said anything even remotely confronting to him. So, umm, what the hell?
Right, I know it's probably not about me and that it's about him, maybe someone said something to him or maybe he just didn't like something I said on facebook, but this whole thing still upsets me. I don't like it when people delete me. I don't have a thick skin like some and that's not a bad thing.
It's also really rude since this person complained bitterly to me about people randomly taking him off their friends lists. Yet, he can do the same to someone else and that's okay? Talk about double standards.
So I found out the whole facebook bullshit before I went out. Way to make yourself feel good Renee. I know right, I'm definitely the sharpest knife in the drawer.
It was awful feeling like that. The whole trying to pretend I'm fine since I was with my mum while hoping like hell I don't see anyone I know since I've actually gained weight from that crazy migraine medication I was taking ages ago. Then there's the people staring at me, the kids screaming in front of me and trying their best to trip me up when they run like crazy little fuckers in front of me. You know what pisses me off about that? If I accidentally hit the little fucker I would be the biggest bitch in the world. I mean if I was window shopping and not completely watching where I was walking and one of the little fuckers ran in front of me and I knocked into it, I would be the one copping abuse. So don't fucking tell me I have to like the little fuckers running around in front of me. *Insert evil stare here*
Then there was the shop assistant from hell.
I walked into City Chic since that's about the only place I can shop in Australia and find things in my size that don't look like an old lady's antique floral covered chair upholstery. The shop assistant starts off by over zealously yelling "Hi ladies! How are you today?" I'm pretty sure the people walking past outside the shop looked to see if she were talking to them.
My mum replied since I was kind of running around grabbing a huge pile of stuff to try on. Okay, so it was three items and I wasn't really running, more like dawdling. Anyway, the shop assistant huffs loudly because we didn't yell back(?) and stomps, yes stomps, into the back room. I resist muttering "niceties" under my breath.
She returns from the depths of hell, I mean the back room and loudly yells at us "Is there anything specifically you're looking for?", to which mum replies "no thanks, we're just looking at the moment." Even I thought what mum said was pretty decent. Apparently not so with Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants. She huffs and stomps to the front counter.
Another customer came in and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants greets them. This time she's not yelling at all but being really lovely and nice. What. The. Fuck.
I tell myself to breathe. This shop assistant is obviously kind of nuts if she thinks we're deaf, dumb and/or blind. I couldn't help it, I shot a glance her way. She was smiling at the new customer as if she were the nicest person on the face of the planet. I really didn't like Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants.
Roughly 5 minutes later I'm scrutinising the clothes on the other side of the shop trying to decide if I really like things. I'm not just fussy in second life! Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants yells out "Do you want me to put anything in the change rooms for you?", obviously she saw the nice little pile in my arms. I reply "no thanks, I'm still looking" and smile my best smile at her. If you've ever seen this smile it's one of a kind awesome. Again she huffs and stomps off. Seriously, wtf?
Anyway, I try on the clothes and decide on two items so we proceed to the front counter to pay. Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants is waiting for us. I groan, inwardly.
She takes the clothes and begins to scan the tags. All is going well. Then she reads out the price and something wasn't right, it wasn't expensive enough. Mum points this out and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants starts huffing and rescanning the two items, finally satisfied she says "It must be on sale" in the most acidic tone I've ever heard. And let me tell you, after working for Telstra I've heard some really nasty tones.
Mum hands over my credit card (I buy too much stuff online if I have it in my possession) and we do all that fun stuff of signing etc.
Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants folds the items and bags them, hands me the bag and scowls at me while I'm politely saying "thank you".
We leave the shop.
Now what the hell was this woman's problem? I've never seen her before in my life nor had my mum or I said anything rudely or in a tone that was rude. She was perfectly fine to the other customers in the store and yet she treated us as if we were deaf and dumb.
If we had have been rude then I could totally understand where she was coming from. If we had have made a mess, spoke down to her, ignored her or anything like that I also would have understood her coolness towards us. Yet we didn't do anything other than enter "her" store to have a look.
Have you ever had this happen to you?
Failure.
I failed.
There I said it. The two words that have chased me throughout my life have, again, caught up with me.
I failed.
For the sake of coherence I'll go back a little bit and explain. I applied to write some online articles for a website. It was a rather harrowing two hours as I had to write two example articles. Upon finishing the articles I clicked on send. Then the waiting game began.
I got an email not even two hours later telling me, clinically, that my application was declined.
A few tears were shed.
Then, perhaps miraculously or perhaps not, I realised that I'd been had. Those nice comments about my writing, suggestions to do more, write more, were really just people being polite. Isn't that what you say when someone does something in the way of an achievement? We utter polite phrases and niceties because that's what we're conditioned to do.
These niceties aren't really a problem unless someone as gullible as me comes along and starts to believe them.
It was at that moment, that very moment when I started to believe it might be possible, I began to set myself up for failure. I actually began to believe the niceties. The sweet, kind niceties that are like candy for the soul. Truly, I have no one to blame but myself for blindly munching on those soul-sweets.
That brings me back to where I began. I failed. Of course I was going to fail. I'm a small followed blog writer who started to believe she was better than she was. Molotov cocktail anyone?
Perhaps my biggest mistake was mentioning it on twitter. As always my words were misunderstood, as I know these will be too, and I was questioned as to why I would give up after only one knock back.
My hackles raised I wanted to scream "don't you know anything about me?" then abruptly realised that no one "knows" me. That's the security of twitter. Being "unknown" was my favourite part of it. Now, when I need to be known, that part of twitter isn't quite so much fun.
I know my place now. I am fully aware now that niceties are lovely and soft and cosy when you need to inflate an ego. But they're definitely not the basis of true strength of character.
Watch this space. This heartbreaking turn of events will lead to my return to hospital and, more importantly, a return to the mind fogging medication I felt sure I was rid of.
I failed.
P.S. I'd strongly advise a lot of thought before replying to this post. I'm extremely sensitive right now and while I try to joke and undermine the severity of the situation, the reality is quite serious. Yes, I agree there's a certain amount of self pity in this blog. I'll come to roll my eyes at it one day. For now though be aware that it was a positively MONSTROUS effort for me to apply to this website.
Keep that in mind when you're shredding what's left of my self esteem, ego and myself in general.
There I said it. The two words that have chased me throughout my life have, again, caught up with me.
I failed.
For the sake of coherence I'll go back a little bit and explain. I applied to write some online articles for a website. It was a rather harrowing two hours as I had to write two example articles. Upon finishing the articles I clicked on send. Then the waiting game began.
I got an email not even two hours later telling me, clinically, that my application was declined.
A few tears were shed.
Then, perhaps miraculously or perhaps not, I realised that I'd been had. Those nice comments about my writing, suggestions to do more, write more, were really just people being polite. Isn't that what you say when someone does something in the way of an achievement? We utter polite phrases and niceties because that's what we're conditioned to do.
These niceties aren't really a problem unless someone as gullible as me comes along and starts to believe them.
It was at that moment, that very moment when I started to believe it might be possible, I began to set myself up for failure. I actually began to believe the niceties. The sweet, kind niceties that are like candy for the soul. Truly, I have no one to blame but myself for blindly munching on those soul-sweets.
That brings me back to where I began. I failed. Of course I was going to fail. I'm a small followed blog writer who started to believe she was better than she was. Molotov cocktail anyone?
Perhaps my biggest mistake was mentioning it on twitter. As always my words were misunderstood, as I know these will be too, and I was questioned as to why I would give up after only one knock back.
My hackles raised I wanted to scream "don't you know anything about me?" then abruptly realised that no one "knows" me. That's the security of twitter. Being "unknown" was my favourite part of it. Now, when I need to be known, that part of twitter isn't quite so much fun.
I know my place now. I am fully aware now that niceties are lovely and soft and cosy when you need to inflate an ego. But they're definitely not the basis of true strength of character.
Watch this space. This heartbreaking turn of events will lead to my return to hospital and, more importantly, a return to the mind fogging medication I felt sure I was rid of.
I failed.
P.S. I'd strongly advise a lot of thought before replying to this post. I'm extremely sensitive right now and while I try to joke and undermine the severity of the situation, the reality is quite serious. Yes, I agree there's a certain amount of self pity in this blog. I'll come to roll my eyes at it one day. For now though be aware that it was a positively MONSTROUS effort for me to apply to this website.
Keep that in mind when you're shredding what's left of my self esteem, ego and myself in general.
Stability In Question
It is not often I blog about something someone has said to me.
Okay, maybe it is. However, it has been a while since I have written any blog posts. There are many reasons for the lack of writing, although, the main one is a severe lack of original content. It's all well and good that I write constantly, but I don't wish to bore my readers by repeating the same issues and concerns, even if those issues and concerns repeat in my head.
I went away for a few days last week and found out some information I don't think I should have ever been told. Apart from this information causing me to have, yet another, breakdown it has perhaps fuelled an anger that I have been trying to quash for some time.
So what the hell did I find out?
An ex-boyfriend told a good friend of mine that he was concerned about her sons safety in my presence. For instance, if i should look after her son, would I be capable without being a danger to him?
There are many responses to this, especially from me. However, it has taken quite a few days for this comment to really sink in, grab hold and rip out my fragile stability.
Now, I am a nervous wreck in need of tenderness but unable to let anyone know just how much this comment hurt. I am partly afraid this comment may be true. There are many times I am sad and not coping and I don't think that would be healthy for a two year old to see.
While I would never, NEVER, hurt him I still do not think seeing someone emotionally collapse would be beneficial to his life.
So here I am, conflicted yet again. I am angry that this person should say such horrible things about me, when I have neither said anything mean nor negative regarding him. If anything I have put aside my immense anger at being used and remained supportive of him. Okay, so he perhaps didn't know that I was being supportive as I never spoke to him, however, I never said anything so cruel, mean and just disgusting like he has done. Instead, I shall vent on my website and thus equates the tit for tat. (Please note, the last sentence was sarcastic.)
Perhaps there is some small merit of payback by writing on here, however names are never mentioned and unless you know me and know my life you will never know whom I am speaking of. So where is the payback if no names are mentioned?
Anyway, here I am wondering if his hurtful words are indeed true and if they are, how will I ever allow myself to be around anyone, let alone a two year old, ever again?
To you this may be a stupid reaction and partly I agree with you, however, partly I do not, as I do not trust nor like myself enough to be able to reassure myself that I wouldn't ever hurt or subject a child to something they should never be subjected to.
It hurts me to know that someone else thinks so low of me that they feel like they should say something like this. It also hurts that I should find out, as silly as that sounds. If you think about it, had I not have known the comment was said I wouldn't be having this particular breakdown. Mind you, I would just find something else to be sad and worried about.
Have you ever had your stability ripped out from under you which has made you question everything?
Okay, maybe it is. However, it has been a while since I have written any blog posts. There are many reasons for the lack of writing, although, the main one is a severe lack of original content. It's all well and good that I write constantly, but I don't wish to bore my readers by repeating the same issues and concerns, even if those issues and concerns repeat in my head.
I went away for a few days last week and found out some information I don't think I should have ever been told. Apart from this information causing me to have, yet another, breakdown it has perhaps fuelled an anger that I have been trying to quash for some time.
So what the hell did I find out?
An ex-boyfriend told a good friend of mine that he was concerned about her sons safety in my presence. For instance, if i should look after her son, would I be capable without being a danger to him?
There are many responses to this, especially from me. However, it has taken quite a few days for this comment to really sink in, grab hold and rip out my fragile stability.
Now, I am a nervous wreck in need of tenderness but unable to let anyone know just how much this comment hurt. I am partly afraid this comment may be true. There are many times I am sad and not coping and I don't think that would be healthy for a two year old to see.
While I would never, NEVER, hurt him I still do not think seeing someone emotionally collapse would be beneficial to his life.
So here I am, conflicted yet again. I am angry that this person should say such horrible things about me, when I have neither said anything mean nor negative regarding him. If anything I have put aside my immense anger at being used and remained supportive of him. Okay, so he perhaps didn't know that I was being supportive as I never spoke to him, however, I never said anything so cruel, mean and just disgusting like he has done. Instead, I shall vent on my website and thus equates the tit for tat. (Please note, the last sentence was sarcastic.)
Perhaps there is some small merit of payback by writing on here, however names are never mentioned and unless you know me and know my life you will never know whom I am speaking of. So where is the payback if no names are mentioned?
Anyway, here I am wondering if his hurtful words are indeed true and if they are, how will I ever allow myself to be around anyone, let alone a two year old, ever again?
To you this may be a stupid reaction and partly I agree with you, however, partly I do not, as I do not trust nor like myself enough to be able to reassure myself that I wouldn't ever hurt or subject a child to something they should never be subjected to.
It hurts me to know that someone else thinks so low of me that they feel like they should say something like this. It also hurts that I should find out, as silly as that sounds. If you think about it, had I not have known the comment was said I wouldn't be having this particular breakdown. Mind you, I would just find something else to be sad and worried about.
Have you ever had your stability ripped out from under you which has made you question everything?
Pscyhobabble
Cast:
Renee - Patient in need of therapy
Dr Red* - Psychiatrist appointment to meet Renee and determine if her mental health case file should be reopened.
Setting:
Tuggeranong Mental Health.
Time:
2:30pm (1430), 24th February 2010.
Enter Renee and Dr Red
Dr Red suggests Renee should sit down in one of the chairs he offers. Renee is clearly uncomfortable especially when Dr Red tries to shake her hand. Her confusion comes across as agression with a look of complete distaste crossing her face.
Dr Red doesn't notice this silent emotional turmoil, instead he proceeds to sit down.
Dr Red then asks Renee a few questions. Renee's face doesn't show her anger towards this person and the system, instead she liberally applies her mask of "I am okay, I'm fine, I don't know what is wrong with you people".
The questions range from why Renee should be having the appointment, how many people in her immediate family, how does she get along with family members to feelings and emotions, goals and plans for the furture. All of Dr Red's questions are met with resistance and hostility. Renee was clearly frustrated having been through all these preliminary questions before.
Dr Red is clueless and has a difficult time trying to decide how best to treat this unique (and slightly scary) patient. He would very much like to ask her to leave, however, he can't do that due to his profession and his cultural background. He knows this and he also realises that Renee also knows this. He feels trapped.
Dr Red continues asking questions, this time he asks about Renee's thoughts to do with Tuggeranong Mental Health. Renee does not hold back.
Renee: I have no faith in the system.
I was told when I first came here, I wouldn't be forgotten.
I was told no one would give up on me.
I was also told that I could contact my case manager, my shrink and/or anyone else here.
No one has returned my calls, emails or sms for four months.
The last time I saw anyone was before I went to St. John of God in Sydney.
After the disasterous turn of events in Sydney I needed to come back to support.
Instead I come back to a closed case file, no word from my psychiatrist and no support.
I do not trust this system nor the people working in it.
Dr Red is clearly taken aback by this honest, heartfelt and slightly angry explanation. He suddenly begins to realise the depth to which this patient has been neglected and tries desperately to find something that would help her. Dr Red asks Renee more questions, what would she like to see happen? who would she like to treat her? what would she like the outcomes to be?
Renee rolls her eyes and sighs. Each question has been asked to her a thousand times before by a thousand different psychologists, psychiatrists, psych ward nurses and social workers. Renee responds in a manner that make Dr Red pause. She explains that as she has no faith in the system she is looking interstate for a better support program. Renee continues to explain at length that she will move to the place with the best mental health system as Canberra's mental health system is incredibly pathetic and is doing more damage than good.
Dr Red stops writing his notes and changes the subject. He remembers that Renee's case manager wanted to also see her. Dr Red quickly explains that he needs to find Renee's case manager and then leaves the room.
Renee looks out the window, visibly shaking now as the panic takes over. She would never show this inept Dr Red her true emotions and she knows that all he will get from this visit is anger and hostility. Renee can hear other patients in the waiting room as they talk quietly with each other, her thoughts begin to drift to things she knows she's not meant to be thinking about, especially while in mental health. She begins to daydream about how she would vanish, disappear, cease to exist. Renee thinks about how fantastic it would be not to have to deal with any more centrestink people, mental health people, or having to explain to anyone why she feels the way she does.
Eventually Renee's daydream is interrupted as Dr Red returns with the news that the case manager is out. He asks Renee if she'd like to wait for her case manager to return. Renee looks at the incredibly stupid doctor and tells him that she will not wait, she is having a panic attack and would very much like to go home. He stares at her. Renee realises this psychiatrist has probably never seen someone hide their emotions so completely before. She shakes her head slightly and wonders who's brilliant idea it was to see this inept psychiatrist.
Finally, Dr Red makes the necessary motions that release Renee from the appointment. He makes one last comment about finding out what he can do to help and how someone will contact Renee at some point. Renee nods and leaves, obviously thinking that this man is an idiot.
As Renee waits for the lift to go back down to her car and finally leave the place she refers to as "hell", she realises that the last 30 minutes were a complete waste of time. Nothing was achieved. There was no goal other than for Mental Health to determine if they'd like to reopen her case file. Renee feels an intense anger and frustration for being made to go along to these silly appointments when there is no need.
Renee drives home, hoping all the way that someone would crash into her car and kill her. She is just so sick of people lying to her, she's unable to cope with all the broken promises and all the people (mental health as well as friends) who say they'll be there for her and then, when the time comes, they are scattered everywhere else ignoring her request for help.
She makes it home in one piece. Physically, not mentally.
* name has been changed to protect the psychiatrist mentioned in this blog.
Through the Looking Glass
I had a very ghastly day. To be honest I'm in need of many hugs that may just result in one super long hug.
Today was centrestink form day. So I presented at centrestink with my form. The welcome lady tells me "you're payments have been suspended". I very nearly died on the spot. The lady tells me to go sit down, as if the colour hadn't drained from my face.
I go and sit down and wait. After about ten minutes of waiting a centrestink dude calls out my name. I was in the middle of a tweet about how much I hate to wait and how much more I hate centrestink, but I jump up and nearly run (I don't do running) over to the dude's desk. This in itself is rather awesome since I've done something to my back and it's been killing me to walk. Anyway, back to centrestink dude.
Apparently my last medical certificate was declined, but no one told me before today. I know, you're thinking I got a letter that I didn't read or didn't answer a phone call, but I got nothing. Not a letter telling me my medical certificate wasn't accepted nor a phone call to say the same thing. Nothing. Silence.
So the dude tried to fix all these mistakes that were made. Kudos to him for trying. However, I had to explain, again, why I missed my last JAC (Job Capacity Assessment) appointment. I called them at the time and told them I was having a panic attack, blah blah blah.
So anyway, I begin having a panic attack while I was sitting at the centrestink dude's desk, but I can't just get up and run. He's asking me questions and is actually being helpful, also I would never make a scene. So I sit there in fear. Sweating. Shaking. Hardly able to breathe.
Finally he said it was all done and I could go. I pretty much ran (I need to stress there that I do not run) out the door, then remembered I had to go to Max Employment and give them a copy of my medical certificate. Damn.
I walk in and talk with the reception guy, he tells me that I will have to wait because the lady, who I would have seen for the appointment, will need to talk to me to confirm things.
I sit down and wait. My heart is beating out of my chest (okay, so that's kind of an impossibility but it still feels like it.) I still can't breathe. I'm still sweating. My whole body is shaking. I am wishing the bloody day was already over.
20 minutes later...
The lady comes out with a letter and their copy of my medical certificate. My next appointment with Max Employment will be when the certificate ends. She then tells ms that I need to get the DSP (Disability Support Pension) form from centrestink. Now, I have had job capacity assessments every few months for over a year and not once has anyone said I qualify for DSP (Disability Support Pension).
It's time like these I would really like to start banging my head against a wall. I'm sure I would get more information from doing that than talking with Centrestink, Max Employment and everything else in between.
Today was centrestink form day. So I presented at centrestink with my form. The welcome lady tells me "you're payments have been suspended". I very nearly died on the spot. The lady tells me to go sit down, as if the colour hadn't drained from my face.
I go and sit down and wait. After about ten minutes of waiting a centrestink dude calls out my name. I was in the middle of a tweet about how much I hate to wait and how much more I hate centrestink, but I jump up and nearly run (I don't do running) over to the dude's desk. This in itself is rather awesome since I've done something to my back and it's been killing me to walk. Anyway, back to centrestink dude.
Apparently my last medical certificate was declined, but no one told me before today. I know, you're thinking I got a letter that I didn't read or didn't answer a phone call, but I got nothing. Not a letter telling me my medical certificate wasn't accepted nor a phone call to say the same thing. Nothing. Silence.
So the dude tried to fix all these mistakes that were made. Kudos to him for trying. However, I had to explain, again, why I missed my last JAC (Job Capacity Assessment) appointment. I called them at the time and told them I was having a panic attack, blah blah blah.
So anyway, I begin having a panic attack while I was sitting at the centrestink dude's desk, but I can't just get up and run. He's asking me questions and is actually being helpful, also I would never make a scene. So I sit there in fear. Sweating. Shaking. Hardly able to breathe.
Finally he said it was all done and I could go. I pretty much ran (I need to stress there that I do not run) out the door, then remembered I had to go to Max Employment and give them a copy of my medical certificate. Damn.
I walk in and talk with the reception guy, he tells me that I will have to wait because the lady, who I would have seen for the appointment, will need to talk to me to confirm things.
I sit down and wait. My heart is beating out of my chest (okay, so that's kind of an impossibility but it still feels like it.) I still can't breathe. I'm still sweating. My whole body is shaking. I am wishing the bloody day was already over.
20 minutes later...
The lady comes out with a letter and their copy of my medical certificate. My next appointment with Max Employment will be when the certificate ends. She then tells ms that I need to get the DSP (Disability Support Pension) form from centrestink. Now, I have had job capacity assessments every few months for over a year and not once has anyone said I qualify for DSP (Disability Support Pension).
It's time like these I would really like to start banging my head against a wall. I'm sure I would get more information from doing that than talking with Centrestink, Max Employment and everything else in between.
Another Step, forwards or backwards?
I am terrified.
The edge of cliff is right there, just beyond my toes and I can see the merciless waves crashing against the sharply ragged rocks below. This is it.
Last night I enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts degree through Open Universities Australia. I can take up to ten years to complete my degree, which means I have plenty of time and don't have to face seeing a crowd of people who are just as nervous as me. I can do all my studying from home, or hospital should I need to be there. I can work as fast or as slowly as I'd like or can cope with.
Yet, I am terrified.
I am terrified because I've made a decision. There is something in making a decision that is permanent. It is final. The decision is made, the change is happening. Yes, the change is now imminent. Am I ready for this change? Will I be able to accept this change and learn? Or will I fall to pieces like I always seem to do and fail?
While being terrified is one part of my current psyche, the other part of me is similar to a child in a candy store! I want everything and can't wait to get stuck into all the delicious, sugary goodness! I want it now, now, damnit!
There are times I'd like to split myself in two and let each part run around equally like chickens with their heads cut off. Actually, that is a bad image, I personally don't really like the idea of a headless chook running around with blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different directions. Who comes up with these morbid images anyway? And people say Emo's are morbid.... *insert eye rolling here*
Anyway, the idea of splitting myself in two isn't an original one. Let's face it, there's the "boring bits" ad on tv currently. The only difference between me and the "boring bits" ad is that my whole life is boring, with the exception of my Twitter exploits. I'd like to say right now that if it weren't for Twitter I would probably be the most lonely person on the face of the planet.
Back to being terrified. How do you cope with something that is terrifying? I mean, there are people who jump right in and just get on with it. There are others who plan their way through a terrifying encounter. Then there are people like me who want to run, hide, scream, faint and everything else they can possibly do to avoid feeling the entire effect of being scared. I wouldn't recommend the latter as it's not only a bad way to lose weight (it doesn't work), but it puts a lot of stress on your body.
I am terrified.
The edge of cliff is right there, just beyond my toes and I can see the merciless waves crashing against the sharply ragged rocks below. This is it.
Last night I enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts degree through Open Universities Australia. I can take up to ten years to complete my degree, which means I have plenty of time and don't have to face seeing a crowd of people who are just as nervous as me. I can do all my studying from home, or hospital should I need to be there. I can work as fast or as slowly as I'd like or can cope with.
Yet, I am terrified.
I am terrified because I've made a decision. There is something in making a decision that is permanent. It is final. The decision is made, the change is happening. Yes, the change is now imminent. Am I ready for this change? Will I be able to accept this change and learn? Or will I fall to pieces like I always seem to do and fail?
While being terrified is one part of my current psyche, the other part of me is similar to a child in a candy store! I want everything and can't wait to get stuck into all the delicious, sugary goodness! I want it now, now, damnit!
There are times I'd like to split myself in two and let each part run around equally like chickens with their heads cut off. Actually, that is a bad image, I personally don't really like the idea of a headless chook running around with blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different directions. Who comes up with these morbid images anyway? And people say Emo's are morbid.... *insert eye rolling here*
Anyway, the idea of splitting myself in two isn't an original one. Let's face it, there's the "boring bits" ad on tv currently. The only difference between me and the "boring bits" ad is that my whole life is boring, with the exception of my Twitter exploits. I'd like to say right now that if it weren't for Twitter I would probably be the most lonely person on the face of the planet.
Back to being terrified. How do you cope with something that is terrifying? I mean, there are people who jump right in and just get on with it. There are others who plan their way through a terrifying encounter. Then there are people like me who want to run, hide, scream, faint and everything else they can possibly do to avoid feeling the entire effect of being scared. I wouldn't recommend the latter as it's not only a bad way to lose weight (it doesn't work), but it puts a lot of stress on your body.
I am terrified.
Humiliated
I am dreading something that I have to do today. The thought of me dreading anything is so strange I'm sure you're all sitting there gasping for breath with the shock of it.
However, I am dreading having to deal with centrestink today. It's another appointment day where I have to "justify" myself and prove to them I am actually as crazy as I say I am. It is so humiliating.
Lately I have been pondering thoughts of cancelling all involvement with centrestink. The whole organisation treats me like a liar, they assume that I scum and am just too lazy to work. Hell, I've said before and I'll say it again, if you have a job you'd like to offer me where you don't mind that I may only turn up once a week or need to run and hide because I feel the grip of an anxiety attack.
I am sure there is a boss out there who love to have someone so unrealiable working for them. In fact, I should waste everyone's time and look for a job only to leave after three months. Yes, you're right organisation that is centrestink, I should be working no matter what.
I find this whole silly thing makes me so angry. I like to work. I like the feeling of accomplishment one gets when working. I like being "important" in some small. What I don't like; being told by centrestink that I do not like these things and that I just want money for nothing.
Today's appointment is all about the interviewer judging me. The person who I will see will look at me, take into account my appearance, how I talk and act. This person will write a report on their findings and will send that to some other department within centrestink.
I don't like acting or pretending to be something other than what I am. I lied to myself for 23 years about being sick, I will not lie about it now. I must admit, I do take some joy out of being blunt and telling the person who interviews me just what my frame of mind is. One lady actually sat at the desk with her jaw open, staring at me. All I can say is "hey Lady, you asked the question."
Having said all this, I contribute terribly to this dread as I do work myself into a lather of trepidation and anger due to their assumption I'm lying scum. I would sincerely love to say that what I have experienced is all lovely and they treat me with respect. Not one person that I have had the pleasure of dealing with at centrestink has treated me with respect or even with the decency of being professional. Instead, I am constantly met with rude employees, eye rolling, sighing, "you shouldn't be on this payment, why are you lying?" and other such horrible encounters. Is it any wonder I feel such acute anxiety when it comes to appointments with centrestink?
I have two hours before the appointment. Right now my stomach is a knot of muscles, my gallbladder is trying to leap out of my body and I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. I will stop writing now so I may administer some emergency anxiety controlling procedures. I sincerely hope it works otherwise I will definitely be labelled "loser scum of the Earth" by centrestink for not appearing at the appointment.
However, I am dreading having to deal with centrestink today. It's another appointment day where I have to "justify" myself and prove to them I am actually as crazy as I say I am. It is so humiliating.
Lately I have been pondering thoughts of cancelling all involvement with centrestink. The whole organisation treats me like a liar, they assume that I scum and am just too lazy to work. Hell, I've said before and I'll say it again, if you have a job you'd like to offer me where you don't mind that I may only turn up once a week or need to run and hide because I feel the grip of an anxiety attack.
I am sure there is a boss out there who love to have someone so unrealiable working for them. In fact, I should waste everyone's time and look for a job only to leave after three months. Yes, you're right organisation that is centrestink, I should be working no matter what.
I find this whole silly thing makes me so angry. I like to work. I like the feeling of accomplishment one gets when working. I like being "important" in some small. What I don't like; being told by centrestink that I do not like these things and that I just want money for nothing.
Today's appointment is all about the interviewer judging me. The person who I will see will look at me, take into account my appearance, how I talk and act. This person will write a report on their findings and will send that to some other department within centrestink.
I don't like acting or pretending to be something other than what I am. I lied to myself for 23 years about being sick, I will not lie about it now. I must admit, I do take some joy out of being blunt and telling the person who interviews me just what my frame of mind is. One lady actually sat at the desk with her jaw open, staring at me. All I can say is "hey Lady, you asked the question."
Having said all this, I contribute terribly to this dread as I do work myself into a lather of trepidation and anger due to their assumption I'm lying scum. I would sincerely love to say that what I have experienced is all lovely and they treat me with respect. Not one person that I have had the pleasure of dealing with at centrestink has treated me with respect or even with the decency of being professional. Instead, I am constantly met with rude employees, eye rolling, sighing, "you shouldn't be on this payment, why are you lying?" and other such horrible encounters. Is it any wonder I feel such acute anxiety when it comes to appointments with centrestink?
I have two hours before the appointment. Right now my stomach is a knot of muscles, my gallbladder is trying to leap out of my body and I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. I will stop writing now so I may administer some emergency anxiety controlling procedures. I sincerely hope it works otherwise I will definitely be labelled "loser scum of the Earth" by centrestink for not appearing at the appointment.
Response from A SMOKER. God Forbid.
I feel that I need to say something here on behalf of those of use who are considerate, kind and try very hard to never be near an open door, a child or anyone else while they are (God forbid I write this) smoking.
I read a blog today about people smoking by hospital doors, smoking near children and other disgusting things. In the blog "So Now What?" the writer was clearly not happy with the inconsiderate people who abuse the "system". I am not saying I disagree with the points raised in the blog for I am not. I disagree with the comments made on the blog and the general assumption that every smoker is a nasty piece of work with absolutely no consideration. This general assumption is just horrid and I am appalled to be labelled among these people just because I dare to raise a cancerous-tobacco-filled-nicotine-ridden cigarette to my mouth and inhale it's toxic decadence.
Let me clearly state right here and now I do not think smoking is cool, I do not think it is health or good. I definitely do not think people should smoke around children or entrance ways.
Smoking is a disgusting habit and I am fully aware and agree wholeheartedly. This does not mean I will quit just because you don't like it.
No, indeed I won't quit because it would be detrimental to my health at this point. You see, as I explained in my comment on "So Now What?", I have this little problem with anxiety. This little problem means I forget to breathe and a lack of breathing can cause all kind of issues, including death. The reason that nasty little cigarette is good for me is due simply to this: upon smoking it I inhale and exhale in a normal rhythm which, in turn, means my anxiety reduces and I continue to live without any nasty side effects, like dying from no oxygen.
Yes, for all those of you who also have anxiety and don't need to rely on a cancerous, highly addictive form to continue breathing, I am able to utilise the breathing techniques taught to me by my psychologist. There are definitely ways around the anxiety without relying on the cigarette. I choose to use the cigarette when I find that the 30 - 40 minutes of repeatedly attempting breathing techniques is not working.
Now, I'd like to clearly point to everyone that I do not and will not smoke around children, especially within an enclosed area (ie. car). Children should not be exposed to many things, least of which is something as harmful as cigarette smoke. If I am out and I see children sitting near to where I was planning to sit to smoke, I will keep walking to find somewhere that is not inhabited by children or other people. Indeed, if I can not find anywhere and I know my anxiety is getting worse, I will hide in the toilets, put the lid of the toilet seat down and I will sit there, rocking until I can calm myself down to some extent. If you ever see a lady almost run to the toilet and you hear the crash and bang of the lid being slammed shut you can almost bet that it's me hiding out in the toilet desperately trying to calm down.
I completely support the laws that state smoking in a confined space with children present is illegal. It should be. Only idiots would jeopardise their children's health like that.
I have been known walk in another direction to the one I needed because I notice the wind change and did not want anyone else to be downwind of myself and my smoke. I've picked up stray cigarette butts that others have dropped because I feel guilty that they would be so disgusting and inconsiderate in their smoking habits. I carry a little ashtray with me that I use to put my butts in when I am not home so I don't leave a mess or a trace of my nasty little secret.
Why must I be so ashamed when I am the one going out of my way to make sure no one has to breath in my recently exhaled smoke?
As some of you are aware I have recently been spending a fair amount of time in hospital. While the hospital itself is actually a no smoking area there are places (away from the entrances) that one may smoke. I myself have found there are lazy, rude bastards who decide they can not and will not make their way to those areas because they may have to walk those extra 20 steps. If you are well enough to get up to have a smoke you can damn well walk those extra few steps so you're not infecting anyone else with your horrid affliction.
I don't usually smoke when I am at hospital (this does not include psych wards), and if I do smoke I will walk further away than the prescribed area and I make sure no one else is around. No, not because I am shamefully hiding my habit, because I don't want anyone else to be subjected to the smell of the ridiculous thing.
Surely I can not be the only person in the world who takes these considerations? Surely there are good stories of smokers who respect other people and their health and do things to make sure others are not affected by their smoke?
Again, I feel I should repeat, smoking is a disgusting habit. It stains your fingers, makes you smell and has the potential to cause you great harm. I would advise anyone not to smoke if they do not do so already. Please, take that from someone who does smoke. It's horrid.
So here I am, hopefully shining a light on the whole situation and maybe more people will realise they live in a world filled with people, not just themselves and their kids, and maybe, just maybe everyone will have a little more consideration for each other? Ha! Who am I kidding!
By the way, to those of you who like to hate smokers and insist that smokers blow their smoke in your face and you walk past, do you ever notice the smokers who step back and let you pass, while they hold their breath? Do you ever notice the smokers who put out their smoke upon your arrival? Do you notice the smokers who DO NOT stand in the doorways causing you such agony? No, I didn't think you did.
I read a blog today about people smoking by hospital doors, smoking near children and other disgusting things. In the blog "So Now What?" the writer was clearly not happy with the inconsiderate people who abuse the "system". I am not saying I disagree with the points raised in the blog for I am not. I disagree with the comments made on the blog and the general assumption that every smoker is a nasty piece of work with absolutely no consideration. This general assumption is just horrid and I am appalled to be labelled among these people just because I dare to raise a cancerous-tobacco-filled-nicotine-ridden cigarette to my mouth and inhale it's toxic decadence.
Let me clearly state right here and now I do not think smoking is cool, I do not think it is health or good. I definitely do not think people should smoke around children or entrance ways.
Smoking is a disgusting habit and I am fully aware and agree wholeheartedly. This does not mean I will quit just because you don't like it.
No, indeed I won't quit because it would be detrimental to my health at this point. You see, as I explained in my comment on "So Now What?", I have this little problem with anxiety. This little problem means I forget to breathe and a lack of breathing can cause all kind of issues, including death. The reason that nasty little cigarette is good for me is due simply to this: upon smoking it I inhale and exhale in a normal rhythm which, in turn, means my anxiety reduces and I continue to live without any nasty side effects, like dying from no oxygen.
Yes, for all those of you who also have anxiety and don't need to rely on a cancerous, highly addictive form to continue breathing, I am able to utilise the breathing techniques taught to me by my psychologist. There are definitely ways around the anxiety without relying on the cigarette. I choose to use the cigarette when I find that the 30 - 40 minutes of repeatedly attempting breathing techniques is not working.
Now, I'd like to clearly point to everyone that I do not and will not smoke around children, especially within an enclosed area (ie. car). Children should not be exposed to many things, least of which is something as harmful as cigarette smoke. If I am out and I see children sitting near to where I was planning to sit to smoke, I will keep walking to find somewhere that is not inhabited by children or other people. Indeed, if I can not find anywhere and I know my anxiety is getting worse, I will hide in the toilets, put the lid of the toilet seat down and I will sit there, rocking until I can calm myself down to some extent. If you ever see a lady almost run to the toilet and you hear the crash and bang of the lid being slammed shut you can almost bet that it's me hiding out in the toilet desperately trying to calm down.
I completely support the laws that state smoking in a confined space with children present is illegal. It should be. Only idiots would jeopardise their children's health like that.
I have been known walk in another direction to the one I needed because I notice the wind change and did not want anyone else to be downwind of myself and my smoke. I've picked up stray cigarette butts that others have dropped because I feel guilty that they would be so disgusting and inconsiderate in their smoking habits. I carry a little ashtray with me that I use to put my butts in when I am not home so I don't leave a mess or a trace of my nasty little secret.
Why must I be so ashamed when I am the one going out of my way to make sure no one has to breath in my recently exhaled smoke?
As some of you are aware I have recently been spending a fair amount of time in hospital. While the hospital itself is actually a no smoking area there are places (away from the entrances) that one may smoke. I myself have found there are lazy, rude bastards who decide they can not and will not make their way to those areas because they may have to walk those extra 20 steps. If you are well enough to get up to have a smoke you can damn well walk those extra few steps so you're not infecting anyone else with your horrid affliction.
I don't usually smoke when I am at hospital (this does not include psych wards), and if I do smoke I will walk further away than the prescribed area and I make sure no one else is around. No, not because I am shamefully hiding my habit, because I don't want anyone else to be subjected to the smell of the ridiculous thing.
Surely I can not be the only person in the world who takes these considerations? Surely there are good stories of smokers who respect other people and their health and do things to make sure others are not affected by their smoke?
Again, I feel I should repeat, smoking is a disgusting habit. It stains your fingers, makes you smell and has the potential to cause you great harm. I would advise anyone not to smoke if they do not do so already. Please, take that from someone who does smoke. It's horrid.
So here I am, hopefully shining a light on the whole situation and maybe more people will realise they live in a world filled with people, not just themselves and their kids, and maybe, just maybe everyone will have a little more consideration for each other? Ha! Who am I kidding!
By the way, to those of you who like to hate smokers and insist that smokers blow their smoke in your face and you walk past, do you ever notice the smokers who step back and let you pass, while they hold their breath? Do you ever notice the smokers who put out their smoke upon your arrival? Do you notice the smokers who DO NOT stand in the doorways causing you such agony? No, I didn't think you did.
Why I Hate Christmas - Part 2
It was Christmas 1995. My father had just been posted to a country town in Victoria (Sale for those of you who are familiar with it).
We left Hobart when the school year ended and drove from Melbourne to Sale after crossing Bass Strait on the Spirit of Tasmania.
While the trip itself was relatively good the next 6 weeks were not.
The married quarter we were meant to move in to wasn't available until the beginning if February. That meant we were stuck in a motel for 6 WEEKS.
I mean hey, that could be cool! I was 11 so it was an adventure for me. The thought of having my own room while living in a motel was pretty wicked!! I was going to have the best adventures in the history of adventure havers!
We rocked up at the first motel (two weeks at this one before the four weeks at the one with the extra room for me!) We were absolutely dumbstruck when we opened the door.
The room was disgusting. Dirty was an understatement. My mother immediately began her tirade and we checked out 30 minutes after checking in.
We ended up at the other motel, spent three days in the double room and the rest of the 6 weeks in a single room.
Living with my parents in ONE room was torture. It was the most horrible experience. I mean my father farts in his sleep. And I don't mean little "fluffs" either. He let's these massive explosions erupt from his arse. How he still has his intestines intact I will never know.
Then there was his need to continue to sleep naked. Ffs, he could have TRIED to sleep with some pants on so I wouldn't be scarred. I tell you what, it's fucking horrible waking up in your sleep because someone is moving around and seeing your father starkers.
So anyway, this is about Christmas and why I hate it, not the many idiosyncrasies I had to endure during those 6 torturous weeks.
For one thing there was no Christmas tree. Fair enough there was not enough room for one, considering three humans took up a fair amount if the space. However, how was Santa meant to find me and lavish me with presents when there was NO TREE?!?
Please note: I had already established that Santa Claus was a huge lie told to children, but I was ever the dreamer and hoped that maybe there really was some magic out there.
I raised the no tree issue with Mother and she whips out (of a bag you dirty people!) this puny and ugly little tree. It sat on top of the puny and ugly little tv. I mean, seriously, how were my presents going to fit there?!?!?
Turns out they weren't because there was no magic and there truly is no Santa because I didn't get a single thing for Christmas. Oh right, other than the joy of living in ONE ROOM with my flatulent father and moody mother.
It was that horrible Christmas morning when I woke up and realised I was an idiot. That's a pretty big thing to realise as an 11 year old.
As I looked around the room I realised my life was shit, I was an idiot because I had hope and that my parents really didn't give a shit about me.
When they got up there was no explanation, no sorry for ruining Christmas and destroying my fragile 11-year-old ideals. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The day went on and I kept hoping that they were just going to surprise me and grab me in a bug hug, laugh and tell me they loved me! I kept that hope alive for three days. Then I little the flame burn out. They were not going to do anything like that.
So Christmas 1995 was when I realised I was an idiot, how much I hated my mother (that's a blog for another time), and how much my dad smells and drinks. I never knew until that Christmas that he drank at least two cartons of beer a week. A WEEK people.
Now let's take a look at Christmas 2009. I'm stuck with the two people who irritate me more than anyone else in the world. But I'm meant to love every minute of it because they are my family.
My father will be drunk by 2pm, my mother will be coming to me to bitch about my father drinking, then she'll go to him and bitch that I'm not listening to her. No doubt the heat will be terrible and I'll spend the day wishing I had any other family (preferably a loving one) than the one I have and contemplating the ways in which I can avoid being "present". So far I'm thinking of taking my sleeping meds and sleeping through the whole fucking ordeal.
So don't expect me to buy into this bullshit that people harp on about. Christmas is the loneliest time of year and I have two people I'm supposed to spend it with. Kill me now.
We left Hobart when the school year ended and drove from Melbourne to Sale after crossing Bass Strait on the Spirit of Tasmania.
While the trip itself was relatively good the next 6 weeks were not.
The married quarter we were meant to move in to wasn't available until the beginning if February. That meant we were stuck in a motel for 6 WEEKS.
I mean hey, that could be cool! I was 11 so it was an adventure for me. The thought of having my own room while living in a motel was pretty wicked!! I was going to have the best adventures in the history of adventure havers!
We rocked up at the first motel (two weeks at this one before the four weeks at the one with the extra room for me!) We were absolutely dumbstruck when we opened the door.
The room was disgusting. Dirty was an understatement. My mother immediately began her tirade and we checked out 30 minutes after checking in.
We ended up at the other motel, spent three days in the double room and the rest of the 6 weeks in a single room.
Living with my parents in ONE room was torture. It was the most horrible experience. I mean my father farts in his sleep. And I don't mean little "fluffs" either. He let's these massive explosions erupt from his arse. How he still has his intestines intact I will never know.
Then there was his need to continue to sleep naked. Ffs, he could have TRIED to sleep with some pants on so I wouldn't be scarred. I tell you what, it's fucking horrible waking up in your sleep because someone is moving around and seeing your father starkers.
So anyway, this is about Christmas and why I hate it, not the many idiosyncrasies I had to endure during those 6 torturous weeks.
For one thing there was no Christmas tree. Fair enough there was not enough room for one, considering three humans took up a fair amount if the space. However, how was Santa meant to find me and lavish me with presents when there was NO TREE?!?
Please note: I had already established that Santa Claus was a huge lie told to children, but I was ever the dreamer and hoped that maybe there really was some magic out there.
I raised the no tree issue with Mother and she whips out (of a bag you dirty people!) this puny and ugly little tree. It sat on top of the puny and ugly little tv. I mean, seriously, how were my presents going to fit there?!?!?
Turns out they weren't because there was no magic and there truly is no Santa because I didn't get a single thing for Christmas. Oh right, other than the joy of living in ONE ROOM with my flatulent father and moody mother.
It was that horrible Christmas morning when I woke up and realised I was an idiot. That's a pretty big thing to realise as an 11 year old.
As I looked around the room I realised my life was shit, I was an idiot because I had hope and that my parents really didn't give a shit about me.
When they got up there was no explanation, no sorry for ruining Christmas and destroying my fragile 11-year-old ideals. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The day went on and I kept hoping that they were just going to surprise me and grab me in a bug hug, laugh and tell me they loved me! I kept that hope alive for three days. Then I little the flame burn out. They were not going to do anything like that.
So Christmas 1995 was when I realised I was an idiot, how much I hated my mother (that's a blog for another time), and how much my dad smells and drinks. I never knew until that Christmas that he drank at least two cartons of beer a week. A WEEK people.
Now let's take a look at Christmas 2009. I'm stuck with the two people who irritate me more than anyone else in the world. But I'm meant to love every minute of it because they are my family.
My father will be drunk by 2pm, my mother will be coming to me to bitch about my father drinking, then she'll go to him and bitch that I'm not listening to her. No doubt the heat will be terrible and I'll spend the day wishing I had any other family (preferably a loving one) than the one I have and contemplating the ways in which I can avoid being "present". So far I'm thinking of taking my sleeping meds and sleeping through the whole fucking ordeal.
So don't expect me to buy into this bullshit that people harp on about. Christmas is the loneliest time of year and I have two people I'm supposed to spend it with. Kill me now.
Bah Humbug. My version of Christmas (Part 1)
So far I have tried very hard not to write a blog about the horror that is Christmas. However, I have failed in my resolve and here is my Christmas rant.
I hate Christmas. Call me Scrooge, the Grinch, whatever you will. I do not care. I still hate Christmas. Although, in my defence, I have a rather good reason as to why I hate Christmas so much.
We need to go back about 20 years, to a time in the 1990's (actually it was 1990) when I was 5. My 5th ever Christmas. We were living in Melbourne at the time. It was the year I'd started school and the year I started walking to school on my own too. It was safe in those days, and I lived just down the road and around the corner a bit. But I digress.
I was 5 and it was Christmas. I was so excited even though it was hot and I wasn't liking the heat very much. Mother had set up the Christmas tree and I wasn't allowed near it (even though it was in the room where I watched my afternoon cartoons.) In fact I distinctly remember being banned from the room. Oh well, I was 5 and was easily entertained with my barbies.
Finally, finally, the magical day had arrived. Christmas was here. It was the day I held in such high esteem because I would be showered with gifts and love and my parents would love me unconditionally.
Like all fairy tales it wasn't to be.
Parental units finally woke up and allowed me to enter "The Room" only for my grin to drop and tears to begin their sluggish way down my cheeks.
Santa Claus ripped me off.
Yes, that fat bastard ripped me off. There were only two presents under that tree for me. A lousy TWO. But the best was yet to come.
As I was standing there with two rogue tears sliding down my cheek, my mother looked at me and sized up my ungrateful attitude. Without any warning her hand connected with my wet cheek and a screech issued from her lips. I have no idea what she screeched as I was in my own little world of cursing Santa for being a tight arse.
I was sent to my room. Hey, I don't mind being sent to my room. I mean that's where all my toys were and everything so, send away mother dearest.
I spent that day in my room writing a long letter to Santa listing all the things I thought of him. I'm pretty sure I made up some new swear words too that day. Pity I never kept the letter...
I hate Christmas. Call me Scrooge, the Grinch, whatever you will. I do not care. I still hate Christmas. Although, in my defence, I have a rather good reason as to why I hate Christmas so much.
We need to go back about 20 years, to a time in the 1990's (actually it was 1990) when I was 5. My 5th ever Christmas. We were living in Melbourne at the time. It was the year I'd started school and the year I started walking to school on my own too. It was safe in those days, and I lived just down the road and around the corner a bit. But I digress.
I was 5 and it was Christmas. I was so excited even though it was hot and I wasn't liking the heat very much. Mother had set up the Christmas tree and I wasn't allowed near it (even though it was in the room where I watched my afternoon cartoons.) In fact I distinctly remember being banned from the room. Oh well, I was 5 and was easily entertained with my barbies.
Finally, finally, the magical day had arrived. Christmas was here. It was the day I held in such high esteem because I would be showered with gifts and love and my parents would love me unconditionally.
Like all fairy tales it wasn't to be.
Parental units finally woke up and allowed me to enter "The Room" only for my grin to drop and tears to begin their sluggish way down my cheeks.
Santa Claus ripped me off.
Yes, that fat bastard ripped me off. There were only two presents under that tree for me. A lousy TWO. But the best was yet to come.
As I was standing there with two rogue tears sliding down my cheek, my mother looked at me and sized up my ungrateful attitude. Without any warning her hand connected with my wet cheek and a screech issued from her lips. I have no idea what she screeched as I was in my own little world of cursing Santa for being a tight arse.
I was sent to my room. Hey, I don't mind being sent to my room. I mean that's where all my toys were and everything so, send away mother dearest.
I spent that day in my room writing a long letter to Santa listing all the things I thought of him. I'm pretty sure I made up some new swear words too that day. Pity I never kept the letter...
Saturday Blues
Who would have thought that on a Saturday afternoon I would start to fall apart.
Why I am falling apart, I don't know. I am just falling apart.
I probably shouldn't have indulged in the behaviour that makes me upset. However, if I did that I would have nothing to blog about. Maybe that would be a good thing?
Anyway, I was tweeting as I always do when I am bored. I mentioned something to a friend about a game I used to play and how the people on that game hate me. This is where my crazy disorder kicks in.
On one hand I was saying everything in jest, I mean I'm not that horrible am I?
On the other hand I knew that the people I used to chat with on that game do in fact hate me, even if I don't know why.
Unfortunately, it was sort of comfortable being in my little world where I wasn't sure which one of the two it was. I believe this is called denial.
My friend told me which of the two options it was.
Result: Renee is crushed.
Rather stupid is it not? I mean it's not a big deal. So pixel people hate me. I mean I have nothing more to do with them, so why should it bother me?
Argh, it's so frustrating being a few sheep short of a paddock! Although I might actually have a few sheep too many thus all the confusion. It makes a bit more sense than not enough sheep....
So now, I'm sitting on my bed resisting the urge to scream at everyone for ignoring me and to just leave me the fuck alone, while holding back the hysterical laughter and a tempest of tears.
How can things go from awesome to broken in a few minutes?
As much as I'd like to believe the professional mind fucks about a series of events happening that cause us to be sad but not acknowledge that sadness until it's too much, I just can't seem to come to terms with their reasoning.
Wouldn't I feel something if I were upset by situations and circumstances?
Wouldn't I notice something different before the final spiral into oblivion?
Oh well, I only have a mental illness (or three), I'm not the one who knows anything about them.
Why I am falling apart, I don't know. I am just falling apart.
I probably shouldn't have indulged in the behaviour that makes me upset. However, if I did that I would have nothing to blog about. Maybe that would be a good thing?
Anyway, I was tweeting as I always do when I am bored. I mentioned something to a friend about a game I used to play and how the people on that game hate me. This is where my crazy disorder kicks in.
On one hand I was saying everything in jest, I mean I'm not that horrible am I?
On the other hand I knew that the people I used to chat with on that game do in fact hate me, even if I don't know why.
Unfortunately, it was sort of comfortable being in my little world where I wasn't sure which one of the two it was. I believe this is called denial.
My friend told me which of the two options it was.
Result: Renee is crushed.
Rather stupid is it not? I mean it's not a big deal. So pixel people hate me. I mean I have nothing more to do with them, so why should it bother me?
Argh, it's so frustrating being a few sheep short of a paddock! Although I might actually have a few sheep too many thus all the confusion. It makes a bit more sense than not enough sheep....
So now, I'm sitting on my bed resisting the urge to scream at everyone for ignoring me and to just leave me the fuck alone, while holding back the hysterical laughter and a tempest of tears.
How can things go from awesome to broken in a few minutes?
As much as I'd like to believe the professional mind fucks about a series of events happening that cause us to be sad but not acknowledge that sadness until it's too much, I just can't seem to come to terms with their reasoning.
Wouldn't I feel something if I were upset by situations and circumstances?
Wouldn't I notice something different before the final spiral into oblivion?
Oh well, I only have a mental illness (or three), I'm not the one who knows anything about them.
Aftershock
I think I scared some people today. It seems that I have this ability to appear okay, then I'm not okay and people are shocked. This surprises me because I am constantly living with the craziness, the mood swings and other sundry "benefits". Perhaps I could be an outsider for a day and see what others see?
Today was particularly bad. My reasoning and ability to cope is severely limited at the moment. This period (the Christmas one) always makes me sad. I guess I've never had what I would call a happy Christmas. I always found it boring. I mean sure, there's presents, but then there was nothing. Just my parental units and me. All my friends were on holidays, with their families or both.
Mind you, being in Tasmania for three years and living in the Anglesea Barracks was fun. I could run around the whole barracks and never bump into anyone! However, even that got boring after a few hours.
Many days I wish I could just wake up and not have so much ridiculous rubbish floating through my grey matter. Although, I know that in my case such a wish is extremely unrealistic. There are very few people who wake up one day and are better.
Tomorrow... Ah well now we're dealing with a whole new kettle of fish. A new day and all that rubbish. Another year since more shit happened! Another year in which I haven't been able to change so everything is better. Another year of failing. Yes it is failing because I haven't been able to fix, help, do anything to make the next day better.
Now I even begin to wonder why I write such horrible things that only make others upset. Maybe it doesn't? But what if it does?
Upon scarring someone you can never take it back. It's burned and etched in their psyche forever. That's a guilty side of life I have trouble dealing with.
Haha, it's all a guilty side of life for me!!
Well 10pm, I have to go to bed. Apparently my GP thinks that if I take my meds early and take a double dose I will miraculously feel better. Ha!
Today was particularly bad. My reasoning and ability to cope is severely limited at the moment. This period (the Christmas one) always makes me sad. I guess I've never had what I would call a happy Christmas. I always found it boring. I mean sure, there's presents, but then there was nothing. Just my parental units and me. All my friends were on holidays, with their families or both.
Mind you, being in Tasmania for three years and living in the Anglesea Barracks was fun. I could run around the whole barracks and never bump into anyone! However, even that got boring after a few hours.
Many days I wish I could just wake up and not have so much ridiculous rubbish floating through my grey matter. Although, I know that in my case such a wish is extremely unrealistic. There are very few people who wake up one day and are better.
Tomorrow... Ah well now we're dealing with a whole new kettle of fish. A new day and all that rubbish. Another year since more shit happened! Another year in which I haven't been able to change so everything is better. Another year of failing. Yes it is failing because I haven't been able to fix, help, do anything to make the next day better.
Now I even begin to wonder why I write such horrible things that only make others upset. Maybe it doesn't? But what if it does?
Upon scarring someone you can never take it back. It's burned and etched in their psyche forever. That's a guilty side of life I have trouble dealing with.
Haha, it's all a guilty side of life for me!!
Well 10pm, I have to go to bed. Apparently my GP thinks that if I take my meds early and take a double dose I will miraculously feel better. Ha!
Sleep, Interrupted
It was a nice night for sleeping. Cool enough to warrant having the blanket over my legs, warm enough to sleep comfortably.
All in all that's some perfect sleeping conditions for me. I was happily sleeping (okay I'm not sure if I was happily sleeping or not, I was asleep.)
Then my night was ruined.
I heard a sound, it wasn't the sound of my cat jumping onto the bed to take his rightful place next to me. No, this was the sound of something technological. It was the sound of someone's imminent death (so they won't actually die, but it makes me feel better to think they'll suffer for disturbing my slumber!)
There it was again. This quiet vibrating and a small "ding" type sound. Suddenly in my sleepy fugue I knew what it was. My phone. Someone was messaging me at.. oh god it's only 5AM!!!!!!!!
Luckily I was tired from not sleeping well the night before. I fell straight back to sleep when I realised what that awful sound was. My phone didn't survive my irritated-at-5am attack as I found it on the floor this morning at 7:30am (a decent time) when I woke up.
Who was the messaging-at-5am-culprit?
I have no idea. I am still too angry to even think about looking at who thought it would be okay to message me at that time of the morning!
It's not usual for people to message one another at strange times. I've been accused of it myself in the past.
What I don't understand is the need someone would have to message me when they know me. I mean, let's break this down.
I'm very private in so far as I don't give people my mobile number. Therefore, if they have my number they know I'm nuts and that I have to take sleeping medication to actually sleep.
So.. having known all this, why would someone feel the need to message me at 5am!?!?!
Yeah yeah, for "normal" people being woken up at 5am is just a mild inconvenience. That's great for them, for me it's kind of a big deal. Yes I did fall back to sleep but my sleep was broken after that 5am intrusion. Thus, my "sleep hygiene" has been compromised by an outside force. It wasn't my own body clock disrupting my sleep.
Next time someone has the bright idea of sending me a message at 5am, I think I'll ring them back and abuse them. Let's see how you like being interrupted.
Trust
My little foray into the idea of Trust.
In my eperience, trust is just another word that people throw around without really thinking about the consequences. Just like "love" and "sorry". They're over used words which are slowly losing their meaning and potency.
Some people expect to be trusted no matter what. I find this an interesting concept, considering it's those people who demand trust from others who are the least likely to trust.
"Hey mate, I'll demand your trust but I won't trust you in return" doesn't really sit well with me. Maybe I'm just old.
Then there are the people who trust everyone and wonder why they get hurt because of it. It's unfortunate that there are people in the world who will use the naievity of those some against them. I feel like it's my responsibility to look after these people who are so easily duped to trust people whom they shouldn't. Yes, yes, I know I can't possibly mother the world, but I'll damn well try.
The third kind of people seem to distrust everyone. This is where I fit in. I have had my trust broken, destroyed, abandoned and crushed for 25 years. I've learnt over that time that it's easier not to trust anyone, that way they can't rip out my heart, hand it to me, and go on their merry way. Nope, I don't trust anyone.
Oh, I trust my teddy bear and Titan, but they aren't people so I guess they really don't count in this debate. However, I think Titan thinks he's human... That's another blog though.
Lately I've been bombarded with people asking me to trust them. They have very nearly demanded my trust from me. They couldn't understand why I baulked and ran away after they'd completed their demand.
I shall ask you, would you really trust someone who've only known a relatively short time? Would you trust this person if all you have known is bitter disappointment and crushing blows when people have betrayed your trust?
Would you trust them if they kept saying "I want you to trust me"?
I'm not sure about you, but having someone constantly ask me to trust them is the equivalent of saying Britney doesn't mime in concert, in Perth, in Australia.
It makes me wonder if they are genuine or if they are actually trying to hide something (perhaps Britney fan and secretly miming?) rather than just being honest.
Trust isn't something I hand out like lollies on Halloween or like ice cream on a hot summer's day. My trust can only be earned. It takes... TIME. Yes, that god-awful word that we all hate. Time.
A lot of my friends have to have been with me through a few ups and downs before i'll start to trust them. I mean, if they can't stick out the hard bits why would I trust them? They'll only leave me when I may (or may not) need them the most.
Yes, it's conjecture, a risk, a guess. But it's all of those things I'm not willing to gamble. Not when I have been to easily hurt in the past.
No thank you. You can keep your demands, you can keep your false trust. If you want my trust, you will earn it , just like everyone else.
In my eperience, trust is just another word that people throw around without really thinking about the consequences. Just like "love" and "sorry". They're over used words which are slowly losing their meaning and potency.
Some people expect to be trusted no matter what. I find this an interesting concept, considering it's those people who demand trust from others who are the least likely to trust.
"Hey mate, I'll demand your trust but I won't trust you in return" doesn't really sit well with me. Maybe I'm just old.
Then there are the people who trust everyone and wonder why they get hurt because of it. It's unfortunate that there are people in the world who will use the naievity of those some against them. I feel like it's my responsibility to look after these people who are so easily duped to trust people whom they shouldn't. Yes, yes, I know I can't possibly mother the world, but I'll damn well try.
The third kind of people seem to distrust everyone. This is where I fit in. I have had my trust broken, destroyed, abandoned and crushed for 25 years. I've learnt over that time that it's easier not to trust anyone, that way they can't rip out my heart, hand it to me, and go on their merry way. Nope, I don't trust anyone.
Oh, I trust my teddy bear and Titan, but they aren't people so I guess they really don't count in this debate. However, I think Titan thinks he's human... That's another blog though.
Lately I've been bombarded with people asking me to trust them. They have very nearly demanded my trust from me. They couldn't understand why I baulked and ran away after they'd completed their demand.
I shall ask you, would you really trust someone who've only known a relatively short time? Would you trust this person if all you have known is bitter disappointment and crushing blows when people have betrayed your trust?
Would you trust them if they kept saying "I want you to trust me"?
I'm not sure about you, but having someone constantly ask me to trust them is the equivalent of saying Britney doesn't mime in concert, in Perth, in Australia.
It makes me wonder if they are genuine or if they are actually trying to hide something (perhaps Britney fan and secretly miming?) rather than just being honest.
Trust isn't something I hand out like lollies on Halloween or like ice cream on a hot summer's day. My trust can only be earned. It takes... TIME. Yes, that god-awful word that we all hate. Time.
A lot of my friends have to have been with me through a few ups and downs before i'll start to trust them. I mean, if they can't stick out the hard bits why would I trust them? They'll only leave me when I may (or may not) need them the most.
Yes, it's conjecture, a risk, a guess. But it's all of those things I'm not willing to gamble. Not when I have been to easily hurt in the past.
No thank you. You can keep your demands, you can keep your false trust. If you want my trust, you will earn it , just like everyone else.
Nom Nom Nom
I just had an encounter on Twitter that really struck me deeply.
Why should I care what other people think? Ffs, it's only Twitter.
Yet, amazingly, I do care. Really, who would have figured that?
I found that people saying LOLspeak (you know, the captions on LOLcats) was "gross", really sent a surge of anger through me.
How dare these people openly attack me?
Okay, so maybe they weren't attacking me as such, but in my crazy mind they were.
I mean I love LOLspeak, it's creative and cute. It's inventive and, well, it's just damn cute!
However, I wouldn't use LOLspeak all the time! That's about as bad as walking around using slang 100% of the time, or perhaps thee would prefer a more literary and archaic speech, adorned with jewels of wisdom and other such lovely trinkets that one surely must endeavour to achieve, with utmost respect laced with dignity?
See, every kind of take on the English language has it's time and place. Some of the quirks of our language are that it's so pliable and so easily molded into ways to express how we feel, think and even see things.
Fine, I guess I can understand that some people don't like LOLspeak, but do you have to insist that it's "gross"!?!
For all you LOLspeak haters, I leave you with this.
Nom Nom Nom
kthnxbai
Why should I care what other people think? Ffs, it's only Twitter.
Yet, amazingly, I do care. Really, who would have figured that?
I found that people saying LOLspeak (you know, the captions on LOLcats) was "gross", really sent a surge of anger through me.
How dare these people openly attack me?
Okay, so maybe they weren't attacking me as such, but in my crazy mind they were.
I mean I love LOLspeak, it's creative and cute. It's inventive and, well, it's just damn cute!
However, I wouldn't use LOLspeak all the time! That's about as bad as walking around using slang 100% of the time, or perhaps thee would prefer a more literary and archaic speech, adorned with jewels of wisdom and other such lovely trinkets that one surely must endeavour to achieve, with utmost respect laced with dignity?
See, every kind of take on the English language has it's time and place. Some of the quirks of our language are that it's so pliable and so easily molded into ways to express how we feel, think and even see things.
Fine, I guess I can understand that some people don't like LOLspeak, but do you have to insist that it's "gross"!?!
For all you LOLspeak haters, I leave you with this.
Nom Nom Nom
kthnxbai