Be Gone

I’ve booked an appointment with my GP on Monday to discuss the possibility of some sort of surgery on my scars. Wish me luck! The most nerve-wracking part of will be showing my arms. I might go in with my bum out to soften the blow.

Although I have scars on my bum, too, due an over-enthusiastic dog that I met when I was ten. It became intimately acquainted with my legs and arse. It looked like this:

I should have karate kicked its face off

As a result, facked fans, I have a slightly deformed looking arse! On the plus side, I got two weeks off school AND a box of Quality Street from the lollipop lady who bopped Lassie on the head with her stick.

Magic moments are when a dog is mauling you…

Two things will possibly push me to pick up the glass and pills that will send me to sleep, though- one being that my sister and her boyfriend are coming to stay tomorrow, and two being that I have to give a presentation at college and people are having trouble following my speech and train of thought. Why can’t I just record it, then come out at the end, grasping peoples’ hands then take off in a helicopter? Eh? Bloody adult education and its low budget for obnoxious stunts.  I’d have to come back anyway, but still.  I’m going to bring my dictaphone in and record the lesson because my arse memory means I tend to leave and go, “Wait, where was I?”

So, er, that’s where I am! Hiya!

Stand Up

I want to do more stand up!  I’m quite sad the shenanigans with Company Paridiso have ended.

As nervewracking as I find it, and as much as I bite my fist when I see the photos, I really enjoy it.  I like jumping around and making people laugh.  It’s especially nice to make them laugh guiltily.  And I like meeting other people who perform.  Even if I’m bollocks at it, it’s worth it for the experience.  (The experience of half a room staring blankly at me, too).  I like pushing myself to do these things.  I may be a socially anxious little sod but getting up in front of people is a good way to help such things.

I might write a little thirty minute thing and then- well, then what?  What do you do with these things?  I have no idea!  Open mic things?

This was my first ever go at it.  I have done it approximately- well, exactly, of course, unless you count me on a train- one more time.

Life In a Scar Suit

I always wear long sleeves, whatever the weather, so I don’t see my own skin a lot. But I just looked down at my arms and reeled in shock. They are at their least shocking ever, because I haven’t self harmed (apart from a few tiny-calm-down scratches during the summer’s high that didn’t even leave a mark) in such a long time. Two years ago, I posted photos of where my scars were at that point.  They are much better than that now.  But it’s not just my arms.  My face, my legs, my chest, my neck.  Everywhere.

Sometimes I struggle to remember why I did it. I often gave reasons I’d read about, rather than my own reasons, when discussing it with doctors.  I have never liked talking about it, or even acknowledging it.  I was secretive, evasive.  For the most part, I guess, it was to be calmer. I rarely self harmed when I was depressed- it was usually when I was agitated. I did it too because I hated my appearance. That was difficult to explain. Why disfigure yourself when you already feel ugly? I butchered myself. I treated my own body- the only one I will ever get, however unreliable it is, however ugly I find it- like it was a piece of meat.

I can’t imagine doing it again. The urge died in me a long time ago, I guess when I started to believe more in my own worth. I still don’t like my appearance- I don’t think I ever will- but I know people love me for more than my appearance, know my body is just a vessel. Still. I wish it were a more beautiful one. I wish I hadn’t wilfully made it uglier and that, no matter how well I am, I have that reminder to carry with me.  And, unless I continue hiding as I do, it is for other people to see, and to judge me by.  Not just strangers, and friends.  But doctors, too.  I still have to pull my sleeves up when I go to my GP.  Despite the fact I haven’t self harmed in years, and despite the fact I have never sought medical attention for it, I’m still treated as a self harmer.  Still-wrongly- seen as someone impulsive and self destructive.  I may as well have branded the words into my skin.

It is good, in a way, that my scars finally have the power to shock me, as they have shocked so many other people over the years. People have always winced and I failed to see what the fuss was about.

Now I see.

And with it is the sad, immensely sad, realisation that I am going to be living in this scar suit for the rest of my life. I will be buried in it, too.

Spending review

I can’t stay away long when there’s a spending review, can I?

Even Harry Hill is playing kick the poor these days.

I’ll write about this properly when I feel less livid and thus can be more reasonable, but for now, here’s Zoe Williams at the Guardian talking utter sense about the benefits system and fraud. Continue reading

What Has Happened to Welfare

Go and read this, it’s the most eloquent and well-organised, well-researched deconstruction of the welfare state, the real cost of benefit fraud and “why Britain hates the sick”.

The Biggest, “Too Much Information” post I will ever make

Thanks for your advice on Previous, chaps!  I have made it private now, mostly because it would be the same advice from a lot of people and because I found the post a bit embarrassing to make.  I’m now slightly delirious from lack of sleep.

Now I’m going to write a post specifically to squick out the men, and to irritate people everywhere who cry, “Oh, is nothing sacred?”  I could talk about current affairs, Chilean miners, tuition fees, or my vagina.  Which one shall I pick?

I had my first cervical smear today.  This, coupled with my tutor referring to, “You young people” with her hand not extending to me, makes me feel old.   I don’t want the NHS to know I’ve had sex.  They might tell my mum.

The nurse was lovely, as almost every nurse I’ve ever met has been.  She was immediately recognisable as a somewhat-eccentric, and told me to relax by thinking I was going to, “PEEEEEEEEEEE!”, said with arms windmilling wildly.  Whipping off my kecks and climbing onto a high surface isn’t easy for a midget like me and for a ghastly moment I thought I’d have to ask her for help with my bum hanging out.   She kept telling me to relax, but her gloriously over the top way of speaking kept making me laugh.  “Deep breaths, deep breaths!” she coached, while I huffed back, “I’m trying, I keep laughing!” It was very surreal.  As was the fact that she complemented my vagina.  I look, “very healthy”, apparently.  I can’t say I’ve ever been complimented in such a manner.  I’ll take it where I find it, really.  I asked her if she ever got tired of staring up women’s vaginas.  She said she used to be a midwife then made a face when referring to babies so I assume she prefers the more sedate aspects of women’s health i.e not watching us being gutted.  But what a lovely woman.  My vagina left the surgery feeling very pleased with itself.

On the way out, I grudgingly picked up prescriptions.  Tip: it’s not a good idea to take your prescription for an antipsychotic then wide-eyedly demand, “Did you hear that?!”  What I heard was something that sounded like an air raid siren going off outside.   It was very abrupt and loud, which is why I asked in shock.  How could she not hear it?  She didn’t, so god knows.  I did the rational thing which was to run outside and examine the sky to make sure we weren’t about to be blown off the face of the earth. I’ve been hearing things recently though not sure I have been hearing things- it’s difficult to tell!  My brain noise has been a bit of a roar lately which means I catch myself gabbering away, but that helps me to pick out the relevant thoughts.  I think the hearing things is probably born out of that- I don’t feel threatened or afraid of it, nor do I think it’s anything psychotic, and thus, because I think that, it isn’t.  It means I sometimes get confused, though.

I’m mostly writing this post to take a break from staring in terror at my assignment.  It’s due tomorrow.  This study lark is so new to me, and it’s another reason I desperately need to sort out something long term with mood stabilising and why I’m feeling increasingly frustrated with what I feel is a misdiagnosis.  My sleep is all over the place which is making it impossible to get into any routine.  It’s my fault, though, I should suck it up.  But I’m behind my book writing- by quite a long chalk- and not pleased with myself.  My social worker congratulated me the other day, saying I was doing all the right things, and she was happy that even though I felt like arse and just wanted to sleep, I forced myself into doing things.  But it’s hard not to feel as though I fall short all too often.  In another sense, though, it’s exciting, to be writing a book and starting study.  But I’ve done neither before in my life.  The latter actually scares me more. It doesn’t help that the financial assessment for my course hasn’t happened yet (where the council decide whether they give me the whole money for my course, or whether I have to pay bits myself out of my DLA, because it counts as income), and thus I can’t afford to buy any books.  (I bought one, but I have more to get.  It’s expensive!)

This stuff kind of intellectually puts me in my place.  At school, I was always the best at certain subjects and coasted along on my wave of teacher adoration and fantastic grades despite being too mental to attend most of the time.  I was quite intellectually cocky.  Now I’m twenty five and completely out of practice, struggling to get into a routine and have no bloody clue what the Harvard referencing system is.  My lack of organisation is scuppering me and I need to get a grip.  If I want to be a brilliant writer/brilliant nurse/stand up who doesn’t accidentally get drunk, I need to sort it out.  And I’m not-gulp- a young person anymore, a revelation which surprised me.  And my vagina.

Anyway, back to it, ARGH.  Coffee and fag.  Sleep sometime this year would be good.  If you see me dandering down the A206 naked, know that I’ve made it to day four on two hours and have stopped feeling tired.

I voted Lib Dem

And I wish I hadn’t. I hate this government.

And here’s a lovely piece of propaganda, from the BBC, of all people.  Saints and Scroungers.  About benefit claimants. Yep.

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