i am not at all convinced by halloween

Tags

fancy dress, grumpy, halloween, hospital, injury

I have mixed feelings about Halloween. Obviously, I love all over fancy dress, so logic dictates that I should absolutely love Halloween. But I don’t. In fact, my approach to Halloween is probably mostly indifference, bordering on grumpiness. And I’m not quite sure why.

I’m sure there’s an element of bad memories about it; Halloween when I was 18 was spent overnight in hospital in Bristol with a horrible kidney infection, and I had to wait about a decade to be seen because there were so many fancy dress revelers in there confusing the staff as to what was real blood, and what was fake. That experience was enough to make me hate the west country for a good six years, so it must’ve had some impact on my thoughts of Halloween. But I’ve got over bad experiences before; it almost makes me more determined to have even more fun than usual just to prove the stupid day wrong. So no, it’s not the kidney.

But what it probably is is the fact that I hate being told when to have fun and in what manner to have it. If I want to get dressed up and look like a fool, I shall do it because I want to, not because my calendar tells me to. Besides, if you’re one of an entire crowd who are all dressed up, then your efforts don’t stand out. You just look normal. And that’s a waste of a decent costume.

Then there’s the fact that Halloween inevitably involves people, who I am not a fan of at the best of times. But when they’re all crowded into bars and clubs in outfits that take up more space than usual, I’m really not keen at all. And when they’re knocking on my door demanding that I give them sweets, I definitely hate them in the face. If I am buying sweets, it is so I can eat them all and then hate myself for it. I will not be giving them to strange children just because they’ve had the audacity to ask.

But really, I think my Halloween apathy is about the pumpkins. As a ginger, I’m generally not keen on anything orange, but for once, this isn’t about a colour clash. No, it’s about the fact that I am spectacularly clumsy and not be trusted with sharp objects. If I were to try and carve myself a pumpkin, I’d probably end up just carving a giant hole in my hand. And then I’d just end up back in hospital again, thus giving credence to the idea of a Halloween curse.

And so every year, I look at the pictures of everyone else’s pumpkins, and I feel instantly inferior. And I can’t even put on a winning fancy dress outfit to make myself feel better, because even that’ll probably be upstaged. So instead, I just sit in my house with the lights off and ignore the doorbell. Because Halloween can sod right off.

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that stupid bloody fish was right

Tags

depression, Disney, plans, post its, recovery

I have only ever seen Finding Nemo once, and it was a long, long time ago. I may even have been drunk when I saw it – it did come out during my first year at uni, when I was obviously drunk most of the time – but I can’t quite remember. In fact, all I really remember from it is Dory, and her “just keep swimming”. At the time, it annoyed the crap out of me. But of late, it seems to have become my motto.

Because depression made me stop swimming. It made me stop doing anything; I was just about capable of waking up, but anything beyond that was a bit of a challenge. I had no desire to do anything at all. I just wanted to lie in a darkened room and wait for the world to sod right off.

Alas, it turns out that this is not a reasonable strategy for dealing with depression. What you actually need to do, it seems, is make like Dory and just keep swimming. Just get up, and have a shower, and put some clothes on. And make a cup of tea, and some breakfast, and just carry on. It’s a total arse, but it’s what you need to do. Because apparently, lying down won’t help anything.

And so, I got out of bed and grudgingly started swimming again. I made a post-it map of all the little tasks I could do each day – everything from painting my nails to actually going swimming – and I stuck it to the wall behind my sofa. And every morning, I look at it and I sigh deeply and then I look at it again, and start moving the post-its around until I have a plan for my day. Today’s post its say “do some writing”, “meet someone for lunch” and “do some washing”. It’s odd dividing my life up into little chunks of post-it time, but it seems to work.

For it turns out that keeping on swimming is better than sitting around sobbing. Even on the dark, dark days I can still look at my list and go “well, I did a load of washing today, and that’s something”. It’s more productive than spending all day in bed watching Gilmore Girls – especially as I’d manage to make myself sick of Gilmore by just watching too much. It’s a way of making my way back into the world one little bit at a time.

Unfortunately though, I have in the process managed to completely destroy Finding Nemo for myself. But then I never cared about it enough to watch it a second time, so in the grand scheme of things I’m sure I can cope with the loss.

i actually quite like baths

Tags

baths, beauty, childhood, depression, relaxation

I have never really been a fan of baths. That’s not to say that I smell – I shower every day, so it’s not that I have a weird water aversion – it’s just that I find them boring. All that sitting there, in your own filth, with nothing to do. I hear of people reading in the bath, but I’m both clumsy and a former bookstore employee, so there’s no chance I’m going to risk dropping my beloved paperbacks into the water and ruining them forever. So I’m stuck just lying there, going “hmmm.”

It was different when I was a kid. I had bath toys then. Boats, and ducks, and even just plastic beakers that became really fun when they were filled with bubbles. But once I decided I was a Big Girl (somewhere around our move to Australia in 1994), I decided I was too old for baths. I was only going to have showers, because they are for grown-ups. And that’s what I was. A tiny little 9 year old grown up.

And it’s stayed that way ever since. Why waste time lounging around in a bath, when you could be doing something else? Like some going out, or some watching TV, or some attempting to make your hair as giant as humanly possible? Baths were boring, and they could sod right off.

And then, The Crash happened, and I found myself spending all day in bed being ridiculously miserable. For the first time in my life, washing slid way down the list of priorities. I was happy to sit around and smell. Until the wonderful Billygean sent me a little care package from Lush. And all of a sudden, I remembered everything that’s great about baths.

Firstly, you get to lie down. Which I am a huge, ridiculous fan of. Lying down is the only thing I like better than sitting, so compared to showers where you have to stand, baths are already in the lead. And then you can fill them with glitter, and turn them fun colours, and make them smell all nice. My entire bathroom is currently spangly like a disco thanks to some Lush bath bombs; and better than that, so is my Farthing Wood Friend’s beard.

But most importantly of all, baths are providing me with the chance to do both something and nothing. I can add something to my list of daily achievements without even needing to be upright. And lounging about in spangly purple bath water makes a pleasant change from lounging about on the sofa in a jumper my mother bought in the 1980s.

The only downside to this new obsession though, is the damage it’s doing to my bank balance. I figure I can do a straight swap though; what was wine money can now become bath money. And baths are bound to be better for me than wine.

i love battersea park

Tags

depression, exercise, outdoors, ridiculous, walking

I’ve been living in Battersea for over three years now. I first moved here entirely by accident; I was looking for flats right across London and there just happened to be a good one on Queenstown Road. Or so I thought. The flat turned out to be a steaming pile of shit. The area turned out to be awesome.

And it’s not just because of the practical reasons, like good transport and cheap council tax and lots of pubs. It used to be, but at the moment, I don’t go anywhere or do anything. Those things mean absolutely nothing to me. In fact, the only thing that matters to me is the thing I discovered last; Battersea Park.

You’d think that a whacking great park round the corner from my flat would’ve been easy to discover, what with it taking up a huge amount of space and being on all the maps and all. I even used to get off the train at the station which bears its name, but still, I managed to avoid Battersea Park for ages. Mostly because I was distracted by the pubs and the transport; I was either drunk, or going elsewhere. But then, one day when I was a bit bored, I decided to do an explore. And I discovered that the park is the best thing about Battersea. By about a mile.

Battersea Park, you see, is about 50 times better than its nearest counterpart Clapham Common. For one thing, it’s got a lake. A proper, nice, big lake, which you can take pedalos out on if you’re feeling a bit enthusiastic (I have never done this. I am lazy). And all around one side of the lake is nicely landscape with some admittedly fairly rubbish fake boulders, and lovely plants, and even a few cute bridges. It took me about 18 months to find my way to that side of the lake – it seemed to be hidden in some alternate dimension – but now I’ve worked out where it is, it’s my favourite bit of the park.

Which is really saying something, because the park isn’t just nice grass and a selection of really good playgrounds where you can make yourself cry with broodiness on a Sunday morning. Yeah, it’s got all weather pitches, and tennis courts, and lots of goalposts and stuff. And sure, there’s a nice little bowling green hiding in the centre, and I’ve heard rumour of an athletics track. Plus there’re the cafes, which are pretty good, and a kiddie’s zoo. But everyone knows, that lake aside, Battersea Park is all about the peace pagoda.

Yes, that’s right. Battersea Park has a whacking great peace pagoda in it. It sits nicely down by the river, where it looks entirely ridiculous. And everyone knows I’m a fan of the ridiculous, so it goes without saying that I love the stupid pagoda.

And at the moment, I love the stupid peace pagoda more than ever, because part of my doctor’s orders was exercise. Apparently it’s good for depression, or something. And since I’m scared of my gym (it’s all loud and there are people and if you burst into tears on a cross-trainer, people look at you funny), walking seemed to be the best option. So every afternoon, I drag on my boots and I take myself off round the park. And it makes it a little bit better.

twitter is my tiny little link to the outside world

Tags

depression, friends, news, tv, twitter

I realise I am behind the times when it comes to twitter. Many people grasped the brilliance of it years ago. Grace Dent has already written a book about how it’s so great. But in the past few weeks, it’s really become my favourite of all the things, and not just because it lets me stalk people.

For lately, I have been really really rubbish at leaving the house. It’s just not been working at all. I can get outside for a stomp around Battersea Park, or to go and sit in a café and do a bit of reading, but I am pretty much a whacking great hermit at the moment. The best I can manage, when I really put all of the effort in, is to meet a friend for a cup of tea. And even then I get so tired and weepy that I cry my way home afterwards.

And so, twitter has become one of my main links to the outside world. Or at least the main link that doesn’t involve looking out of the windows and laughing at people. Although if we’re honest there are some similarities between the two pursuits.

I’ve stopped watching the news because it was upsetting me, so the only way I have any idea what the hell is going on in the world is through reading about it on twitter. I can cope with devastating misery, so long as it’s condensed into 140 characters. But not more than that.

Most importantly though, twitter lets me talk to people without putting in the effort of actually talking to them. I don’t need to put clothes on, or brush my hair, or sort myself out in any way shape or form, but I can still have a conversation. And I’ve had some great ones, about the joys of men in knitwear, and why Rory from Doctor Who is amazing, and whether or not Rory Bremner is attractive. I’ve discussed glittery bubblebath and X Factor contestants and the young Michael Palin. My God, how I love the young Michael Palin.

And so, on twitter, I can be my old self again. I can make sarcastic comments about things, and judge people on the basis of tiny little things. I can discuss the latest developments on rubbish telly. I can act like a total sex-pest and list all the various celebrities I find oddly attractive. It’s like everything I used to do in the pub, without any of the hassle of leaving the house.

i can only cope with history

Tags

depression, history, literature

I’ve quite obviously not been blogging for the past few weeks, because I’ve not been well. The miseries have come screaming back with a vengeance, and I’ve been spending most of my time attempting to get out of bed, which doesn’t leave much space for writing. I’m not going to go into the details, because – quite obviously – depression really isn’t much fun, and I already pay my therapist enough to pour out my brain at him.

But, what I will say is this; something very odd seems to have happened to my brain. And not in the obvious way. Because I have, for the first time in my life, lost the ability to read.

Not in a literal way, quite obviously. I can still make letters form words, and make words make sense in my mind. Just about. It takes a while, sometimes. So I haven’t lost the ability to read entirely. But I have lost the ability to read fiction, which is very, very strange.

Ever since I read The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe in Year 1, I’ve been mad for the fiction. I worked in a bookstore where I spent all my money on the stock. I did two degrees in literature, and wrote a combined 32,000 words in dissertation on it, and even that didn’t put me off. When I moved in with my Farthing Wood Friend, he despaired at the amount of books I own – and that’s only half of them. There’re still buttloads back at my parents’ house.

And yet, I currently cannot even look at a novel. Or a short story. Or even poetry. It’s like my brain has just gone “this might contain some emotion, and there’s enough of that in here already, thank you very much”. I’ve tried, but I fail. It’s making my Creative Writing course interesting, to say the least.

But what I can do, it seems, is read history. Lots and lots and lots of it. And I have no idea why. I thought that perhaps it was because History was the one subject I bothered with at school. Then I thought that it was something to do with the “this too shall pass” mentality. Really, I’ve got no clue. All I know is that I’ve been spending a lot of my time sat in cafes, looking pretentious, and reading about the Tudors. Next up is the civil war. Then I’ve got a history of America. After that I might go for something about Europe. I haven’t really thought it through.

And so, whilst my inability to think about anything that’s happened in the past 100 years stays in place, it might be a bit quieter than usual around here. But you can still read me pouring my weekly allocation of humour into my Strictly Come Dancing Reviews on hecklerspray. And hopefully I’ll be back in the 21^st century soon.