Archive for the ‘Me’ Category

Year in review, 2017 edition

Sunday, December 31st, 2017

A year ago I was adamant on taking 2017 by the throat and curb-stomping it, if it tried to fuck with me. It probably hasn’t, at least as much as 2016 did, but I still can’t say I’d be too sad to see this year die.

I’ve had a lot of good moments this year. I went to my darling London with my husband, met Adam who is an awesome guy, I’ve made a few friends over Instagram and cut some poisonous people out of my life. I’ve been mostly in love with Fassbend(me ov)er, but I still haven’t forgot to squee over Kinnaman (come on, the trailers for Altered Carbon are something else, man). Being in the Fassy fandom has brought me so many laughs because people are complete dorks and it’s brought me so many happy moments, because people have been incredibly kind to eachother. I’ve managed to land myself a job that I like and I’m capable of doing, despite my crippled mind. And I’ve started taking new medication for my illness, which has brought me some much needed mental stability, at least for now. I have been writing a lot, mostly working on one of my most ambitious fiction works to this day, but I’ve also exercised in smaller pieces, some lost ideas and I’ve tried new ways of writing. I’ve also laid ground work for my secret business dream and I have sort of high hopes for it for this year.

On the other hand, I set myself a bunch of goals, all well within my limitations, but I haven’t met single one of those. I can partly blame my unmedicated mind for it, but I can’t completely relieve myself from responsibility. I’ve been a terrible slag the whole year, when it comes to blogging, staying healthy and exercising. I mean I’m not in the worst of shapes, I did run 5k runs throughout most of the summer, but I could’ve done way better than that.

So this year, I’ll set pretty much the same goals, but instead of just diving in head first, I’ll do what has helped me before: plan it all out. What will be different this time is the fact that I’m (reasonably) sane at this moment, and I know in what I failed this past year. So it’s all a process of learning. I know how not to approach reaching my goals, but can try a different method. I need to set my sights on smaller steps and not try to manage the big picture in my everyday life, that shit didn’t fly. So instead of thinking what will be in three months time, or in six months, I’ll focus every morning to the next 24 hours ahead of me and only compare myself to the person I was the day before.

I have also picked a mantra for 2018. It’s a simple thing, but it’s effective:

Want it? Work fucking harder.

Update

Friday, November 17th, 2017

Hi hello.

I have been poorly lately, but I’m on the mend.
I have started at a new job, which I love and I’m on new medication for my bipolar.
I will be back for more on a later date.
Cheers,
me

Claustrophobia

Saturday, September 2nd, 2017

When you have an anxiety disorder, every stressing situation goes to eleven and when you combine that with bipolar disorder, you get a brain that goes not only to eleven, but everything just happens to the power of twelve.

I’ve never thought I was claustrophobic. Turns out I apparently haven’t been in a tight enough space before. Put me in a tiny closet and close the door, no problem. Lifts, fine. Crowded places, no problem (except that i start hating people, but that’s not claustrophobia, it’s misantrophy). But this past Friday, I was supposed to be having a head MRI (nothing too dangerous that they’re looking for, worry not) and I was fine as fiddlesticks up until the point that they loaded me about halfway into the fucking donut. I told them to let me out and I took a moment and said ok, no worries, I’ll be fine, I’m just feeling a bit, you know, packed in. So I got to put my arms in a different position and in I went again. I closed my eyes and thought about nice things and then one of the nurses said this isn’t going to work, we need to pack you in a little tighter still. Apparently so I wouldn’t be able to move.

That’s when I started to feel really panicky, like there was still a bit of room to move and I was already being pulled out of the donut, but I felt my legs starting to twitch because the fucking loader wasn’t moving quick enough. Merely the thought of being packed even tighter made me panic. So I got out and said this isn’t gonna work. They didn’t even suggest booking another time and knocking me out with a sedative, they just ushered me away with ‘ok, this is not going to work then, go see the neurologist who booked you in’.

And out the door I was, in the dressing room, where I started to cry, because I was in hysterics and panicking because the claustrophobia and anxious because I immediately felt like I was a) a fucking snowflake and b) just wasting everyone’s precious time. Yes, sure, it’s a hospital, they have booked times and they’re not responsible for comforting me, I get that, but like they could’ve said something. Maybe say it’s ok, you’re not the only one who chickens out, it happens, and just maybe ask if I was fine. That would’ve taken them exactly zero extra time, since all that could’ve been said in the span of silence that went on for the half a minute it took me to get off the bed and walk to the dressing room door.

So I got dressed, went out to the hallway and had to sit down on the nearest bench on the main corridor of the hospital and cry for fifteen minutes, until I felt un-shaken enough to actually figure out what I had to do to get to the neurological department. In there, the service was infinitely better, the nice lady at the reception told me to take a seat and said it’s fine, it’s terrible for everyone and only most people can go through with it, not all. And she went to see the doctor to ask if it was necessary to take any kind of imaging of my brain (i told you, it’s nothing serious (at least that’s what they’ve told me haa-haa watch me crash and burn at this)) and she came back with a yes, but a CT-scan would suffice, even if it wasn’t as good. And she booked me in for that and booked a lab appointment for me as well, so wouldn’t have to do it on me own, as she clearly could see I was pretty shaken.

So I made it out, but in a shitty state. I couldn’t shake off the cloustrophobic feeling for hours, not for the whole day. I went home and made me an atomic strength cuppa, sat out on the porch, listening to the rain and just breathing in, but it still lingered. Up until the time I was going to sleep, where I couldn’t get to sleep for a good while.

I don’t know. It just feels so unfair that whenever something even slightly stressful happens, it wipes me out for a ridiculous amount of time and leaves me feeling invalid and inadequate and a waste of space.

Anxiety is truly a bitch.

London

Monday, July 17th, 2017

I can’t believe it’s been two weeks since I left London. I know it was just a quick pop-by, but it was the most happiest three days I’ve had in months.

I met Adam, a bloke I knew only through Facebook and he turned out to be every bit as wonderful and awesome and everything as I expected. And beyond. Mate, you’re truly a treasure, I am so fucking hyped to have met you in person.

I had such a great time with my husband, just walking around, having a picnic in the park and slouching in our hotel room at late night.

I’ve not travelled much, but none of the places I’ve been to have made me so passionately fall in love with it than London has. It’s ridiculous.

I miss it. I miss London. I started missing it the moment I stepped in the plane on Heathrow (can you imagine our flight left from gate 1?)

Yea.

Maladaptive daydreamer

Sunday, February 19th, 2017

Maladaptive daydreaming or excessive daydreaming is a psychological concept to describe an extensive fantasy activity that replaces human interaction and/or interferes with academic, interpersonal, or vocational functioning.

Maladaptive daydreamers may also experience trouble completing routine tasks or going to sleep, due to their desire to continue daydreaming. Oftentimes while maladaptive daydreamers are daydreaming, they will whisper, talk, make facial expressions, or do some sort of repetitive movement, such as pacing.

Maladaptive daydreamers can spend hours simply daydreaming. They may have elaborate fantasies within their minds, often comparable to a complete novel or movie. Many have more than one fantasy in their mind, each with its own characters, setting, plots, etc. Maladaptive daydreamers may become emotionally attached to their characters as well, though they know the characters are not real.

Now, until very recently I had no clue that this was actually considered as an actual psychological condition, so to speak. I thought this was something that people did. People who write. People like me.

I mean I’ve always worked that way when writing. I have a very precise mental image of the surroundings, the characters and dialogue. I tend to have conversations in my head that I go through, sometimes being one of the characters, and other times more than one. Like I switch roles all the time and go through the actual conversation that I’m later going to write. I make faces a lot when I write, or when I’m just thinking about writing. And yes there are many AU’s going on in my head at any given time, for many different storylines (i call them storylines, i guess they may as well be considered daydreams) and I do tend to get emotionally attached to my characters. Also the part about having trouble to complete routine tasks or going to sleep, because of wanting to continue the story (or fantasy)? All true.

I know there’s a difference between plotting and daydreaming in a very defining level, which is that one is more of a fantasy about oneself in an AU, and the other is basically making up characters and then sort of following their story arch. But it’s intriguing to think about the similarities. I sure spend a lot of time talking to my imaginary characters and prefer their company more often than actual people. And I sort of think that most writers add some of their own qualities to their characters, because why not, you know how a person that has this or that quality acts or thinks, because you have that in you. I don’t mean making a 2.0 (mary sue) version of you, but just putting in bits and pieces of yourself. Which kind of makes the story a personal fantasy of sorts.

So really, is there a difference between a maladaptive daydreamer and a writer such as myself?

We just don’t know.