Song of The Week 1/18

January 7th, 2018

This week, the first week of 2018, I’ve been mostly listening to Major Lazer’s Be Together.

I can’t remember where or when I heard this the first time, but I know it wasn’t when it was released. I’m sort of a fan of Major Lazer, but I’ve only really listened to the singles that were played on Finnish radio stations, and they’re Watch Out For This and Jah No Partial. I guess it might be that I just stumbled on this while YouTube hopping and I saved it for later. And found it again a week ago.

I’m one of those (perhaps) annoying people that find a song, then listen to it seventymillion times in a row, forget them for a while and then put them into the sort of normal rotation. This song is no different. It’s been played this week probably thirty five times and it’s a lot, considering the time I have for listening what I want, instead of cartoons on the telly or some shitty radio station at work.

I love the rhythm, I love the melody and I love the singer’s voice. Particularly I love the “choir” at the beginning. And as strange as it seems coming from me, your friendly neighbourhood Larry Mullen jr. (i don’t think the lyrics are worth a shit to be honest i think it’s all about drums), I love the lyrics too. Plus the song gave me an instant fic-feel too. I mean even before I heard the lyrics.

So without any longer or deeper explanations, but just because it’s a bloody marvellous song, here’s this week’s Song of the Week, Be Together by Major Lazer.



This is the new shit

January 4th, 2018

I have purchased myself a set of new running gear. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.


It’s black and pink and I love it. I need to find matching shoes to it, because I’m in desperate need of new running shoes and it fucking pisses me off that my old ones, the ones that I used up last summer were a perfect match for this set.

Now, for this bloody winter to move over…



Year in review, 2017 edition

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

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

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.