It's a grey and dreary day as I walk through town. The sky is grey. The large flakes floating down from the clouds are grey. The fallen flakes on the ground are grey. It isn't snow; it's ash. I can smell it - a dry, acrid smell heavy in the still air. The sounds around me seem muffled somehow, as if sound itself has become grey and dull.
There are a couple of people scuttling along by the buildings on the other side of the road. From one of the doorways, a man emerges and hurries towards me. Before I have time to react to him, he has gripped my right arm and spun me back to face the direction I have just come from. A sense of panic mixed with relief courses through me as he drags me along.
A noise pierces through the cloak of dead air. It's like an incredible crackle of electricity that fades almost instantly to a throbbing hum. Turning my head, I can see a brilliant purple shaft of light extending from the ground up in to the greyness of the sky somewhere out of town. My companion increases his speed and I am pulled along in awe of this beam that punctures a hole through the cloud. As abruptly as the sound and light began, it ends. The humming is replaced within a few seconds by the sound of a great force of rushing air. From inside the wound in the sky appears a circle of fire. It spreads out, setting light to the whole of the sky in rolling waves of gold and scarlet. When the flames cease, the greyness returns to the sky and the world around me. The ash falls even thicker.
I am lead in to a side street and then immediately in to an alleyway. The man who has been pulling me along clamps a hand over my mouth and pushes me backwards in to a doorway. My head and back slam in to the wooden door, but little sound beyond a whimper issues from me as his hand is so tight. I notice a mechanical whirring sound drawing closer. The man removes his hand from my mouth and replaces it with his own mouth. His kiss is rough and insistent, but my hands cling to him rather than pushing him away. Something is in the side street. It's shadow darkens the doorway. I can't see it, but I know what it looks like as I have seen them before. A large metallic craft, about the size of a bus hovering twenty feet or so above the ground. After a few seconds, it withdraws back on to the main street. The man I am with pulls back from me slightly. He smiles and uses a thumb to wipe ash from my face.
Once the sound of the craft has gone, my companion and I break from the cover of the doorway and run along the side street. He still holds my arm tightly as we run. We emerge back on to the main street which is devoid of people and cars. After running for a few minutes, we come to a helicopter with a group of other people waiting around it. As we reach it, I am bundled inside and then there is a flurry of activity as everyone climbs aboard and the engine starts. I feel like my breathing has stopped as I am gripped by the fear that the noise of the helicopter will attract unwanted attention. We take off and head for the outskirts of town. Suddenly there is shouting and then the helicopter lurches forward violently as something slams in to it's rear. The pilot manages to land in the field below us, but the jolt of the forceful landing leaves everyone shaken. Running from the downed craft, I end up scrambling face down on the ground as a blast of hot air propels everyone when the helicopter explodes.
A short distance across the field, there is a farmhouse. Once inside I am forced down on to the floor against the wall. Everyone is silent as we listen to the sound of mechanical whirring outside. The large metallic craft moves away presumably satisfied that those inside the helicopter have perished. After a time, I fall asleep, completely exhausted - physically, mentally and emotionally.
A sudden burst of light wakes me from my fitful slumber. Startled, I hear a voice telling me it is okay. From a doorway opposite where I was sleeping there is a curtain pulled back to reveal light from a kitchen beyond. I eat some kind of thick stew crouching in the darkness once the curtain has been returned to it's position.
The man who rescued me from the centre of town earlier appears through a doorway to my right. He takes my hand and leads me upstairs. In a long corridor lit by a couple of candles, he presses me against the wall and kisses me again. His kiss is not as rough as the first time but is even more insistent.
Somewhere outside in the darkness is a large bang...and that is where I woke up.
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Yes, I'm strange.
I have always known I was different and have often describe myself as weird. My last therapist preferred me to use the world 'eccentric' (as in the title of my blog), but let's be honest the word eccentric is just a polite way of saying odd.
So here is yet another example of my 'eccentricity'. I was skimming through profiles on some 'dating' websites this morning and I noticed that men were looking for very specific things...twinks, muscled guys, bears. Asians, blonds, slim guys, older guys, and so on. It occurred to me how different I am. I would like a man who loves me and who I love, a man who has respect for himself, for others and the world around him, a man who can spell and punctuate.
Yes, I'm strange.
So here is yet another example of my 'eccentricity'. I was skimming through profiles on some 'dating' websites this morning and I noticed that men were looking for very specific things...twinks, muscled guys, bears. Asians, blonds, slim guys, older guys, and so on. It occurred to me how different I am. I would like a man who loves me and who I love, a man who has respect for himself, for others and the world around him, a man who can spell and punctuate.
Yes, I'm strange.
Friday, 14 September 2012
Nidge's Story
I have been reading articles online from different people revealing their stories of bullying and have been inspired to tell mine.
When I went to school I became aware that there was something different about me. I wasn't like the other boys. I was, in fact, more like the girls. I enjoyed playing with the girls in their games of dressing up and playing house. I enjoyed their games. Kicking a football and riding a bike was okay for a short time, but I always wanted to do something with more imagination and more creativity. Consequently, I was bullied. Bullied by other kids, bullied by teachers, bullied by adults in my life.
Children can be immensely cruel when they perceive something different in others, so can their parents (which is probably where the children get it from). I was often taunted, something that no matter how much I heard, I never got used to the sting of those words. I was called names, shunned, laughed at. I had clothing ripped and stolen. I was written on in biro. I was kicked. I was punched. I had other kids spit in my face. I was often forced from my seat on the school bus and made to stand. In some classes, I dreaded the teacher leaving the room even for a few minutes. Lunchtimes were often terrible, especially as I grew older, and I would hide in empty classrooms and hope the dinnerladies would take pity on me and let me stay. My circle of friends became smaller the older I became - the girls who were once my friends started to go out with boys and making fun of the 'puff' helped to increase their social standing in the groups they were forming.
From a very young age, teachers discouraged my play activities with the girls and insisted I join in with what the boys were doing. This meant that I ended up on the sidelines an awful lot - a silent observer in a world that was alien to my nature. As I grew up, there were jibes from the teachers about my voice and my mannerisms. Despite being reasonably good at things like woodwork and metalwork, the male only environment was uncomfortable for me. Of course, in those days, boys didn't do cookery. P.E. was a living nightmare and I became adept at forging my father's handwriting so I could fake notes excusing me from taking part. I am not sure if there is a written rule somewhere that P.E. teachers (male and female) have to be small minded bigots who devise torture for children so they can have a smoke and a coffee in peace. Looking back now I wonder why anyone would take advice on exercise and fitness from someone who had an arse the size of two of the pupils they were instructing.
The adults around in my life were also discouraging or bullying. I was constantly told I couldn't or wouldn't be able to do things - something that in later life made me determined that I could do everything I wanted to do and resulted in a breakdown in my late twenties after years of attempted over-achieving. I was rarely invited to anyone's house as a kid - the disapproving looks from parents serving to further deflate my confidence and self-esteem.
I survived. I left school and college. I found a job. The job was so easy that I could have done it in my sleep and, on occasion, I probably did. There was no physical abuse any longer, but the verbal abuse was still there. It was in a diluted form and mostly consisted of jokes or snide comments rather than overt attacks. I was obviously seen as being an easy target though as there were a couple of managers who made my life miserable whenever they could.
The strangest situation I found myself in was having to 'come out' as gay. I had never really thought of myself as being 'in'. My mannerisms and voice - and my resurrected penchant for dressing up - hardly made me stand out as straight. I know that some straight men are camp, but I am beyond that. I was forced in to a situation where I had to come out. I was told it was for my own good. It is quite bizarre when you lose friends because you publicly acknowledge your sexuality even though it was hardly a secret. Equally bizarre when some people want to be your friend for the same reason. I remember being at a party and being manoeuvred around by a woman so we were facing her friends. She then chatted to me while occasionally giving her friends a knowing 'look at me I am talking to the homosexual' smile and wink. Of course all the usual stuff happens after you come out. I wasn't prepared for some of the unusual though, like having a married male colleague suddenly decide I would be open to the idea of an affair..."I am gay...that doesn't mean I don't have standards". The worst comment made to me came from an alleged friend who delivered with a smile the phrase, "I have obviously heard that you are gay...and just want you to know that I hope you burn in hell". That isn't the way a phrase starting like that usually ends and I was massively taken aback.
I changed jobs and went to work in education. Being in a college was like having to live through my teenage years all over again. Teenagers can be horrible. Thankfully I only had to teach students who were 19+. Some of them are hard work too. I found a few of the younger ones were all giggly when I tried to talk to them. I found a few of the older ones looked at me with disdain as the only gay men they had ever come across were their hairdressers. And yes, I have been asked that corking question, "My hairdresser is gay...do you know him?" My answer was, of course, "Yes, I have met him at the monthly meetings our people have". I discovered that great places for homophobia are in IT support and Personnel. A woman from IT support almost fell out of a window trying to get a look at me, "Is that the gay from the art department?" "Actually no, I am the gay from the craft department. The gay from the art department is thinner and younger". I found out from one of the most indiscrete members of staff that the man in charge of payroll in the PersonHell department had taken great delight in commenting to people about my appearance and voice.
My favourite part of working in education was working for the IT department. They found some lovely jobs for me...like teaching IT to men who had worked in factories and heavy industry from leaving school and had evidently never met anyone quite like me. It wasn't exactly a huge boost to my confidence when men transferred to other classes because they did not wish to be taught by me.
In my next job, everything was fine. Although the job did not end well, it was like working with grown ups for the first time. My individuality found a place and my creativity was encouraged. I only had one suspect moment when the son of one of the director's noticed the posture cushion on my chair and asked, "Who are you saving your arse for?"
Now I work as a volunteer in a shop raising money for charity. I have discovered a new form of bullying - the tyranny of old ladies who feel threatened. "Charity shops are work for old women" was one pearl of wisdom I was offered. My voice has been made fun of regularly by one of the customers. I have been told that cutting my hair so short makes me look old. I am used to being organised and efficient. This does not go down well. There are a couple of us who are seen as interlopers. "I have been here for 12 years", "Yeah, well you haven't sold yet" was an exchange I had with one woman as I was told for the umpteenth time how long she had been there. All of the women seem to hate each other and bitch constantly about everyone else, but if you try to change anything, they all band together. A couple of them are insidious in their destruction of everything the newer members of staff try to achieve. They have no concept of retail and endlessly spout "It's just a charity shop" when challenged.
Bullying seems to be never-ending. Over the years I have had a tough time, but I have grown stronger through it. At times I feel like giving up. Giving up means the bullies win and I am far too stubborn to allow anyone to beat me!
When I went to school I became aware that there was something different about me. I wasn't like the other boys. I was, in fact, more like the girls. I enjoyed playing with the girls in their games of dressing up and playing house. I enjoyed their games. Kicking a football and riding a bike was okay for a short time, but I always wanted to do something with more imagination and more creativity. Consequently, I was bullied. Bullied by other kids, bullied by teachers, bullied by adults in my life.
Children can be immensely cruel when they perceive something different in others, so can their parents (which is probably where the children get it from). I was often taunted, something that no matter how much I heard, I never got used to the sting of those words. I was called names, shunned, laughed at. I had clothing ripped and stolen. I was written on in biro. I was kicked. I was punched. I had other kids spit in my face. I was often forced from my seat on the school bus and made to stand. In some classes, I dreaded the teacher leaving the room even for a few minutes. Lunchtimes were often terrible, especially as I grew older, and I would hide in empty classrooms and hope the dinnerladies would take pity on me and let me stay. My circle of friends became smaller the older I became - the girls who were once my friends started to go out with boys and making fun of the 'puff' helped to increase their social standing in the groups they were forming.
From a very young age, teachers discouraged my play activities with the girls and insisted I join in with what the boys were doing. This meant that I ended up on the sidelines an awful lot - a silent observer in a world that was alien to my nature. As I grew up, there were jibes from the teachers about my voice and my mannerisms. Despite being reasonably good at things like woodwork and metalwork, the male only environment was uncomfortable for me. Of course, in those days, boys didn't do cookery. P.E. was a living nightmare and I became adept at forging my father's handwriting so I could fake notes excusing me from taking part. I am not sure if there is a written rule somewhere that P.E. teachers (male and female) have to be small minded bigots who devise torture for children so they can have a smoke and a coffee in peace. Looking back now I wonder why anyone would take advice on exercise and fitness from someone who had an arse the size of two of the pupils they were instructing.
The adults around in my life were also discouraging or bullying. I was constantly told I couldn't or wouldn't be able to do things - something that in later life made me determined that I could do everything I wanted to do and resulted in a breakdown in my late twenties after years of attempted over-achieving. I was rarely invited to anyone's house as a kid - the disapproving looks from parents serving to further deflate my confidence and self-esteem.
I survived. I left school and college. I found a job. The job was so easy that I could have done it in my sleep and, on occasion, I probably did. There was no physical abuse any longer, but the verbal abuse was still there. It was in a diluted form and mostly consisted of jokes or snide comments rather than overt attacks. I was obviously seen as being an easy target though as there were a couple of managers who made my life miserable whenever they could.
The strangest situation I found myself in was having to 'come out' as gay. I had never really thought of myself as being 'in'. My mannerisms and voice - and my resurrected penchant for dressing up - hardly made me stand out as straight. I know that some straight men are camp, but I am beyond that. I was forced in to a situation where I had to come out. I was told it was for my own good. It is quite bizarre when you lose friends because you publicly acknowledge your sexuality even though it was hardly a secret. Equally bizarre when some people want to be your friend for the same reason. I remember being at a party and being manoeuvred around by a woman so we were facing her friends. She then chatted to me while occasionally giving her friends a knowing 'look at me I am talking to the homosexual' smile and wink. Of course all the usual stuff happens after you come out. I wasn't prepared for some of the unusual though, like having a married male colleague suddenly decide I would be open to the idea of an affair..."I am gay...that doesn't mean I don't have standards". The worst comment made to me came from an alleged friend who delivered with a smile the phrase, "I have obviously heard that you are gay...and just want you to know that I hope you burn in hell". That isn't the way a phrase starting like that usually ends and I was massively taken aback.
I changed jobs and went to work in education. Being in a college was like having to live through my teenage years all over again. Teenagers can be horrible. Thankfully I only had to teach students who were 19+. Some of them are hard work too. I found a few of the younger ones were all giggly when I tried to talk to them. I found a few of the older ones looked at me with disdain as the only gay men they had ever come across were their hairdressers. And yes, I have been asked that corking question, "My hairdresser is gay...do you know him?" My answer was, of course, "Yes, I have met him at the monthly meetings our people have". I discovered that great places for homophobia are in IT support and Personnel. A woman from IT support almost fell out of a window trying to get a look at me, "Is that the gay from the art department?" "Actually no, I am the gay from the craft department. The gay from the art department is thinner and younger". I found out from one of the most indiscrete members of staff that the man in charge of payroll in the PersonHell department had taken great delight in commenting to people about my appearance and voice.
My favourite part of working in education was working for the IT department. They found some lovely jobs for me...like teaching IT to men who had worked in factories and heavy industry from leaving school and had evidently never met anyone quite like me. It wasn't exactly a huge boost to my confidence when men transferred to other classes because they did not wish to be taught by me.
In my next job, everything was fine. Although the job did not end well, it was like working with grown ups for the first time. My individuality found a place and my creativity was encouraged. I only had one suspect moment when the son of one of the director's noticed the posture cushion on my chair and asked, "Who are you saving your arse for?"
Now I work as a volunteer in a shop raising money for charity. I have discovered a new form of bullying - the tyranny of old ladies who feel threatened. "Charity shops are work for old women" was one pearl of wisdom I was offered. My voice has been made fun of regularly by one of the customers. I have been told that cutting my hair so short makes me look old. I am used to being organised and efficient. This does not go down well. There are a couple of us who are seen as interlopers. "I have been here for 12 years", "Yeah, well you haven't sold yet" was an exchange I had with one woman as I was told for the umpteenth time how long she had been there. All of the women seem to hate each other and bitch constantly about everyone else, but if you try to change anything, they all band together. A couple of them are insidious in their destruction of everything the newer members of staff try to achieve. They have no concept of retail and endlessly spout "It's just a charity shop" when challenged.
Bullying seems to be never-ending. Over the years I have had a tough time, but I have grown stronger through it. At times I feel like giving up. Giving up means the bullies win and I am far too stubborn to allow anyone to beat me!
Saturday, 21 July 2012
The Bad Day
So today is Northern Pride. I have never been to a Pride thing before. I really wanted to go. When I mentioned it to my (n)ever loving partner, his only comment was "What's stopping you?" I did have an offer from someone to go with me but I didn't like to make any commitment in case I chickened out at the last minute.
This morning I woke up and thought, "I am going to do it". Despite my slow puncture, I drove to Durham and then caught the train in to Newcastle. How very brave of me. How very like the old me before the breakdown. And then that is where it all ended. I wandered round the city centre for a couple of hours. I can't even say which shops I went in to. I know I didn't look at anything in any of them. I had lunch. I caught the train back to Durham and drove home.
I wanted to do it to prove to myself I could. I wanted to do it alone to prove I still had that strength in me. I couldn't do it. I don't have that strength. Instead of boosting my confidence, I now feel utterly useless. What's the point of me? I am too afraid to even attend an event that is meant to be fun and accepting of me.
I feel isolated...unpopular...unwanted. Maybe it is time I gave up. Maybe I should resign myself to a life without love, without companionship.
Harden your heart, Nidge, and close the shutters on the world outside.
This morning I woke up and thought, "I am going to do it". Despite my slow puncture, I drove to Durham and then caught the train in to Newcastle. How very brave of me. How very like the old me before the breakdown. And then that is where it all ended. I wandered round the city centre for a couple of hours. I can't even say which shops I went in to. I know I didn't look at anything in any of them. I had lunch. I caught the train back to Durham and drove home.
I wanted to do it to prove to myself I could. I wanted to do it alone to prove I still had that strength in me. I couldn't do it. I don't have that strength. Instead of boosting my confidence, I now feel utterly useless. What's the point of me? I am too afraid to even attend an event that is meant to be fun and accepting of me.
I feel isolated...unpopular...unwanted. Maybe it is time I gave up. Maybe I should resign myself to a life without love, without companionship.
Harden your heart, Nidge, and close the shutters on the world outside.
What is this life, if full of fear,
We only wish to disappear?
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Ideal Homo Exhibition
Okay...I don't usually go down the route of ideals because I don't believe anything in life is ideal and by creating images of ideals, you end up ruling out things that you probably shouldn't. But just for the sake of fantasy if I was to picture my ideal man...
- Dark hair, but greying
- Around my age
- Around my height
- Hairy chest
- Dominant - not in a mask wearing, whip wielding way - just someone who knows his own mind and what he wants so I can avoid >>> Me: What do you want to do? Him: I am not bothered, what do you want to do? or Me: What Movie do you want to watch? Him: I am not bothered, I will let you choose
- Smartly dressed
- Articulate
- Outgoing - because I am shy retiring wallflower who likes to be in the background
- An animal lover (as in a person who likes animal...not anything sexual)
- Bangs like a shithouse door in a force nine gale (joking! maybe...)
- Confident
- Affectionate
Of course, there is something else that is more important than everything else - someone who actually loves me and is not afraid to show it.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Catastrophic
One of the problems I have with things is classified officially as catastrophising. It means that I look at everything with the worst possible outcomes in mind. Of course this turns every aspect of life in to an opportunity for more anxiety. During cognitive behavioural therapy, it was an issue that was touched on but never fully dealt with as my therapist at the time was going through some stuff in her life and used our sessions to offload her problems...
As an example of catastrophising for anyone who is lucky enough not to have experienced it, imagine walking down a street. What could go wrong? It rains? You meet someone you can't stand and have to make polite chit chat? For someone who is in the mindset of catastrophising, things are much more epic. From being hit by an out of control vehicle to being beaten up by yobs via being attacked by an animal and being hit by falling masonry. Getting to the front of a checkout and discovering you have no money with you pales in to insignificance.
Those thoughts of "Did I turn the gas off?" end with your home and everything you own being destroyed by a gas blast or a fire. I worry about the people close to me because I can't keep watch over them all the time so I have no idea what is happening to them. Being out with people is just as traumatising as I worry about being harmed and not being able to intervene.
When I was in my first bout of therapy, I used catastrophising as a way to deal with other stuff. My therapist at the time thought it was strange but went with the idea as it was helping my fears be focused rather than allowing them to roam free. As a natural born worrier, I found a way to appease the urge to worry by feeding it something else. So I used to keep a list with me and I would add one thing to the list every day. Whatever was added to the list would need to be carefully played out in my mind in a range of everyday settings to see how it worked. That stopped me worrying about anything else. The list was entitled 'I am not going to worry about tomorrow as later today I could be killed by...' Entries were then listed below. For example, some of the entries were things like 'a crashing plane', 'a swarm of bees', 'a zombie apocalypse', etc. As time went on, the entries became more wild and would provide fuel for my nightmares as I had played the scenarios out so fully in my head. Ultimately the list proved to be a bad thing as I am now aware of all the (im)possibilities.
Even though I know the thoughts are irrational, I can't let them go. So if you are ever out with me and I seem distracted for a moment, don't worry...I am just looking for falling buildings, asteroids and zombies.
As an example of catastrophising for anyone who is lucky enough not to have experienced it, imagine walking down a street. What could go wrong? It rains? You meet someone you can't stand and have to make polite chit chat? For someone who is in the mindset of catastrophising, things are much more epic. From being hit by an out of control vehicle to being beaten up by yobs via being attacked by an animal and being hit by falling masonry. Getting to the front of a checkout and discovering you have no money with you pales in to insignificance.
Those thoughts of "Did I turn the gas off?" end with your home and everything you own being destroyed by a gas blast or a fire. I worry about the people close to me because I can't keep watch over them all the time so I have no idea what is happening to them. Being out with people is just as traumatising as I worry about being harmed and not being able to intervene.
When I was in my first bout of therapy, I used catastrophising as a way to deal with other stuff. My therapist at the time thought it was strange but went with the idea as it was helping my fears be focused rather than allowing them to roam free. As a natural born worrier, I found a way to appease the urge to worry by feeding it something else. So I used to keep a list with me and I would add one thing to the list every day. Whatever was added to the list would need to be carefully played out in my mind in a range of everyday settings to see how it worked. That stopped me worrying about anything else. The list was entitled 'I am not going to worry about tomorrow as later today I could be killed by...' Entries were then listed below. For example, some of the entries were things like 'a crashing plane', 'a swarm of bees', 'a zombie apocalypse', etc. As time went on, the entries became more wild and would provide fuel for my nightmares as I had played the scenarios out so fully in my head. Ultimately the list proved to be a bad thing as I am now aware of all the (im)possibilities.
Even though I know the thoughts are irrational, I can't let them go. So if you are ever out with me and I seem distracted for a moment, don't worry...I am just looking for falling buildings, asteroids and zombies.
Monday, 30 April 2012
The Parting of the Ways
I have had bouts of stress and depression for most of my life; certainly I was eight when I started with anxiety triggered migraines. It has grown and diminished and changed over the course of my life. I react to the environment around me strongly.
I have two things stressing me currently. One is the lack of an income. I don't say lack of a job because of the voluntary work I am doing in the charity shop. I absolutely love working there (there is a bit more to this coming up in the next point). I am not materialistic - my idea of a treat is a pair of new slippers. There are things I would like though, for example a new computer as mine is over ten years old and it's capabilities are losing pace with advancements in games and virtual worlds and my aspirations within those arenas. Once upon a time I would have not given a second thought to spending six hundred pounds on a new tower unit. Nowadays that is way beyond my reach.
The second stressor is volunteering at the charity shop. Despite loving it, I find it hard. I am used to being in control and in this role, I am not. I can see things that need work, things that need changing, things that should be stopped. I am, however, voiceless - just one of a number of volunteers. I am quite outspoken about some things and it hasn't gone down well with some of the staff. Comments such as "I have been here for x number of years and you come in wanting to change things" and "it's ONLY a charity shop" drive me mad. Some of them can't see that it is a shop that is required to make money like any other shop and the proceeds happen to go to charity. There is someone who is responsible for soft furnishings (but is only in for half a day every week) and someone responsible for the tombola (who is only in three half days every fortnight). Out of ten staff, there are only two people who steam and present clothes at their best. Again, it is a minority of staff who clean the bric-a-brac before putting it out for sale - things will go out on the shelves covered in dust, dirt or grease. Not everyone believes in pricing things clearly. I believe that whether you are paying two pounds or two hundred pounds, you are entitled to customer service. I don't believe that any customer should be subject to verbal abuse by a member of staff because of perceived events outside of the shop. I don't believe customers should be criticised for asking questions about goods. I don't believe that customers should be told to go elsewhere. The attitudes drive me mad - and they get away with it. I suppose I shouldn't care, but I always have done and I always will.
The worst thing about stress and depression for me is that it causes me to split in to two people who are polar opposites. My public persona becomes more exaggerated, more exuberant, more in your face. My private persona becomes more gloomy, more dark, more prone to harming myself. I can spend eight hours in the shop being perky and jolly and continuing in that vein when I get home (sometimes I have a cry before I pull out of the car park or drive the long way round while trying to balance my emotions). Eventually I will be alone - it may be ten o'clock at night - and then the darkness takes over me and I feel like going to sleep and never waking up again.
The longer it goes on, the harder I find it to reconcile the two halves of me. I worry that one day I won't be able to balance them and the darker side will win.
I have two things stressing me currently. One is the lack of an income. I don't say lack of a job because of the voluntary work I am doing in the charity shop. I absolutely love working there (there is a bit more to this coming up in the next point). I am not materialistic - my idea of a treat is a pair of new slippers. There are things I would like though, for example a new computer as mine is over ten years old and it's capabilities are losing pace with advancements in games and virtual worlds and my aspirations within those arenas. Once upon a time I would have not given a second thought to spending six hundred pounds on a new tower unit. Nowadays that is way beyond my reach.
The second stressor is volunteering at the charity shop. Despite loving it, I find it hard. I am used to being in control and in this role, I am not. I can see things that need work, things that need changing, things that should be stopped. I am, however, voiceless - just one of a number of volunteers. I am quite outspoken about some things and it hasn't gone down well with some of the staff. Comments such as "I have been here for x number of years and you come in wanting to change things" and "it's ONLY a charity shop" drive me mad. Some of them can't see that it is a shop that is required to make money like any other shop and the proceeds happen to go to charity. There is someone who is responsible for soft furnishings (but is only in for half a day every week) and someone responsible for the tombola (who is only in three half days every fortnight). Out of ten staff, there are only two people who steam and present clothes at their best. Again, it is a minority of staff who clean the bric-a-brac before putting it out for sale - things will go out on the shelves covered in dust, dirt or grease. Not everyone believes in pricing things clearly. I believe that whether you are paying two pounds or two hundred pounds, you are entitled to customer service. I don't believe that any customer should be subject to verbal abuse by a member of staff because of perceived events outside of the shop. I don't believe customers should be criticised for asking questions about goods. I don't believe that customers should be told to go elsewhere. The attitudes drive me mad - and they get away with it. I suppose I shouldn't care, but I always have done and I always will.
The worst thing about stress and depression for me is that it causes me to split in to two people who are polar opposites. My public persona becomes more exaggerated, more exuberant, more in your face. My private persona becomes more gloomy, more dark, more prone to harming myself. I can spend eight hours in the shop being perky and jolly and continuing in that vein when I get home (sometimes I have a cry before I pull out of the car park or drive the long way round while trying to balance my emotions). Eventually I will be alone - it may be ten o'clock at night - and then the darkness takes over me and I feel like going to sleep and never waking up again.
The longer it goes on, the harder I find it to reconcile the two halves of me. I worry that one day I won't be able to balance them and the darker side will win.
Monday, 2 January 2012
To be...but not to not be
So I did a status update on Facebook before I went to bed last night. It was:-
No trauma...no drama...not a statement of intent...just a realisation following reflection - I have no reason to live. After all the times I have felt I had reasons to not live, this is a strange feeling. Hmmm.
No trauma...no drama...not a statement of intent...just a realisation following reflection - I have no reason to live. After all the times I have felt I had reasons to not live, this is a strange feeling. Hmmm.
Kind of a strange update, but I am in kind of a strange place.
Having experienced various levels of depression over the years, there have been times when I have considered ending my own life. This is not one of those times. I feel like I have travelled a long road and have now come to a signpost. The sign pointing from where I came says, "You were here". The sign pointing the way ahead says, "Where are you going?".
I am feeling like I have no reason to live because I am not sure what I am doing with my life. The road before me has often been obscured, but by keeping going I have rediscovered the path. It's rather like I went where I was meant to be and was the person I needed to be. Now I am unsure about both of those things.
I am currently not in employment - paid or unpaid. I have always been the support person - the one with an eye for the details, the one who organises, the one keeps things running, the one who no one ever notices until I am not there. I have always been the caregiver - the one with tea and sympathy, the one with first aid stuff, the one you call when you need a ride somewhere, the one who does your decorating, the one who makes your cakes, the one who is just there waiting for your call.
Now I have no employment so don't have roles to perform there. I am trying to distance myself from the caregiver role as it has been to draining on me - I always knew this, but it took therapy to get me to relinquish the role - like me for who I am, not for what you can get out of me. So in that area of my life too, I feel like my role is gone. I have a partner - but we don't live together, the relationship is not 'physical' and he fits me in when it suits, so I feel there is no role there either. My father is content with the television and my mother is out dancing, so they don't need me. My nieces and nephews have their own lives, so they don't need me. So what do I do? What purpose do I fulfill? I know from the meditation course I did that I am a human being not a human doing, but just to be is not in my nature. I want to do stuff. I want to have a role. I want a purpose, an aim.
So here I am...I do not feel like I have reasons to 'not be alive', but instead feel like I have no reason to live.
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