Pigging Hogmanay (Or Making a Silk Purse from a Sow's Ear)

New Year’s Eve. Bloody hell.

I’ve had a few passable ones, true, but mainly they’ve been vile. Probably the worst was 2012/13 – following over twelve months of cancer and chemo and recovery, I was aiming for an optimistic new year. I wanted to celebrate the hell out of still being alive. My friend had given me the perfect opportunity to do just that, by getting married on the night and having her wedding celebration evolve into a seasonal party. Sadly I never made it, thanks to the demise of my seven-year long relationship, which began the day before and carried over into January. So instead of celebrating with the bride and groom and their guests, I was in the middle of at least a week’s worth of bawling and wondering what the hell was going to happen to me.

Last year I dragged my mother and brother out at 11.45pm, and we watched the fireworks on Margate’s harbour arm, before legging it back home to bed. I love fireworks and occasion, but as I stood shivering and looking at the lights against the velvet sky, I felt nothing. No optimism for the future; no pain or sadness. An empty soul: numb, unmoved, directionless.

This year I thought it was going to be different – I joined a band in June and they had already been booked for the big night. I was to be performing as midnight struck: doing one of the things I love most in my life. I was safe. NYE’s evil curse would not claim me this year. Wrong again. After just one gig with the group, they decided it wasn’t the way they wanted to go and I was asked, politely, not to return. I didn’t blame them. They were much better as a duo anyway. (If you get the chance, go and see them – Binomial. All electropop stuff. Brilliant.)

It has been quite a year of rejection for me. I’ve had to move to a house on my own. I’ve failed to get key parts that I’ve auditioned for, which stung badly. Romantically… well, don’t get me started. I would like to focus on the positive stuff that has occurred too, as there is an awful lot (depending on perspective), but today my brain just isn’t letting me. Almost like I’m scared to admit that yes, things are looking up. Curse this date for making me feel low.

What’s it all about eh? I imagine that many other people hate this night as much as I do, and many of them booze their way through it. The change of year forces us to evaluate things and make promises to ourselves that we’ll break weeks later. I loathe it for that. (I long resolved never to make any resolutions. I seem to have stuck to that one!) This season in general highlights loneliness among other unpleasant things. Why does it hurt so much? Everyone I speak to seems to have something good to do tonight, or at least someone good to do something with. Don’t get me wrong – I am thrilled for them/you. I’m particularly pleased that my ex has plans for the evening. I want him to be happy, especially as I know what it’s like not to be. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, let alone someone who continues to be one of my best friends. It doesn’t stop it dumping a bucket of conflicting emotions on my bonce.

So what am I going to do? I have several options:

1)      Be miserable.

2)      Be all sad about being alone and single.

3)      Cry.

4)      Get drunk on my own.

1-4 are out. I’m not giving them headspace. In fact, the challenge will be to avoid numbers 2 and 3 at all costs. So how can I achieve that? For starters, Facebook (other than to post a link to the words you are reading now) is STRICTLY forbidden. I could try company:

5)      Go out to watch the band with whom I would have been gigging. This would be displaying serious cojones on my part. I just don’t fancy going all the way out to where the show is (and I’m not sure that it isn’t a private/ticket only thing anyway), and to a roomful of strangers, with no-one to talk to or dance with. Inebriety wouldn’t save me either – I’m not much of a drinker and there would be driving home to be done.

6)      Go out to a random pub in the nearby town. More cojones, but not a sensible choice. Probably quite dangerous too, and staggering home afterwards, alone in the dark… no.

7)      Wait to be invited to something. No offers as yet have been forthcoming, not a one! But I’m fed up of looking to other people to make me feel better. It has to come from me. I’m the only person who can do this. But how?

8)      Throw a party at my home. I never had a housewarming. Probably a bit short notice now. It might have been fun and a good distraction.

So I’ve eliminated 5-8 too, which means it will be just me. Forty next year, never been married, nor engaged. No children. Not in a relationship. Single for the last two years and one day. Completely alone, like most other nights, while people around me celebrate.  

9)      Sleeping tablet, earplugs, early night. I still haven’t ruled this out. It seems sensible –

But hang on a goddamn cotton-pickin’ minute woman. If you always do what you’ve always done yada yada etc. How about changing the script? Yes, I am going to be at home, alone. But you know what? This year, that is what I CHOOSE to do.

10)  Happy New Year, Lizzie-style

I happen to love my home. It’s taken a while, but I’m very settled and I adore the house. So the location is top notch. As for company, screw it. Tonight is for me. I shall have a date with myself, doing stuff that I want to do. Let others stuck at dull parties, clock-watching til midnight envy me with my freedom of choice and the hangover I won’t have in the morning, not having to walk home or shiver while I wait for a taxi. HA! I shall think of you as I play my guitar and sing as loudly as I like (deaf next-door neighbour who is away anyway). I shall cook myself a nice dinner, or get a takeaway… or not? Home-made ice cream maybe? Who knows what I’ll feel like? I could drive to a high spot to watch lots of midnight fireworks at once, or I could stay in. I have some great DVDs to watch, that I have been saving for an indulgent evening, (Inception, Alan Partridge Alpha Papa, Dogma, Downton Abbey, Outnumbered etc) and should I fall asleep in front of them, then so be it. I might even do some writing. Or some making. Or both - scribbling down my plans for 2015. Because after all the cancer, break-up, numbness, rejection, changes and minimal medication, I can see green shoots of recovery at long, long last. They’re mine. I’m growing them, I alone can nurture them. I am going to focus on being a friend to me. This attitude is, of course, the way to go, but putting letters on a screen is easy. It’s the “believing in it” bit that I struggle with. I hope it will come with time.

I might not have a soul mate to share my life with. I might not ever find that person, or if I do, be able to be with them. I cannot waste time waiting or being sad about it. (Let’s face it, I’m never going to find them if all I do is whinge) I must remember that the life I am living now is a gift. It was nearly denied me. I want to use it to the best of my ability. I’m learning every day that happiness is a choice. NYE is just a night, like the other 365-ish every year. Bollocks to whatever convention it is that dictates that I should be getting out and partying, and phthrpttt to whatever it is that makes me feel sad that I’m not. I choose to have an evening that I shall enjoy.

So whatever you are doing tonight: alone, or with a bunch of sloshed strangers, or with the person you love so much you could die (you lucky git), I hope it is what you choose for yourself, and I wish you a wonderful, positive and safe New Year’s Eve.

2015 – It’s going to be the best year yet.

And we get hoverboards and power laces. Alright!  

Walking Back to Happiness

At last, here it is: Number two. That appropriately I have been straining away to produce.

I made several attempts at this, and abandoned all mid-paragraph. Apart from anything else, they were incredibly dull and it is not my desire to inject boredom into the world. I can't imagine who would want to read this twaddle.

And yet I have been encouraged by several folk asking where the next bit was, and reassuring me that they found it interesting. (Fools!) It's also really good for me to write it, so here it is. I still can't imagine who would want to read this twaddle, but as the twaddler, I am going to pretend I don't care.

The first entry to this blog was created in despair and misery. The day after I uploaded it, I awoke with a spark of excitement instead of the usual sucking chest-wound panic: I was blogging again! The two main things I had hoped that I would achieve by that, I managed in spades. Every positive comment made was like a burst of air into my tyres. I picked up. Of course then it was summertime, and the optimism was easy. The soggy greyness of impending autumn does no-one any favours. Look at it out there this morning! It's like a pair of underpants that are one wash away from the bin.

I started on the movement-not-medication plan with my favourite exercise: Walking. I got onto Google and plotted routes, then went out and executed them. That was wonderful. To boldly go where I'd never gone before, if I may split an infinitive so early in the day. I felt like an adventurer! The countryside is beautiful. Trees, hills, fields - so much green. Sky, clouds, birds. It changes every day and I have the privilege of marching through it, getting fitter in mind and body. It's true - exercise against depression bloody works. It doesn't just ease it, it smashes it into the middle of next Christmas and doesn't pause to clean up the pine needles.

The area where I live is very, shall we say, undulating. Most of the walking is on some sort of incline. Even my house is on a slope on a hill. It makes it more interesting, but fairly tough on the old knee joints. My routes took me past Cam Peak - a treeless lump on the landscape that you can see from almost everywhere in the area. With each new journey, I got closer and closer, knowing that one day I would scale it. So one day I did. I bunged The Lark Ascending on my 'Pod, and had a lark ascending said lump. (It was the fact that I had lined that very joke up to use thusly which motivated my climb. See, blogging helps!) Since then I've wandered up there a few times, but nothing compared to that maiden trip: A gorgeous, sunny day; a determined Lizzie (who had to keep stopping to breathe - no shame in that) and the music, reaching an apex just as I did. I couldn't have planned it better. I stood in the sunshine with my arms open wide a la Julie Andrews, proud of my achievement and absorbing nature, all to a Vaughan Williams soundtrack.

Reaching my peak.

An eyeful of that, with an earful of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8

The downside of all this is that it's quite time-consuming. Not only to do, but to recover from afterwards. The personal trainer, who I did go to see, reminded me that I spent a good six months pouring poison into my bod - proper poison, designed to kill living cells. Of course it's going to be difficult to get back to how I was before, maybe even impossible. It has been hell on toast, with each slice getting tougher to chew as my bod rebels against what I am making it do. Things that I haven't made it do for well over a decade, maybe longer.

Yes, the personal trainer - Nicki. A lovely lady, full of life and bounce, as you'd expect from someone who exercises for a living. It took guts, but I managed to keep the appointment that I'd arranged. Having been walking and yoga-ing (Yogging? Yogueing?) for a while, she was surprised that I needed her help. I was a lot fitter than most of her GP-referred clients. (In fact, I was a lot fitter than even I realised.) She took me through all the classes that my prescription discount was applicable to. They reeked of Things That Lizzie Loathes: swimming pools; other people; other people's taste in music; having to be at a certain place at a certain time, and being stuck there. In the name of sanity, I made up my mind at least to try.

Monday was Aqua Zumba. I cried. 

It wasn't the fact that I was wearing a swimming costume in public, exposing bits of me that I keep strictly under wraps (or support tights) unless I am at home, alone. Nor was it that, in said state of exposure, I was thrust into a situation that I was unfamiliar with. Or that, while mostly naked and on strange ground, I was forced to talk to people when all I wanted to do was curl up and whimper. It was all of those things. Combined with trying to dance to music I hated and doing moves that I could neither understand nor keep up with, while in five and a bit feet of water. I think it would have been more surprising if I hadn't cried. The instructor was very good, reassuring me when she saw my face all squished up with snivel, but she was on dry land and she knew where the music was going. I was a knot of frustration, getting more and more tangled. When it was over, I went straight into the toilets and blubbed my heart out.

I had to get the tears out of my system, because the next class was a Nicki-recommended Healthy Lifestyle thingy. This was more like it. Peace. My own pace. I donned a waistcoat-shaped float and "aqua-jogged" my way around the deep end, feeling like I was drifting free, letting my worries slip away. There were fewer people, some a lot larger than the previous class; some a lot more frail. We took positions at the edges of the pool, and then the work began. Small bursts of crossing and re-crossing ankles, ballerina style, while clinging on to the poolside for dear life. The instructor said: "Go for eighty in 30 seconds!", which I did, though it was hard. I tried to celebrate with the people either side of me, but they were less than impressed. It occurred to me that maybe they were here as a result of physical injury, and didn't need somebody rubbing in to them what they were struggling to do. Their cold non-replies forced me to complete the class in silence, and race to get changed and out of this hell-hole.

I tried twice more: Aqua stretch on Tuesday, actually with Nicki this time. This was a little less unpleasant, being not so fast and with music I recognised. OK, one song. But none of the chaotic South American stuff that had so disturbed me. I even felt the benefits of my exertions, which I believe was the point. I made a couple of new friends too. Thursday was another Healthy Lifestyle jobbie. Only this time the shallow end was full of mums and babies. Cue much screaming (I think it was just the kids) which made it very hard to relax. My float was digging into my diaphragm the whole time too, leaving a bruise which made breathing uncomfortable for a while afterwards.

Menstruation kept me pool-free for the following seven days, and that made me happy. Yes, I would rather have had the pain and inconvenience of a period than any of these water-based sessions! Come week three, I was like a stubborn oyster, clinging to its shell. I had to prise myself out of the house to go to Aqua Zumba. One of my new chums had been very kind, encouraging me to try again as it takes a while to get used to it. I summoned up everything I had. Bravery, motivation, everything. I drained all my reserves. Still wary, I plodded back to the hellpit and timidly asked the receptionist:
"One for Aqua Zumba please."

"Sorry, no classes today," she replied, gesturing to the pool that was crammed with children, splashing and shouting and butterfly-stroking, "School swimming gala."

Really? Really? (Think Sally Field in Mrs Doubtfire: "The WHOLE time???")

I haven't been back to the leisure centre since, other than when I strut past it on one of my walks. My walks. Dry, clothed, alone. At the speed I choose, with music I love. All mine.

Something that strikes me since my last literal outpouring is that things have changed. I feel less despair. I am more settled in my new house. The fleas have gone, the shower is working (boy, is it working!), and one by one I am purchasing the things I need to make the house a home. There may be another reason for the change too, and that, I'm sheepish to report is medication.

Yes, I succumbed, and while half of me is saying: "Ugh, you pussy!" the sensible half is replying: "Not pussy. Lion. So button it." It was a decision made after I finally bought a washing machine, and got X to hook it up for me. Excited, I bunged the first load of washing in and pressed play, ignoring the bit in the instructions where it said "run an empty load first, just to make sure it's all working." So far, so good, until the bit where it had to drain. The device made interesting sucky noises, and then downright refused to go on. Cue red light on dashboard and Lizzie frantically leafing through the "troubleshooting" section of the manual while having what can only be described as a paddy.

38 years' worth of woman turned into a blubbery, shaking mess in seconds. Why won't it work? Is it a dud? Have I got to go through the hassle of sending it back and getting a new one? What am I going to do with my washing now? How the fabric softener do I get the water out? Will I EVER HAVE CLEAN CLOTHES AGAIN??? (See Duvet Incident, previous blog.) A few panicky texts to X and I felt myself split into two. Child Lizzie was sitting on the floor, crying and helpless; Adult Lizzie was saying: Right. First you fix the machine. Second, you fix you. This cannot and WILL NOT go on.  

Suddenly, I was calmer, though still crying. I deployed grown-up mode, and followed the instructions to manually drain the thing, which I did, trying not to worry about the soapy water all over the floor. It was a lot easier than I realised. I took my sopping clothes out and slopped them into a crate. One step at a time. 

The only thing spinning was my head.

I ran the empty programme, which repeated the trick. More tears and self-parenting followed. (I don't need kids. I have ME.) Another manual drain, more water everywhere, and a very sensible decision to reconnect the waste pipe so that it was happy to allow stuff out of it. The result was successful drainage, clean pants, and an appointment with the doctor.

I knew what I had to ask her. I told her the whole exercise tale, and that it worked very well, but it was not enough. Please Doc, could I have the minimum dose of the weakest tablet, just to erase this sadness, because I think it's getting in the way of my life. Through tears, I declared that what I really want is to love and be loved, and I don't have that right now. Furthermore, I don't think I'll be finding it while I'm this pathetic dribble of a girl. Yes, I know I haven't mentioned it so far in this blog, but it's true. To love and to be loved. What else is there? 

She was very sweet. She said that she wished she could write me a prescription for a kind man to take care of, who would take care of me in return. Sadly, the NHS doesn't stretch to such things. (Pah! Call yourself a healthcare provider?) What they do stretch to is sertraline hydrochloride in 50mg lumps, confusingly branded "Lustral", though a side-effect is reduced libido. (Not that that is likely to be an issue!)

So on Thursday 17th July I popped my first anti-depressant for over a decade. I was gutted. I felt like I'd given in. Yet the voice of reason persisted: You were not doing well. Try this. See if it makes a difference. I know that it isn't forever. I hope it isn't for long. Everyone will get depressed at some point in their lives. Whether or not they recognise it is another thing. Contrary to what you may think, I'm not a fan of putting strange things into my body. Especially if I can't be sure of what they are going to do. I know that the reason I was taking the tabs wouldn't kick in for a few weeks. What did kick in, almost immediately was a touch of anxiety. This was rife in my life anyway, but something turned it up to eleven for a bit. My senses were heightened to the point of discomfort, and I found it trickier than usual to be around people. It also reinforced the numbness of feeling.

This was all illustrated in the memorial service I attended at Clifton Cathedral the following weekend. The guy whose life was being celebrated was Trevor Fry, a BBC Radio Bristol DJ who had had some links to the musical theatre group that I am Vicely Chairing. I went as a representative of the committee, piling on the eyeliner as I was determined I would not be crying. I had shed plenty of tears when I had heard the news of his demise, particularly when I thought of his widow. To finally find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with (which to me, seems an impossibility), then to have them taken from you so suddenly? Life is cruel. (Or you can look at it that at least they had that chance to be together at all: Better to have loved and lost, etc - a topic of discussion for another day...) The point was that I intended to keep myself blub-free that evening.

The service was incredible. Person after person spoke so highly of Mr Fry, and so eloquently too, most being radio presenters. He sounded like a top bloke, and I was definitely sorry that I hadn't known him better, or even heard his shows. Interspersed with the speaking were musical performances of the highest calibre. A folk song had my colleagues in floods, causing me to be moved for them. Yet still no tears. Even at the end, with the Salvation Army brass band playing Elgar's Nimrod - an emotion-stirring tune, if ever there was one. Instead of sorrow, I let my spirit soar with the music, higher and higher, to the ceiling of the concrete-clad cathedral. It was a tremendous sensation. What followed was surreal to say the least. Suddenly, the air was filled with the voice of the deceased, bidding us all farewell. It turns out that it was an excerpt from the final broadcast of his Sunday show, which ended its run long before he had. Trevor, being a keen poet, had penned a verse to read on the airwaves, full of goodbyes and gratitude, to all his friends. It was uncanny. When it was over, I looked about me. The only dry eyes in the whole building were mine. I was like a rock.

How had I done this? My theory is that I know when I start blubbage, it's hard to stop. In public, that is just plain embarrassing. I don't like to expose myself to the pain either, so I've shut everything down. My heart is as a shrivelled-up prune. I can forbid it to feel what I so dearly would like it to, because it hurts so much. I think the drugs make it even easier, which is another good reason to get off them as soon as possible. Not feeling, not expressing feelings, that's not Lizzie.

As well as the above, lots more has been happening to me. I shall do this in the style of the "boo/hooray" game that the late, great, Great Auntie Grace taught me. You alternate your responses so:

Making cakes (Hooray!);

Eating cakes (Boo!);

And not a smidge of gluten in sight, cake fans. Until... 

Krispy Kreme. (Other knicker-shrinking foods are available.) 

Parties (Hooray!);

Turning down an invitation to coffee with a nice man (Boo! - get the picture?);

Two gigs with two bands, that made me fly (I need more!);

Not being required for further gigs with one of the bands;

Making dresses and wearing them;

Making a dress...

...and wearing it. At a party. 

Pulling out of Crazy For You;

Rapunzel (a panto that I wrote and directed) being nominated for an award;

Visiting Margate;

Visiting Margate; (It's a matter of opinion)

Margate. The Marmite of the South East.

Food Fair flop;

Another nice chap giving me his number;

Me not calling it (what is WRONG with me??);

Oh and a birthday. 

Not quite faulty, but pretty close. 

Thirty-nine, hitting me like a pavement in the face. That's right on the boo/hooray cusp, that one.

Maybe you'll get to hear about these things at some point. They sound a lot more interesting than what I have banged on about here.

What concerns me most at present is that I feel like time is passing me by, and that I'm unable to do anything other than let it. There is so much I want to do - work-based, music-based. Nice surprises for nice people; more parties (a housewarming bash is long overdue...) I have a head full of ideas, always, but that's where it ends. The link between thinking of a thing and actually doing the thing is eluding me, even though I want to do the thing so much. Why is this? I can see the girl I want to be. She's jumping up and down, screaming at me to get up off the sofa/bed/sofa bed and be. What the hell is stopping me? Why can't I hear her?

Is it fear? If so, that's ridiculous, because I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. (And yes, the reason I know those words is because Pete the Puppy said them repeatedly to Earthworm Jim, all right? It's still valid.) What am I scared of? Shouldn't I be more scared of a life not lived?

Is it the tablets? No. It would be very easy to blame them, but I don't think so. I've been here before, sans medication.

Is it fatigue? Or is it laziness? The tools I need are laid out in front of me, literally in some cases - why can't I pick them up and use them? I feel like I've been fighting this all my life. This "Oh, I'll just lay down for two seconds", which turns into two hours, then you get up thinking "I'd better do something" and the strain of making the decision forces you to have a nice sit down and a cup of tea, oh and a bit of YouTube and Spider Solitaire and there go another two hours, and before you know it, you are an old lady who can't do anything more than Spider Solitaire and YouTube and aaaarghhhh WHY???? One of the reasons I was so bummed at my cancer diagnosis was the fact that I felt at the time I was doing a good job of conquering this lethargy. It had taken years, but there I was - writing and directing a pantomime, with a business that was starting to take off and lots of plans for its ascent. I was gathering momentum, until Mr Hodgkin Splodgkin peed all over it. I used everything I had to rip his stupid tits off, and it has left me drained. Is that it? Is that the reason I waste whole days, stuck behind the closed curtains of my bedroom, unable to reply to text messages or execute plans for my future?

This is why I'm writing today. I am fed up of this rut, and with autumn around the corner, wrestling with winter to see who can get here first, I can't see it getting better unless I do something.

If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.

Henry Ford said that. He was definitely a switch-off-the-TV-set-and-go-out-and-do-something-less-boring-instead kinda guy. Why don't you, Lizzie? I want to be that person. I am sick of excuses. I have the very real threat that, if I cannot earn enough money, I won't be able to pay my rent and bills, and I shall have to leave this house and this part of the country, both of which I have grown to love. What is that, if not motivation? The arse I need to be kicking now, is my own. 

Rise Like a Phoenix

Given my recent sorrows, and the kind enquiries of several, I've decided to write a blog.

The reasons:

1) To update those kind enquirers as to what is happening with me.

2) To unravel the knot of thoughts that tangle around my brain and stop it functioning at its full 18%.

3) To keep my hobby (and dream career) of writing simmering along.

4) To give me something to focus on, other than my dark thoughts.

5) To climb out of the slump I find myself in, refreshed, reborn and ready for the life I want to live.

I had a brief foray into this sort of thing about two years ago, when I was receiving chemotherapy for Hodgkin Lymphoma, an ass that I well and truly kicked. It helped me at the time to bang on about having cancer and stuff, though I had to abandon the scrawling due to nausea brought on by the drugs. I couldn't even read over what I had written without wanting to spew. I hope my followers weren't similarly affected! If you were among them, then I apologise for leaving you hanging: Yes, I got better. Remission declared on 4th September 2012. If I make it to 4th September 2014 with the all-clear from my haematologist, then it's unlikely that Mr H will ever be back.

So I kicked The Big C's big A - why should I be blue? Well, it would seem that the life I promised myself as I lay incapable on the mattress is not the life I lead. I fought to remain alive. What I am doing now does not justify that fight. This is not living - this is existing, and I'm getting fed up of it. When people say "Lizzie! How are you?" I like to answer honestly. When I was ill, it was "Well, there's a question..." Earlier this year, my reply would have been "Fantastically well, thank you!" This morning it was "Hanging in there..."

I am not happy, not even content. Sadness sits on my shoulders like a sopping turd, enveloping me in its crud until everything stinks. I've moved to the next letter in The Big alphabet. This is letter D. Deplorable. Disgusting. Depression.

I know the signs. I've had it before, see. I think most people get it in degrees from time to time, and how it affects them is different. This is a mild dose, but it's not going to go away without a bit of attention. Blogs didn't exist when I had my first encounter with the Black Dog. They do now, and I'm going to see if I can use this to my advantage. It really helped with the cancer. I think that's a fight that people find easier to support. Many of us - yes, me included - back off from mind-based health probs 'cos, let's face it, you don't know where you are with someone who has them. Are we going to wave a carrot at you and claim it's Elvis? (No.) Are we going to pause mid-conversation to fling our clothes off and run down the street, swearing in Latin? (Probably not.) Are we going to - spoiler alert - burst into tears at having to take our duvet to the laundrette? Or are we going to bore you to tears banging on about how pathetic and miserable our lives are? Maybe you'd prefer the Latin?

How Pathetic and Miserable My Life Is:

Where I am today:

Sitting on a rented sofa in a rented house where I live alone. Nothing about that last sentence pleases me.

How did I get here?

The result, I imagine, of a bunch of crappy choices that I made. I think that is all you need to know. I was living in a beautiful, big house, in the countryside, that made me happier than any of the previous twenty-three addresses I have lived at. (Yup, twenty-three.) My partner of seven years (and subsequently ex-partner of fifteen months) was living with me. Though we split back in December 2012, we maintain an excellent relationship. He (X) is tremendously supportive and continues to be so. But the time had come for me to move out as neither of us could move on with our lives. I looked on the internet for houses, and this was the first one that I deemed even remotely suitable. I snapped it up. True, it's not really where I wanted to live and the rent is going to be a squeeze, but I did it. Another crappy choice? Watch this space.

So, in summary:

1) Cancer. Fought it, beat it, but life turned upside-down. Body is not the same. Fighting to deal with that and work out what I can still do.

2) Became single. Fighting it, but gradually succumbing. It's tough - pushing forty, never been married. Never been engaged. Never been with someone for longer than 7 years. Actually I've had three relationships: Nearly 3 years, nearly 4 years, nearly 8 years. The first two chaps went on to marry the next girl they got together with. What does that tell me, eh?

3) Moved house. Reluctantly. Living somewhere I might not have picked if I'd had more time to look. Fighting to settle in.

And wait, there's more. Call Nigel Kennedy, we need violins:

4) Due to said life changes, need to find more work, lots more work to pay the rent and the bills. I am coming to terms with the fact that I probably won't own a house in my lifetime. It may not be all it is cracked up to be, but it was what I wanted. Everyone has a dream. That was (one of) mine. Fighting to keep my head above the financial waters.

5) X is dating a new person. The pain that accompanies this wrenches my soul apart. Loneliness is, ironically, my companion. I go for days without hugs - I love hugs! I fall asleep clutching my Zippy doll as if my life depends on it. I am fighting it too.

Now before you tut your "Oh POOR Lizzie! Doing what every other bugger in the world has to do. Suck it up, girl." Or even "Really? There are so many people in the world worse off than this!" along with me (because I too berate myself for being so rubbish, with similar lines), bear in mind that this is all a lot harder to take with the mental state I find myself in. Even the work I already have is nigh on impossible. I have to nail my concentration down to a chair and threaten it with ice water. As I understand it, we have chemicals in our brains that move from one place to another to indicate that we are happy, or at least content. Some days demand more of it than others to keep us going. If we make enough of the stuff, we can manage OK through those times. But some of us only have a trickle of this magic dust. We're fine when the going is good, but when the chips are down, the trickle dries up and we can't handle it. Me, I'm a trickler.

http://www.blackdoginstitute.org.au/public/Depression/depressionexplained/index.cfm and http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/depression/Pages/Introduction.aspx explain the symptoms very well. In fact, reading that link in order to add it to the blog has just given me another moment of realisation. I've been ticking off items on that list for months, and I had no idea. A little enlightenment this evening - a bit of a "Eureka" moment for me, and I've shared it with you. I'm definitely Black Dogging it. (Which is definitely not as fun as it might sound.)

Realisation aside, I didn't suspect it was back until the day when I possibly had to take my duvet to the laundrette as a result of the flea infestation in the house (boy, have I some tales to tell you...) My inner monologue, punctuated by escalating hysterics, went like this:

"Where's the laundrette? You mean I'll have to get into the car with my washing? I don't know where I'm going, I've only just moved in! What if they're closed? What if I can't park? I'll have to drag my duvet down the street for nothing? How much is it going to cost? I can't afford it! I don't want to sit in the laundrette with people. I want to stay here and hide under my potentially flea-infested duvet and cryyyyyyyy." I was absolutely helpless. There was no way that I could work out what I had to do. In the end, I called X who managed to calm me down get me pursuing the first steps of a plan - calling the Pest Control guy, who said that the washing of the duvet was not necessary, just the bedding. That was easily bundled in the car and transported, along with a still-sobbing me, to X's house and my old machine. The ability to respond rationally to a simple situation had abandoned me in a way that I hadn't experienced for a good decade. That was over a month ago. There have been several more incidents like that since then. I wouldn't blame you for being scared. It frightens the crap outta me.

Last week I finally faced facts - the only way forward for me is medical intervention. I've never had a lot of fun with anti-depressants. Reading the list of side effects is often more depressing that the original illness. I last popped one back in 2004, I think. Never mind the dizziness or the dopiness, the biggest issue (literally) was my dress size. It magically expanded, as did I, over the 3-year period I was medicated. Slimming World saved me from the 17st 9lb girl-mountain I became, but that too is another story. With fantastic before and after photos, which I shall no doubt share at some point.

Being overweight is not going to cheer me up, especially given my marital status. Since the chemo, I'm iffy about putting stuff into my bod that it doesn't want. (Er yes, that would include potential suitors. ANOTHER STORY.) I read somewhere that exercise is an excellent treatment, and the doctor (who was lovely, by the way - really sympathetic, just what I needed) agreed with me. She "prescribed" me the Healthy Lifestyle Scheme, taking place at the local pool and leisure centre. "You get gym sessions at a discount, and a personal trainer to help you at the start." Being Lizzie involves avoiding people where possible. A depressed Lizzie would slide under buses in order to avoid people, especially strangers, and especially especially in any sort of sweaty, half-dressed scenario. (Yup, the speed dating is off.) And yet today I set myself a target - walk to the leisure centre and bloody well sign up for this. Put your head down and DO IT. I did it. My initial consultation is next Wednesday. I had to hold back tears when the receptionist smiled at me at the completion of the transaction, but I walked back in the sunshine, satisfied and hopeful. Even if I loathe it, I shall be looking at it as medicine. It's only for 12 weeks - half the length of my chemo - and, if it works, I shall be feeling better as I near the end of the treatment. I am using the fighting spirit that I summoned up to kick Mr H's butt into the middle of last century. I'm relieved to see that I still have it, though it is buried under a lot of crud. As for the doc, I'm to go back to her in a fortnight if I don't feel any different, and we shall discuss tablets. There's an element of suspense for you, right there.

You know something? This writing lark is already working. I feel weights starting to shift: not lift yet, but moving to slightly less uncomfortable positions. All I ask of you reader, (and dare I say, friend) is that you bear with me. It is going to be a rollercoaster. I will do my best to laugh at myself, as always seems to be the path of choice. I will aim for as much honesty as possible. I'm its number one fan, and when I can't employ it, it brings about the blackest clouds.   

I must add that I will endeavour not to mention anything that I think may upset individuals who may get caught in the story, but I am only too aware that I can't please all of the people all of the time. So if you see something that makes you unhappy, or you think might affect someone else, I would appreciate a direct email to me citing the problem. I am very sensitive to upsetting people. I am always mortified, and retreat into my shell a little more when it occurs. I wouldn't make a very good UKIP MP. Thank goodness that is not a career path that I have my heart set on trotting down!

And if you happen to see me irl (in real life, non web-wise ones), just act as you usually would. Just know that I may cry at harsh words. I may also cry at kind words. Come to think of it, I may cry at pretty much anything, like a blackbird singing in the garden, or pretty music, or hearing about your holiday plans and remembering that I don't have any, nor money to pay for a holiday, nor a chap to plan a holiday with. Tears and self-pity flow freely, for which I am sorry, which is another reason why you might not see much of me. For a while, at least.

This old boot is rebooting, baby. Rising like a phoenix from the fading light - not like a bearded transvestite, but just as dramatically I expect. And I'm going to let you watch. Fantastic.