Let Me Entertain You

Not written for months because... well I don't know. I haven't been bothered to do a lot of things, (even though I've had a to-do list longer than my monkey arms) maybe that is why. Since February, I have had the pantomime, then 'flu, food fair and... what? What happened to me? Direction disappeared, energy waned. It all went - to borrow a much-overused interjection - meh.

Pied Piper Panto...

... Food Fair frolics.

I have really enjoyed watching Spring happen - daffodils and snowdrops unfolding; then all manner of blossom; lambs, so helpless and sproingy; bluebells, and the explosion of greenery that's currently evident everywhere. It's delicious!

Forsythia. Nice to see you, to see you..

The deliciousness of Spring

So why can't seem to summon up as much enthusiasm as I used to for walking? If there is a reason not to - it's too windy; I'm already cold; I need to work; too many people about; there's a bone in my leg, etc it's very easy to accept it. Today it has been gorgeous outside, if a little chilly, and I could probably have been tempted were it not for raging pain of the one-week-every-three variety. (That is more of a valid reason, I suppose.) Instead I perch delicately on my Seat of Death as Saturday afternoon turns to evening, which for me means more loneliness and waiting around to eat or sleep.

Yes, dammit, I find comfort from both. I fight an hourly battle against food. Chocolate feels so ridiculously good. I eat some after every meal now, as well as in between. It's a habit that I've let myself get into, which I'd really like to break. The sugar doesn't make me feel well, never mind guilt that follows. I find it hard to believe that I used to be so disciplined I once lost over six stone sticking to Slimming World, the shreds of which are still evident in my current eating plan. My meals themselves are pretty healthy, and I would be doing fantastically, if they weren't all supplemented by Mr Cadbury.

Sleep is also blissful, though my dreams are intense, and usually filled with anxious situations. I often find myself shouting, screaming at members of my family, panicking that I have left the comfort of my home for the chaos of where I grew up. I've even started having the old "teaching a class of unruly kids" classic again. ("Sit down. SIT down. SIT DOWN. SHUT UUUP! SHUT UUUUP!! SHUT UUUUUUUUUPPP!!!) It's based on the reality of my teaching days all those years ago, though I managed to train myself to walk away as soon as I realised it was a dream. Interestingly, the last time I had it, I announced to the class that I didn't have to put up with this, and was about to move on to some alternative dreamscape, when one pupil said:

"What's the matter? Is Miss giving up? Chicken."

I wouldn't normally react to that sort of challenge, certainly not in real life, but on this occasion, even though I knew I was in my imagination, I couldn't leave the room. Me? Give up? Nahhhh.

Punctuating the yelling and anger are gems of dreams that boil down to someone loving me. The comfort from those is nothing that any Lindt product could ever match. The person in question is usually a stranger, or an actor I've stared at all gooey-eyed through many episodes of the same show. They are often tall, good-looking, and they smile ever so much, because I make them smile.

They tell me that they want to be with me and I can't believe it - that someone so gorgeous would desire a scrag-end like me. Yet they do, they are smitten, and I go from incredulity to exultation as I bathe in their affection. There's no naughtiness, by the way! Just love. I'm always sorry to wake up and let reality touch me with its bony fingers. So sleep -  good.

But of course this is not the way I want to live my life! I mean, that's the life of a woman forty years my senior, surely? I'll have plenty of time for that later. What of those vows I made at the top of the year? As we're hurtling toward the halfway point of 2015, allow me to review in reverse order:

5) Keep smiling. I'm doing my best. (Said through gritted teeth.) It's been ten months since the first lot of sertraline, and about three since the dose was doubled (at my request.) Sometimes it works so well, I laugh at random things and can't stop grinning. Lately, it hasn't been doing that, and I'm wondering if I'm building up a tolerance to it. I always thought medication was the reason for my previous ballooning, so I am reluctant to change. Therefore, I am doing as much as the condition allows me to do to fight it.

I keep hearing that mindfulness is a good way to combat depression. It's certainly something my counsellor has been nudging me towards. She recommended a book - Mind Calm by Sandy Newbigging. (Crazy name, annoyingly sane guy...) I bought it. It sits by my bed, bookmark wedged into the place where I last dropped off in its pages. Yes, I am reading it. Slowly, but surely. Between its poorly-written self-congratulatory paragraphs, there are nuggets of sense, but they are so few and far between, I am losing interest. I've never been one for non-fiction, and self-help leaves me cold. However, in the spirit of trying to heal myself, I'm giving it a whirl. It's exactly what you'd expect, with the irritating feature that he hasn't actually told me how I'm to achieve this "peace in mind" stuff yet, and I'm nearly a third of the way through. JUST TELL ME ALREADY!  

Linked with this is meditation, which I stink at. Imagine an out-of-control carousel, whirling around and around, not stopping. That's my mind. It doesn't slow easily; New thoughts ping off it like toddlers who weren't holding on properly. With mindfulness, you are focusing on one thing, which should centre you and bring you peace. The problem is, I can't get the carousel to stall enough to take on board this concept! I downloaded several guided meditations from YouTube to get me started. I like the ones that tell me exactly what to think of, though I'm still struggling with that. Take this one:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SuH5LlrAm8

It's my favourite so far, where a friendly chap called Jason takes my imaginary self up some imaginary stairs into an imaginary library. I sit down here, opening a book that leads me... no, no spoilers! I'll leave you curious enough to have a listen yourself.

At the beginning, he urges me to picture a wall or flat surface in the room I am in and "...watch as a door materialises slowly, as if emerging from a heavy fog..."

My internal monologue goes thus:

"A door, OK a door. Where shall I put it?  Quick now, he's moving on. Well the left side's no good, it's all window. And the other side, that's all wardrobe. So it has to be the foot of the bed... Hmmm not much room. I'd never get it open! Hurry UP Lizzie, he's got to the chair. Maybe it opens inwards. But how does it fit in the wall in the first place? There's the empty telly bracket, and the radiator... Maybe it's a very tiny door, like in Alice in Wonderland. I'll have to crouch! Oo, Peter Crouch. He's married to Abbey Clancy. I'll use them in my next [celeb] Magazine crossword... Oh blimey, I should have sent that off yesterday... and the [soap magazine] one. Darn..." by which time Jason has bounded up the stairs and into serenity, while I am left trying to squeeze through a gap in the radiator while fending off a tall footballer, his Scouse WAG, several unmet deadlines, and an angry mob of customers.

*sigh*

Of course, it's like anything else in life - you have to practise to become expert. I can hear you wondering what the point is. I mean, it sounds like a load of festering badger bollocks doesn't it? If I am honest, even I have to suppress a snort of disdain on occasions. However, I have noticed a lot of it makes sense, and it has helped to get me through times where my head is going the same way as a Mars Attacks alien listening to Slim Whitman. So practise I will continue to do. 

4) Look After Myself. Parent Lizzie is often about these days. Sometimes to guide Child Lizzie in the right direction; most of the time to stand back in despair, sucking her teeth and sighing. She is unimpressed at the lack of discipline regarding arse-moving and chocolate-woofing. (And getting work done. And all the free stuff that people keep asking me to do, that I keep saying "yes" to, then wondering why I did.) She bites her lip when I go to bed with my laptop playing YouTube in my face, instead of a book. She clenches her fist when I ignore my morning alarms and roll out of bed to float through the day until I can return to it. She's the one screaming "come ON!!!" at me, when I see the sunshine and decide I would rather stay indoors.

So no, I'm not sure I'm giving number four everything I've got, though number five might dispute that.

3) Love. A tricky one. I'm certainly trying to dish it out, whenever I get the opportunities. Sometimes when I am with pals, my heart brims over with joy and I have to tell them how I feel. I know that this is the real me, because I've done it many times pre-tablets. In terms of chaps... sigh. Actually, I would like to take this opportunity to ask that all married/attached men STOP TEXTING vulnerable, single, lonely women in provocative ways. Yes, yes, your wife doesn't understand you, you live practically separate lives, haven't shared intimacy in months blah-di-bloody-blah. Stop it NOW. Apart from being totally unfair to me, and to your missuses, it's painting a rather shabby picture of how I'm expecting my future hubby/partner to behave. And if you are reading this, and you think you're the only one I'm referring to, you are not. Not by a long, dismal chalk...

This sort of behaviour has definitely contributed to the increase of my medication. The only blokes that are showing an interest in me are already the subject of long-term interest themselves. While I need some of what that they can offer, what is the point? It can't lead to anything other than tears and pain. I know this. Why don't they? I sit alone blubbing while they spend the evening in company; I go to bed clutching my teddy bear while they snuggle up to someone who loves them... yet they still have the nerve to play with my feelings? ENOUGH. Enough with the self pity. Time for action. Dating website sourced, sampled and signed up to. Lizzie is single and ready to mingle!

Well, not quite ready exactly, but certainly ready to throw her hat into the ring and see who fancies trying it for size. Not a lot, it would seem...

OK, I've only been enrolled a week, but already I've encountered similar to my last foray into this online lark. In fact, the same as I've encountered all my life: The chaps I like don't like me. I tried to be proactive, so I picked out a few matches and bravely messaged them. As with last time, no replies. Furthermore, the site tells you who looked at your profile. They all did. Virtual it may be, but it is exactly the same as standing alone at the Sixth Form Disco when the slow stuff comes on, catching the eye of every boy looking for a dance partner, only to have them walk right past you. (Some of them even used to sneer... man, I thought I was over that.) Of course then I looked at the chaps who messaged me. My boat was not even slightly raised by any of them. But they liked me - maybe I am not looking at them hard enough? I should reply because they got in touch, even though I don't remotely fancy any of them, right? This leads to settling for what is there, which is again my life's story, and has led me to my single status. I don't think I want to do that again.

Scrag End...

...or Rock Goddess?

It is a treacherous journey. Different to face-to-face dating, which I have never really done. I'm choosing a potential life mate the same way that I choose which yogurts I would like in my weekly shop - from a list of criteria. For example, I am not religious. While I embrace the fact that others are, and that each to their own, if I knew the choices of a person before I met them, I would probably avoid those who gave themselves the opposite label to me. So I'm ruling out what might otherwise be a great match. Or not, as that's quite an important thing for a couple to agree on. Smoking is a better example. A lifelong non-smoker, vehemently against the habit, couldn't have been happier when they introduced the ban (though it means wading through a cloud of faggy air to walk IN to anywhere nowadays...) - could I be happy with a smoker? Am I unnecessarily eliminating chaps who puff away, and thus rejecting potential chemistry? Anyone under six feet tall is getting the chop too. I'm never going to find anyone, am I? Probably less likely if they've found this blog. But screw it! To misquote, the Bible, Gloria Gaynor and Popeye all at once - I am what I am.

2) Music. Now we come to the cream: Much progress is being made, and it's having a ripple effect.

Firstly, I have joined a rock/pop band. Two extremely talented guitarists found me on JoinMyBand.com, prised me out of the house to go for an audition (I very nearly didn't) and suddenly I've opened up a door in my life I never knew existed. (In your FACE, Jason...) So once a week, I'm driving up the M5 and unleashing my inner Rock Goddess to whoever cares to listen, and bloody hell - I love it. The kind words have been tumbling in and I'm using them to build me a little podium of confidence which I'm standing on, wiggling my hips and belting out Steppenwolf in an unrestrained manner. Born To Be Wild? Could be...

(Wanna see the hips in action, along with the rest of the band? Next gig: Saturday May 23rd, 9pm at The Shutters Inn, Gotherington, Cheltenham. GL52 9EZ)

Nervous Lizzie before the audition. Born To Be Mild.

I've also hooked up with another couple of guitarists - just as talented, but more unplugged. They are refreshingly local, and we are working on things that are completely different to all the other stuff I'm doing. They're even encouraging me to whip my recorders out and don't wince too much when I hit the high notes on my descant. Again, I'm surprising me with the sounds that I can produce, and the things I have learned over the years that I never realised I knew. It's wonderful. My podium gets slightly stronger.

But I'm having to hang about for a bit for gigs, and I need money. So why wait? Why not go it alone as well? I have all the equipment, the music, the talent (apparently, though I wouldn't listen to me...) and the... the... I don't know what. (Je ne sais quoi?)

It's one of those things that I've been meaning to do for some time now, and joins the list of I Will Get Round To It One Day. Having dragged myself out for a walk on Thursday, I passed one of the many hostelries that dot my route, one that always advertises live music. An invisible force made me turn about, and before I knew it I was standing at the bar, proclaiming my services to a bemused barmaid. It was strange. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had time to consider them, and they were all good. Exactly what I wanted to say. The bummer was she wasn't in charge, and the lady who was didn't want to come out to chat. I was told to leave my number, yet also drop her a message on FB. I left, slightly deflated, but still a bit gobsmacked at my actions. It's amazing what a bit of confidence can do.

I sent the message, but not before I spent a good morning creating myself a Facebook page to publicise Just Lizzie, the singer. You can see it here:

https://www.facebook.com/justlizziesinger

...and if you are a Facebook user, please "like" it, as it will help me to get seen. 

As for the landlady, she has yet to respond. But I also made a list of other potential locations, and there are many. When my ovaries have stopped wrestling, I shall visit in person, with business cards and smile, maybe even my guitar (free samples), and a total pretence that I enjoy selling myself to strangers. Hell, if I was good at that, I'd be pursuing a much more lucrative career. Cough. Which leads me neatly on to:

1) Work Hard. Let's face it, I'm broke. Not quite stony, but the tarmac is certainly wearing thin. It's not like I'm not doing stuff, o-ho no. I just don't seem to be getting paid for much of it. It's either voluntary things (see #3, Love, Dishing Out Of) or it's loss-leaders that are building the foundations for payment. If I don't pull my finger out to seek the spondoolicks, I'll soon find myself booted out of my rented home and onto said tarmac quicker than you can say "credit check".

In an further effort to boost professional confidence, I enrolled on a short piping skills course, led by the mother of an ex-pupil. My last encounter with the lady was fifteen-ish years ago, standing in the playground just before Christmas, while she had a (quite justified) go at me for something I'd done regarding her daughter. It was one of many incidents that had contributed to my eventual resignation from the profession. Though more than a decade had passed, I was nervous. Would she remember me? Yup. Not only that, but she remembered exactly what she'd been yelling about! The best thing was that we both thought it was hysterical. I love that something so traumatic can become a source of amusement so much later on. I'm halfway through the classes, and they are a hoot! My fellow pupils are entertaining and I'm learning loads. Not just about icing, but about business. About having the brass neck to charge what I need to charge for jobs, and not to care if I lose the job as a result.  

A brush with embroidery, on a biscuit

There you have it. Fighting, struggling, battling all the time. Getting closer to giving up, but focusing more on the fact that I'm also getting closer to achieving something. And surprising myself all the time - as with this blog entry, which I have squeezed out in three hours, without knowing I was going to.

If you've sat through all that, your arse will be as numb as mine is now. Why not lever yourself up and head to the kitchen for ginger bear, Ibuprofen, M&Ms, and an early night? That's what I'm going to do. Rock and ROLL. 

Will the feeling ever return to Lizzie's buttocks? Will Lizzie ever stop inappropriately mentioning body parts? Will anyone hire Just Lizzie for a gig? Is Lizzie ever going to get around to organising the fortieth birthday party she so desperately wants? Find out in next week/month/year's exciting installment...