A Winter's Tale

Dear readers, it's been a while. This is no fanfare to welcome you back, sadly.

So much has happened. My diary files have no fewer than three half-hearted attempts to complete the blog entry about internet dating (Find My Love, published in Spring 2018), never posted as I couldn’t finish them. No matter how hard I tried, I came across as shallow in every single one. I loathed the way that dating websites force you to judge other human beings. I went on zero dates; hooked up with nobody, and unsubscribed to the package with infinitely more glee than I’d signed up to it. 

I wish I had shared with you the delightful summer that followed. How I found wonder in every blossom and bloom, and how the sunlight and energy helped me to successfully part ways with the antidepressants that had fogged my bloodstream for four years. I remain entirely drug-free, and it’s my goal to keep that going, despite this current setback. Hmmm, was that more of a spoiler than the title? Read on… 

You also deserve to know that, after nearly six years of singularity, I have become one half of a couple. The tale leading up to that occurrence is a sweet one, and continues to be so. I’m sorry I never told it to you. It’s not all plain sailing, of course - after so long on my own, I’m having difficulty adjusting. Also, excepting the short-lived Lizzie Kicks Ass collection, during the first part of my chemotherapy (https://lizziekicksass.blogspot.com/) I’ve not really blogged with a partner to consider before. It almost feels like I’m being unfaithful! 

So it’s unsurprising that I went quiet. I've not felt the need for words, nor have I had the time. Until now. 

They say that the third Monday of the new year is the most depressing it can get. “Blue Monday” they call it, though that makes me think of the New Order track, which is completely the opposite. You should know by now that I loathe going with the herd, so I had my breakdown a whole two days before everybody else’s. 

Being something of an old hand, I should have seen it coming. I ignored the warning signs. I’d been doing so well – my first winter without a Sertraline comfort blanket for four years! You might think that having a man in my life would help but, wonderful though he is, he brings with him a whole lot of other concerns that sometimes balance out the benefits. Also, I’m not sure that the presence of a partner can make much difference. I see more clearly than ever how depression is an illness, caused by a lack of chemicals in the brain, and can come in bursts like any other condition. Having a boyfriend wouldn’t stop an asthma attack or a migraine? Some boyfriends may even bring them on…

This boyfriend was quite seriously ill himself, quite soon into our relationship, making things move a lot faster than they might have done. After helping set up and take down the stage for a music festival, I noticed his shallow, noisy breathing and made him go to his GP. She immediately sent him to Ambulatory A&E (aka “The Walking Wounded”) where he was diagnosed with double pneumonia! If this wasn’t enough to worry about, something else cropped up in tests, that led to other tests. A doctor’s clumsy delivery of his status and a sudden admission to hospital two days later made me think it was Game Over for the poor chap. (I was once told I had cancer. It had been easier to deal with than this! We still refer to the day as “Black Thursday”…) I was as strong and optimistic as I could be because it was what he needed. Concealing my true feelings at that point was one of the greatest performances of my life. Luckily, the admission was lung-based, and it only took a night of IV antibiotics and oxygen to get his sats levels back to where they should have been. After which, he came home with me and stayed there to recover. I managed to look after the pair of us and keep up with my work, while fighting off a bout of sinusitis, probably picked up from all the hospital trips at the tail end of a cold. When he went back to his house, on a strong road to recovery, I weakened. It took a few days of hiding away and isolation to get me back to regular Lizzie strength. Warning Sign One?

I’m not a fan of the festive season, and last year’s was a big struggle. It’s been incredible to have the bitter sting of loneliness removed from my selection box of feelings, don’t get me wrong. However, now I remember that I’ve never been so good at being an “other half”. It was a lot easier when it was just me coping with my nonsense. Now someone else is involved, I find myself even more painfully aware of my inadequacies as a person. To protect the world from them, I used to hide away. It’s no longer that simple. Also, I have lost the identity it took me years to build up and I’m floundering about once more. Business-wise, it wasn’t good. I despise how commercial Christmas has become, and that opinion grated painfully with awareness that that time of year is an ideal opportunity to make some money with my wares. I spent a heavy week (twelve-hour plus days, no weekend) hand-rolling truffles for a blustery Food Fair and ended up taking most of them back home. I had got into such an emotional state before, during and after, I vowed not to do such an event again. I had been so affected, I was unable to post the remaining chocolates for sale online, and still have them filling my fridge. Warning Sign Two?

Luckily, stress gave way to peace for the New Year. We had a few days of Just Being, which were snatched away all too quickly by the evil strains of Work. I was having trouble getting back into the weekly rhythm of deadlines. The only cake order I had lined up did not help - a tractor, for a fellow ringer and friend. 

Ploughing into the mud

Once more, I got myself into such a lather that it surprised me. Warning Sign Three? I was so upset and so tired, I made a little vid for my future self. It’s pretty obvious, watching that, that something isn’t right. The sore throat which arrived that evening brought its mates, and soon there was a party going on in my respiratory system that I had not sent invitations for. 

I know I’m not alone. Lurgy seems to be rife at the moment. Ringing towers across the ‘shire are a mixture of coughs, sneezes, dings and dongs: no-one is safe. Early on, I thought it might be ‘flu. Having had both the vaccine and the virus for a couple of years, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I ached therefore I was! Most likely it was my poor, cancer-scarred lymphatic system, over-reacting like the rest of me is wont to do. I had to double up on painkiller, alternating Ibuprofen with paracetamol every couple of hours just to keep functioning. I was out of action for a clear week, bed-ridden and unexercised. During which I was fighting back urges to really cry, the like of which I haven’t felt for some time. 

It all came to a head last Saturday. I was preparing for an evening with my best mates – pizza, beer and games. What could be more fun? J (for ‘tis his initial, coincidentally (see Piano Man, September 2016)), was coming over first and I had to tidy the post-cake, post-cold debris of my house as it wasn’t very welcoming. It’s funny how time stands still when one is unwell. Only I wasn’t doing it – I was panicking instead, which is neither useful nor rational. I decided a shower would be more productive. I set it going and began to get ready… and crumpled. For no discernible reason. A panic attack isn’t any more fun under running water. I cried so hard, I could barely breathe and had to open the window. I knew this despair of old. As I leant against the tiles with the water cascading down, gasping lungfuls of cold January air, I realised that it was back for a visit and I hadn't prepared the guest room.  

Interestingly, I wasn’t frightened this time. It is a very familiar sensation. I’ve described it before – the grey shroud, heavy about my shoulders; trying to suffocate me, brain-first. I may not have felt it for a while... no, not “felt”. "Indulged" maybe? Sometimes it seems like a choice. In that steam-filled bathroom, I let it happen. I had nothing more to fight it with. It could have me. However, the new lack of fear must be because I KNOW it’s only temporary. I am sure, with all of my heart, that it goes away and that it doesn’t necessarily take tablets to make it do so. I understand a lot more about the way my body works than I ever did. Unfortunately, this was J’s first encounter with Black Betty, and he didn’t have any warnings. When he arrived, I was curled up on the sofa, trying to hold it together. He put his arms around me, and I carefully explained, holding back the hysterics for another time. My nonsense, as I said, is best reserved for its creator. All evening I wore the cloak of extreme sadness that this illness brings. It’s all there, just as it used to be – the misery, the tears, the urge to run away from everything. Neither he nor my friends can make it go away, try as they might. It’s got to come from me. It will do, of course. I just need time. 

Now I read all that back, I’m really not surprised. All those little episodes, without anything to shield my bonce? I’m amazed I got as far as I did! On Sunday, I rang the bells at three towers. It wasn’t easy, but I didn’t give up. This hobby delights me. All the lovely people and the little victories keep me going. I hope more than anything that I can keep it going as I struggle through these dark days. I slept heavily at lunchtime. Suddenly exercising after such inanimacy is not easy either. Yet these are going to be key to my recovery – company (even if I have nothing to say to anyone and would wish myself alone), fresh air, exercise. And daylight, the lack of which I feel may be responsible for the above. 

As if my relapse wasn’t enough, the day-to-day delights of the month must continue. Yesterday’s threw up this cautionary tale: 

I was merrily doing my receipts and tax return. I’m a lot further along than I usually am at this time of year. It’s been tricky negotiating the bits around 2017’s house move, where suppliers have changed etc. I braced myself for the complications of the electricity and gas. When I moved, the landlady paid for these as they were using them to build the house next door. She stopped doing this on Nov 24th 2017, but for some reason I didn’t sort it out until May 2018. When I did, I was saddled with a whopper of a catch-up bill that I couldn’t pay in one go. Surely that should have aroused some suspicion? I must have thought that, as it was a different supplier and a new house, it was going to be a different rate anyway. I wish I’d thought harder. I set up an instalment plan to go alongside the new Direct Debit and that was that. For tax purposes, this is already a problem – it shows I haven’t paid for fuel for the second half of the tax year, which will affect my home/office allowance. I have paid retrospectively, I thought. Let’s see how much. I put all the payments into my special spreadsheet and added them up. It came to £1379.50. Take away what I’ve been paying back (8 lots of £29.50) and that means that since May 2018 – nine months ago - I’ve spent a whopping £1143.50! My plan back at my previous residence was £56 per year, which means I’m paying more than twice as much for fuel. 

The first course anyone would take on discovering such an anomaly is to blame someone else. Based on my run-in with Npower last autumn re Smart Meter, I decided that was where to point the finger. I called them, my rage mounting to levels that the irritating “on hold” music couldn’t touch. The cheerful Geordie lass who answered after only three songs took me through my payments. I’d forgotten about the catch-up thing, which it would appear I’ve only paid a third of. But the other totals – surely a mistake. 

No mistake, madam. You’re spending a lot on your fuel.

It was at this point that the last few molecules of Serotonin could hold on no longer, and left me exposed to my raw brain. I burst into tears.

“There’ll be a review in May and you can change your tariff then, but you’re already on the best one for you,” she tried to reassure me. 

“May?” I squeaked, as I leant over to the cupboard and turned the heating off. I was already freezing cold.

“Your usage is up quite a bit since last year.”

I suppose it is – I’ve been a bit more generous with the heating, putting it on for times during the day as well as first and last thing. I had calculated that I get upset when I’m cold, and can’t work efficiently, so it made sense. 

“What if I change suppliers?” I said, belligerently, still desperate to prove it wasn’t my fault. 

Of course I can do that, after clearing my debt with Npower – which I obviously would do. 

“The house’s energy consumption is much higher than it was this time last year. I can put you through to an Energy Efficiency consultant…” 

Ha! Ridiculous! Why would I need to talk to her? I’m not a person who leaves things on standby. I boil exactly the right amount of water for my tea. I purchase A+++++++ appliances. And I’m not an idiot. Or so I thought…

With the tears subsiding, I was remorseful for crying down the phone to a helpless stranger and apologised. I still couldn’t understand the difference in price though, so I thought it might be sensible to chat with the consultant after all. 

“Just to make sure I’m not doing anything stupid.”

Another cheerful Geordie voice – Sharon – greeted me and asked how she could help. After a brief explanation, she barraged me with questions and facts, and the final scales fell from my eyes and on to the chilly floor.

“How old is the property?”

“I know this exactly because there’s a plaque on the wall,” I declared, proud of my quirky little abode: “1897”

“Are the walls solid stone or brick,”

“Er, brick. With plaster.” I could see where this was going. I don’t have any wall insulation, do I? 

“You’re losing 35% of your heat to the walls.”

This is where I began to realise quite how thick I’ve been. Thicker than the walls that I’ve been paying to heat up. It’s an old house – of course it’s going to be cold! There are eight rooms in total, seven of which have a radiator. Of those, I only keep four switched on, supposedly to save money. (It would be three, but the one in the study room doesn’t switch off at all – why have I never mentioned this?)

The next epiphany knocked me sideways. She asked about thermostats. There aren’t any. Not on the boiler, not on the walls, not on the hot water tank. I have scalded myself repeatedly on the hot water from the taps, and once or twice on the radiators. I found some sort of control near the pilot light thing (the boiler) numbered 1-6. It wasn’t on its highest anyway, but I turned it down. She gave me a long explanation of how energy is used in heating water, and it dawned on me that there is no separate on/off switch for the water heating! I can switch the radiators off and just have the water, but I can’t do it the other way around. I must have discovered this soon after I moved in, but been so upset at the time, and of a “just keep going” mindset, that I had forgotten. So every time I’ve had the heating on, I’ve had the water on too. Instead of two hours a day, it’s been on for TEN PLUS. Every day. Why I never changed this in the summer is a mystery to me. I expect it’s because I’ve not got much experience here. I’ve always feared running out of hot water in the shower. Nobody’s ever taught me exactly how long the water needs to be on so that one person can have a shower, and maybe do some washing up. Until this moment. 

Like everyone else, I learned about energy efficiency at school - and I ignored it. Then I used to teach it, to similarly bored kids. It was always something saved for cover lessons as it was so dull, and nobody – staff and pupils alike – ever takes the content of cover lessons seriously. If only I could have known that two decades later, I’d be receiving the same lesson via a phonecall, having paid for my ignorance with the best part of a grand. 

I began pacing around the house as she talked, searching frantically for thermostats and seeing my quaint abode with new, money-lacking eyes. When we said a heartfelt “Goodbye, take care,” nearly an hour later, I was distraught. I’ve wasted money – a large amount of it – and will continue to do so until I put some measures in place; not just me, I’m going to have to involve my landlady in this, and I never want to bother her as I may not be able to field a rent increase. She, understandably, might not want to fork out for a new boiler for this old boiler. Plus, I’m going to have to take action – as if I haven’t got enough to do – and spend money myself. I don’t expect a landlord is under obligation to paint interior walls with a special heat insulating paint, or put something shiny behind the radiators to reflect the heat back into the room. Certainly, it’s my duty to put a rug on the floorboards in the lounge, and block up the unused fireplace. 

Worst of all was the overwhelming sensation of how stupid I have been. Why is it only now, several hundred pounds down, that I come to realise? I couldn’t take it. The way I cried for a solid half hour afterwards left me in no doubt: I’ve allowed depression to take me in his bony grip once more. And right now, I’m way too cold to want to do anything about it. 

So that’s where I am. I feel as if there is nowhere soft for my mind to rest. The blackness comes in waves, sometimes floods. I must be very careful not to let it get too bad. I think I have the power to do that. 

Do I though? Will this humourless prose be replaced by something a little more typical next time? With pictures? How many minutes before midnight on Jan 31st will Lizzie submit her tax return? All this and less in the next exciting instalment...

Find My Love - Part One

Well hello to you and Happy Spring! Having shaken the snow from our boots and the ice from our eyebrows, isn’t it wonderful to see the daffs trumpeting up through the ground to announce the season? What a relief! The winter has been long and cold and lonely, little darlin’. The play wot I wrote launched me into it and was a resounding success: heaps of fun and camaraderie, nominated for an award and – even better – raising £1,500 for a local charity, which is more than they receive in donations a year, apparently. The lead-up to Christmas was accompanying carols and bell ringing, making it very busy for this atheist. After my eighth ringing session in a row, I returned to my bed on Christmas Day and barely left it until NYE, thanks to a bout of what had to be influenza, despite the jab that I’d made a point of getting. A point... jab... hehehe. Sigh.  

January and February were filled with Dick.

Ah, that joke never gets boring! Between my last entry and this one, I successfully auditioned for the part of Dick Whittington. Auditions, rehearsals, photocalls, publicity, dress rehearsals and performances. The last stick of scenery left the theatre barely three weeks ago. It was a lot of fun and hard work, and allowed the darkest days of the year to pass me by with minimum fuss. 

Dick and Pussy

Dick and Seamen

Excited Dick

Dick slap. (That's enough Dick jokes now - Ed)

The problem was that it had to end. The usual after-show blues were lessened, probably due to relief that I didn’t have to go out and be around people. This escalated to an extreme of “I'm not going to go out, nor be around people," I wanted nobody to see me either. I spent about a week in hiding. Not just in my house, but in my bed too. Under the duvet, where no-one can hurt me. Soft around my face; electric blanket warming my limbs. As much internet as I could eat. Peaceful, quiet… jeez, I might as well be dead because that’s not living. It didn’t stop me though. 

I was finally coaxed into an evening of sociability with my pals, offering me dinner in a pub before I went on to a play reading/audition. At least that had been the plan, but chocolate torte and a pub quiz sounded more enticing than decoding Shakespeare, so I gave in. What I couldn’t understand was that, despite sitting with the two people I love most in the world, eating my favourite food, and doing one of my favourite activities, I still had to fight off the panic passing over me in waves. I rode it out, being fully aware of its existence: knowing that it was irrational and that it would disappear soon, yet this only takes the edge off what is a disturbing sensation. To describe it to someone with their panic virginity intact is hard. It’s wanting desperately to run away, but not being able to move. Sometimes it feels as if my arms are glued to my sides or being held there by an invisible force. Make a fist and place it mid-nipple on your chest. That’s where I feel things the most. Stress is a dull ache there; affection, a warm glow. I often press my own fist deep into that spot to numb anything unwelcome. Panic radiates from there and gets into my head, in the same way an egg beater on high speed would. Understand now? Me neither. 

And yet, I got through to the end of the evening and I was proud. We didn’t win the quiz by a long, ignorant chalk, but we didn’t come last either. I promised I would go to the second play reading on Wednesday, and knew I'd be doing it with my head held higher than it had been for days. I might even venture out of the house voluntarily! Of course, this was when reality got its massive kneecap out and used it to plough a furrow right through my delicate bits:

As we were preparing to leave, one of us noticed repeated missed calls from their daughter; one of us checked their phone and emails to investigate; three of us learned some awful news about a mutual friend and sat back down in shock. It seemed that lovely Martin, who has managed many a stage on which we’d been performing, had passed away. 

How could this be? I’d only seen him last week as we piled bits of set into the scenery store together. When (at over twenty years his junior), I was more poorly and knackered than he was! But it was true. Quickly, suddenly, overnight, five days after I’d given him a big kiss and hug goodbye, that was filled with emotion and gratitude for his hard work and friendship throughout the show. I’d actually bade him farewell. How often does that happen? It wasn’t enough to stem tears that had snuck past the Sertraline guards and were now escaping down my face. This was real sadness, not this pretend stuff that I battle daily. 

We cried together as the pub closed around us. Then we shuffled back to their house, arms-in-arms, and cried some more, between reminiscences of a friendly, delightful man whom it had been a pleasure to know. My gratitude for his acquaintance was matched by the gratitude that I’d been in company when I’d found out, and that the love I have for those companions is mutual. It was in the early hours of Monday morning that I walked back to my car, past the theatre that I’d rarely ever been to without Martin also being there. Everything was darker, colder and emptier, just like the world seemed now I knew that this lovely soul was no longer in it. R.I.P Martin. 

Something like this reminds us that life really is short. It could have inspired me to Get On With It. Instead, I went the other way and returned to my hiding-place. Maybe it was a testament to how much Martin had got under my skin? I managed to honour my promise to go to the play reading somewhat reluctantly but determinedly. (Yes, you can do both, but it makes your head throb.) Then, as we all know, a freakishly unseasonable storm saw the country buried in snow, and me buried under the eiderdown once more, with the heating on full blast and a really good excuse this time. Luckily for us all, snow thaws, antidepressants numb, and time heals more every day. 

Now before you go blubbing into your Bluetooth device, what I really wanted to share with you was something a little lighter. You see, during the pantomime I was surrounded by people but most importantly, male people. Ones who like me enough to give me hugs whenever I demanded them. Which was often, as I needed to replenish my dwindling stocks. (Not a euphemism.) It felt so good! Going cold turkey as soon as the show ended did not. One of the single chaps had displayed somewhat more than just platonic interest, and it made things stir that I thought might never stir again. The problem is that, while he’s delicious and fanciable, I’m old enough to be his mother and find it hard to forget that when spending time with him. This didn’t stop me from contacting him and trying to arrange a date. The sucking void left by Dick needed to be filled. (Seriously, NOT A EUPHEMISM!) I think we might both have realised how odd it would have been as our messages petered out. Maybe a lucky escape, but I was still craving companionship. It’s been seven months since my last bit of “romance”. I just wasn’t meeting the right candidates. 

So, all of this made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should wade through the murky waters of online dating again. Nearly three years has passed since the misery of the last time. This tougher, stronger, different person that I am now could have a different approach to it. Instead of trying to sell myself on paper with flowery words, I could be more concise: 

Wanted: Man. Single. Tall. Kind. Musician. GSOH. 

For a tall, kind, musical, amusing girl, who you really need to meet to appreciate. I sing, act, bake, write and compile puzzles for varying amounts of money, sometimes none at all. I don’t enjoy wine, but I do enjoy laughing. I’m slim with curves and long, red hair. I don’t photograph well. I have neither kids nor ex-husbands. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups, so let’s not waste each other’s time, but if you’re serious, take me for a walk in the countryside and we’ll talk.

That’s more abrupt than concise and smacks of experiences that I have no intention of repeating. The whole process hoovered up many precious hours before – one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back. If I did it – if – I’d have to let the chaps find me, rather than searching through them. I’d have to select a site carefully. I’d need to be choosing from blokes who had heard of apostrophes and who knew how to use them. Plenty of Fish, Match and Guardian Soulmates had all produced swathes of the wrong sorts of guys, for reasons punctuational and political. As I wondered if there was anywhere else to look, curiosity and loneliness took me by the hands and led me to the eHarmony home page. And before you could say “if”, I was setting up an account. 

Ah, the tedious, time-sucking, self-focusing setting up of an account. So many questions to answer, all about me. I was not my favourite person at that moment – I rarely am – so it was with half a heart that I wrote about my passions, and hastily illustrated my spare time activities. Then the dreaded wall of adjectives from which one must choose. It was supposed to be how my best friends would describe me, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. I picked CREATIVE without missing a beat. I expect people can see that. To this I added AFFECTIONATE, ARTICULATE and FUNNY. I nearly put KIND instead of ARTICULATE, but I was trying to paint a bigger picture. (CREATIVE, see?) I don’t suppose many suitors will read that part anyway. 

I thought I was nearly done, but oh no: enter the legendary eHarmony Personality Questionnaire, that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a daytime TV phone-in quiz. Its point is to get to the bottom of your character by asking question after dull question, some of which were hard to answer quickly. Yet I did, making me worry if I’d done myself justice. (Lighten up, Lizzie! It’s not like this is legally binding.) They all had seven blobs, on a scale of “Not at all, no way, never and I’d shun anyone who did,” to “Oh yes, baby, that is totally my bag,” passing through “….meh”. A blob was highlighted for each response. It’s cleverly constructed, weaving similar queries around others to produce a precise precis. Kind of: “Do things make you angry?” Then later: “Are you sure things make you angry?” Then later still: “Are you really sure things make you angry?” By which time, your answer may have mutated from its original form. Of course, Little Miss Conflict here may have confused it e.g. denying I was a leader but highly agreeing that I would take charge of a situation etc. I got quite impatient with it in the end. After all, I wasn’t really signing up to this was I? I just wanted to see if there was a point to it. Where were the men? Show me the men! Then let me decide. 

I sped up a notch, grabbing any old photo for my profile, and finding my unsmiling headshot from Dick. 

Dick head.

Actually, I was smiling, but it’s one of my “someone’s pointing a camera at me for an official picture” grimaces, where I press my lips together and don’t look very happy. I look a lot better under a daft faces or exaggerated grin, which is why I end up with so many pictures like this: 

So it’s true - I really am not photogenic. I’m not sure that the above will haul in the marriage proposals, though they’re a much more accurate representation of me. This isn’t going to go well, is it? 

Still jumping through eHarmony’s hoops, like a fat doggy being coaxed on by the promise of a juicy sausage or two, I listed “health, friends and music” as three things I’m thankful for. Just three. No room for a roof over my head; food to eat; being able to see and hear, and walk and talk, and laugh and sing. Obviously, I’m most grateful for surviving cancer, but I’m feel like I bang on about it too much. While it wasn’t a walk in the park, it was a doddle compared to what some of my friends are going through even as I type. It almost seemed like a doddle compared to this process. I hated every minute of the set-up. Yet again trying to define myself through a series of inane questions. Trying to list things I like in fewer than one hundred characters. Trying to nail film, book, music preferences down to just two or three genres, so I can be matched. It’s much more complex than that. I’m much more complex. Just try asking me for “job title” and see where you get. 

I gave up on not asking for help when I got to “What’s the first thing that people notice about you,” and posted the question on Facebook as a free-for-all. Words can’t express my distaste for doing this. I wasn’t in the mood for a compliment-fishing trip, yet I came away with a netful which made my eyes and my conscience prickle. The kinder the words, the more I felt I had unlocked new levels of scumbag. My confidence took a nosedive – what the hell was I doing? Trying to sell myself to strangers the same way I’d sell other used goods. It’s not the way I want it to go. Can’t I just meet someone naturally?? It turns out that I really can’t, and especially not if I never leave the house.

I pulled myself together and pressed the enter key. I’d got through the arduous ordeal with only minimal depletion of my chocolate stock. (It’s a vast stock.) An email pinged into my inbox, welcoming me to the website and introducing me to my first few matches. My reward for all the agony. At last! Show me the… blurry man-shaped blobs with first names? 

Yeah, single bitch. You see nothing until you slap down the spondoolicks. 

Now was the time to commit. To swallow it down or spit it out. Did I really want to do this? Was I ready to remount the crazy rollercoaster of emotions that is internet dating for a near-middle-aged woman? If only I knew what I wanted! I don’t even want breakfast. But I’m hungry and cold. So I do want it… don’t I? 

Oh Paypal, you make snap decisions so much snappier. A couple of clicks, a remembered password, and there I was - £39 the poorer and still bewildered as to why I’d done it. If you don’t step out of your comfort zone occasionally, it never gets any bigger. That must be what I’m doing. It’s like courgettes. Since I was a kid, I’ve hated them. Yet over the years, I’ve tried them from time to time, just to be sure that I still hate them. It turns out that now I’m rather fond of them. So much so that I’ve purchased and prepared them for myself. Tastes change. Zones expand. Pictures un-blur and become single men with faces, looking for partners. Nervously, I clicked onto the first one...

Was he a courgette, or a big fat marrow? Will Lizzie be zu-keen-i on him or does she squash the whole thing? Prepare yourselves for the second helping. It's already simmering.

I Won't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

People are expecting all manner of things from me today, but instead of tackling them I am pausing to write this down in the hope that it will help. Mainly me, but possibly any other poor sod that is having to wrestle similarly. Also, to inform and explain to anyone wondering why they haven’t heard back from me, or seen me about in places they might have expected.

My (landlady's) cosy cottage

Shoving boxes, a pause. 

So, there’s no time for apologising. I do that a LOT. You’ll have to take it as read. We all know it’s been a while since my last post etc etc. You may be pleased to know that I found me a place to live and the move was impressive. Lots of stuff, but tonnes of beautiful assistance to match it, making it a completely different experience to the one I’d been expecting. To quote Eliza Darcy neé Bennet: “In fact <it was> quite the opposite.” I’ve been ensconced in my cottage for nearly two months now, and I love it more every day. It turns out to be much more suitable for me than the old place was. All that fuss for nothing!! True, I haven’t quite finished unpacking and settling in yet, but who has? In between shoving boxes about and ordering white goods, life has had to go on. Life which involves a healthy dollop of puzzle compiling; only a pinch of cake baking as yet; a soupçon of ringing and a glut of writing, directing and appearing in a play for a drama group that I’ve not really worked with before, but who are so refreshing that it might be the start of a longer relationship.

Publicity still from Littleford's Got Talent. 

I’ve been doing tremendously well as it happens, enjoying the dying summer days with renewed vigour. To cope with the upheaval of changing address, I created New Lizzie – one who embraces the unfamiliar (a concept which is even more unfamiliar to Old Lizzie.) She’s walking a lot more. She’s not hanging around anyone who makes her feel bad about herself. She even re-joined Slimming World five weeks ago, to help regain control over the appalling eating habits she’s developed over the last few years. There’ll be more on this soon. I’m 6lb down so far, which would be more useful if it had come off places that need downsizing, rather than places that need every ounce they can get. Cough, boobies, cough.

So what the fudging fudge happened? I am still asking myself that as I cling to the inside of an increasingly steep and slippery drainpipe. It was all very sudden. One minute I’m having the time of my life, randomly bursting into laughter and feeling incredible; the next, there’s a horrifying darkness all around me and I can’t find a torch. In terms of events, nothing changed. OK, the performance is getting closer which is a stressful time, but that’s a sensation I am very much used to. There’s been no bad news, no work lost, no blokes to break my heart. I don’t understand.

It’s true that, at the start of last week, I was feeling so positive I decided to self-unmedicate again, down to the next level; going from 100mg sertraline to 50mg as I had a nasty brain fog that I assumed was the tablets. If I’m feeling OK, I thought, maybe the excess sertraline is making me hazy? When coming off antidepressants one has to be careful. The side effects are unpleasant, particularly the dizziness. If I ever forget to take my tablet, my body alerts me to the fact later that night, by creating a puddle of sweat then waking me up with it. So I was prepared for clammy nights and a spot of eyeball-spinning until everything settled down. It takes a few weeks for the effects of the drug to wear off, the same as it does when you are waiting for them to start working. Therefore, in conclusion m’lud, I don’t think that’s the reason for the drop. Suffice it to say though, I put myself back on 100mg quick smart.

The only other reason I can think of might be the time of year. If you’ve been living in England over the last few weeks, you will have experienced the delights of the summer fading to autumn. Oh autumn, you deceptive season! You set the countryside on fire with blazing colours; bright and beautiful. Then while we’re gawping in admiration and enjoying the occasional (and freakishly) warm day, we don’t notice you stealing the light and stirring up wind and rain and inclemency until it’s too late. Hibernation suddenly seems like a great idea. I’m not surprised they call it “fall”.

But why look for a reason? It’s blindingly obvious to me that this is an illness and, just like a migraine or an unpopular relative, it can turn up unannounced and completely wreck your plans.

When I drove back from the rehearsal last night, I was trying to explore my symptoms. I had been a mess throughout the evening, finding it hard to string a sentence together. Even the ones I had pre-written. I couldn’t remember songwords I had read from the screen a mere ten seconds previously. I blanked on names of people I have known (and seen regularly) for a couple of years; I was shaking, particularly my hands, which made turning pages and playing instruments a lot harder, and tears were never distant. How can I instil confidence in a cast, when I’m like this? How can I expect everyone to be off script, when I read from mine? But there is more: The anxiety is shocking, the worst I’ve ever had. I’m still a long way from full-blown panic attacks, though once or twice I have come close, usually when an overwhelming urge to leave has conflicted with a desire to stay, resulting in a sense of imprisonment. As I awake from slumbers (night, morning, post-prandial, post-post-prandial), I boot up slowly like an ancient laptop, and doom and fear and despondency come flooding back. They don’t go away. They’re on my shoulders as I type, united in a single entity: A slavering Demon in black, with tentacles that wrap around my neck and gently squeeze while it drools on my shoulder and breathes foul into my face, whispering “Useless. Hopeless. Pointless. Pathetic.” Over and over. Please, please bugger off. I have got a lot of living to do and I can’t do it when I keep slipping over on your dribble.

The fact that I had been feeling better might have made the chasm seem larger too. I’m angry that it was the best I’d been feeling for months… possibly years. This, foul Demon, is NOT acceptable.

I am fighting it with everything I have. You will notice that I am still showing up at places where I’m expected, albeit a chaos of hair, clothing, bags and words, but I am there. My number one priority is not to let anyone down. I hate that more than I hate reality TV shows, or litter. Or Disney, and that is really saying something! To let you down is to let me down. I am still managing to come up with the goods, albeit somewhat later than you wanted them, but you get them! I am still getting up in the mornings and trying so hard to keep going, because I choose not to stop. My sense of self-worth has taken a nose-dive, which explains the repeated apologies, for which I am so, so sorry. Paranoia, jealousy, fear all battle for supremacy. Skimming through Facebook without getting upset is impossible. I even have to brace myself when I check my emails! And the most mind-shaftingly annoying sensation is the return of the loneliness. I have resigned myself to being single, suspecting that I’m one of those people for whom that is the natural state. I accepted that quite comfortably as it makes sense and it doesn’t affect anyone other than me. Yet this week I have been aching for companionship, with a wailing and a beating of the chest that doesn’t do my shrinking cleavage any favours.

Being aware of the issue is important. Throughout all the crappiness, there’s a voice of reason. As if a fraction of me has stepped away to watch the rest of me fall apart. That fraction knows what will help, and it’s this:

🙂   Don’t take on new projects.

🙂   Get outside as much as possible, especially in daylight hours.

🙂   Spend time in company.

🙂   Go through with things, even though they terrify the bejesus out of you.

🙂   Drink lots of water and keep warm – it really makes a difference.

🙂   Ditto the healthy eating. It’s good for you and your body knows it.

🙂   Avoid your FB newsfeed for a bit.

🙂   You know yoga and meditation help. Do some! Don’t make excuses.

🙂   Be open about the situation, without banging on about it.

I mean honestly, I’ve got the play and then I’ll be involved with a pantomime. I absolutely have to find more work and honour it so I can continue to pay rent and be settled. I’m really getting into ringing, and that’s no good with nerves. Plus, I’m hosting a party/gig to celebrate passing the five-year cancer-free mark next month, and I haven’t really invited anyone to it yet. I am determined to go through with it, even if I have to pop the Demon in some sequins and bring him with me. I must keep going.

If you’re wondering what you can do, it’s not much I’m afraid. Or is it? Understanding is a massive undertaking. If you can’t do that, then tolerance is just as important. Kindness, though if that’s the way you want to play it, brace yourself for blubbing – I’m not very good at accepting that I’m worth it. Hugs are great, but not always appropriate. Plus you might find yourself being clung to more than you expected, and thus more blubbage. Don’t say you weren’t warned. At the very least, you could come and see the show. Now that would cheer me up, though you might not realise it through all the tears. Actually, you’ve already helped, see, by reading this. I’m not sure if I’ve reciprocated. I’ll have to owe you one. I’m also not sure I’ve helped me, but it’s good to get it all out of my head so there’s more room for the maelstrom of Everything Else. Thank you for your time.  And sorry again.

What next? When? Where? Will these generic questions ever be answered? Who knows? Oo, there’s another one. In the meantime, Lizzie is appearing in Littleford’s Got Talent, a play about a play about showing off, by Lizzie. (Oct 11^th – 14^th, CTK Social Club, Thornbury. For info, see www.octopus-thornbury.co.uk) 

Lonely This Christmas

A brief-yet-witty dollop of self-pity for the third week in Advent. It’s like the kind of spot I used to get as a teenager: It’s there all the time, but one morning you wake up and it’s filled with yuck and bright green, for no discernible reason. The only way to stop it throbbing is by squeeeeeeezing it until its contents are splatted all over the bathroom. It hurts and it’s sore for a bit afterwards (and you really need to get some Windolene on that mirror) but it eases and heals and goes back to just being there. Well here I am, metaphorical tissue wrapped around my index fingers, hot flannel at the ready, prepared to press and purge…

I was walking back from <an as-yet-unrevealed thing that I do most Sunday mornings> (hmmm, is that a clue?). It’s a crisp Winter’s day, clear and fresh but not icy. There were blackbirds, sounding their territorial claims to each other in sweet melody. I noticed the reflection of the sky on the numerous puddles along the way, and droplets of water hanging from bare branches. 

Ice, ice. Baby.

There’s even some Forsythia blossom peeping prematurely out of my neighbours’ bush. (Titter ye not madam etc.) I should be happy and smiling, full of the joys of exercise and the season. So why was I crying?

Picture an old-fashioned balance, of the sort that represents Librans. On the one side is “Loneliness”. Countering that is “Keeping Busy Doing Stuff”. If that first side gets too full, I pile more into the second to make sure it’s always outweighing. I think I must have overloaded it, because suddenly everything’s fallen out and Loneliness dominates.

I’m not talking lonely as in “without company”. I cunningly surround myself with people as much as possible these days. Anybody will do, even you. (You’re welcome.) This however is the sort of solitude that it’s harder to relieve. I usually keep it all boxed up so I don’t feel it. I must have dropped my guard for a second, and the bastard’s popped the lid and is jumping up and down on my brain until I can catch it and bury it deep again. I am yearning for company of the non-platonic sort. To be touched with affection. To be kissed. Goodness me, I miss kissing! Holding hands. Looking into the eyes of someone I have feelings for, to find him looking back at me with the same passion and fondness. To love and be loved.

Just to be clear, I don’t mean… you know… *cough*… rumpy pumpy. If that was the problem, I’m sure it could be easily fixed with a weekend visit to a pub or club. I flatter myself, but not that much really as some chaps will take any old tat offered, just because it’s offered! There would probably be a lot of regrets involved too, almost as many as the amount of alcohol units I would need to consume to convince me that I could pull it off. (Seriously, no tittering. It was obvious what I meant.) Ahhh, I’ve never been one for that malarkey. I need to like and know a bloke pretty darn well before I let things get that far. I think that makes this even more difficult.

I don’t get much physical contact these days, as well you know. Platonic hugs are lovely, don’t get me wrong, though they too are thin on the ground. It’s a shame, as they help one’s bod release oxytocin – a hormone related to being in love. The problem here is me - I know that I generally want to cling hold of the recipient, which then makes me want to cry my heart out, so rather than causing fear or embarrassment in people I know well enough to embrace, I end up pushing them away before anything has a chance to be released. Sometimes I exercise total avoidance, which goes against the very fibre of my being.

In terms of finding a more permanent hormone producer, it’s a conflict. I am still trying to be happier in my single state… but if I met him, I might reconsider! What I mean is, I’m not actively looking. (It’ll be a sequin-free episode of Strictly before I go near a dating website again, I can tell you.) With the exception of a couple of chaps, I don’t think I have ever met anybody that would make me happy as much as I might make them happy, and I don’t know why that is. It’s not anyone’s fault. I can see that I’m a bit whingy today, and I won’t get started on how attractive I don’t feel; I know I’m hard work. Yet despite all that, I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of more than my fair share of interest. It’s a shame it’s never from anyone interesting. And don’t say “Oh Lizzie, you’re too picky.” I hate that. For heaven’s sake, should I just go off with the next chap that touches me inappropriately or makes pervy suggestions?? (Yes, it happens…) I choose food very carefully and my relationship with that lasts mere minutes. I’d invest slightly more time and concern into choosing a potential life sharer. Tch.

Why now? Well it’s this fudge-sucking time of year, isn’t it? As I’m shoved through each Christmas I get less and less enthusiastic. Last year I went down the cynical route, trying to make as much money as possible selling my wares. This year I care even less than that. No decorations, no cards. Few, if any gifts. I’m not being (any more) Grinchy (than usual) - peace on earth is the least minty of humbugs, and should be exercised all year round. (This is meat for another day’s sandwich. I’m not getting onto my high one-horse-open-sleigh now.) The point is that there’s something about the dark nights and days that really makes you want to snuggle up to someone beautiful and enjoy the time with them. All the stupid slushy films on TV and adverts showing couples and families force me do something that I avoid – they make me think about what I haven’t got instead of what I have. That’s not good for anyone. Even if you don’t watch the TV, it’s bloody everywhere. Lights, kids, commercialism, fake snow, more kids, trees, tinsel, cosiness, more excited kids, Santa, plans for Xmas day, FB statuses about decorations/wrapping/parties/more ridiculously excited kids. ARGH! I hate feeling like this. I don’t want it. With every waft of the season comes a fresh reminder: no-one loves you Lizzie. Pass the Quality Street.

To Grinch or not to Grinch? 

Don’t mind me. I’ve just caught a bit of loneliness today, that’s all. I don’t know why I want to publicise this. All it does is pee you off, or make you feel sorry for me, and I don’t want that either. Worse – it could convince (the thousands of) potential suitors out there that I’m a nutjob! (I am of course a nutjob, but I don’t want them to know that. Don’t tell them, will you? Shhhhhh.)

If you do one thing after reading this, it’s to go to that person who lights up your soul and share some cuddles and kisses with them, you lucky things, and feel gratitude in your heart. I shall be fine. This too will pass, it always does. I need to keep concentrating on all that Other Stuff. Keep moving, keep getting out, keep going. Throw myself whole-heartedly into everything, showing my love in different ways and sharing it with the world. If I do, I can saturate my brain with so many happy chemicals that it won’t notice the aching void and can go back to ignoring it. All will be as it should be once more. Silent night, hole-y night.  

NOT A NUTJOB

You’d better not cry, you’d better not pout: Lizzie-drawers is coming to town! Load up your sacks and prepare your chimney. No-one can fill a stocking like me, baby!     * Sigh*     With lines like that, is it any wonder that Lizzie is single? You won’t need to open the next gift-wrapped entry to find out…

I Need a Miracle

Some days you are comfortably above the water level, others you are gasping for air. Today’s a bit of a gasper.

No real reason – the situation hasn’t changed other than I know a few more facts, coming up after this paragraph. I had a lovely evening last night. Some kind friends invited me over for a dinner party. The food was delish, the company likewise. Though there were seven other people present, I did more than an eighth of the talking. A LOT more than an eighth, and this has been bugging me a bit. I’m a chatty girl most of the time, probably because I spend so long on my own. I don’t want to scare people off with that: “Ooo don't invite Lizzie – she doesn’t shut up!” I did return home feeling smiley and happy and positive, which was a lovely gift. It’s worn off pretty quickly this morning, as I look about the house thinking “my days here are numbered.” Maybe that’s it? I feel a wraith of depressive fog circling my head, slowing me down and making it difficult to work. I must fight it.

The financial adviser from the estate agency that are dealing with it all called me earlier in the week, and very kindly answered a lot of my questions. I asked him to pull no punches, just land it all on me honestly, so he did. Here’s the bones of it: (specific figures available on request)

1) The house is valued at X.

2) The maximum amount I might be able to borrow is about Y. I say “might” as not only does me being self-employed make lenders go “hmmmmmm……?” but I’m weirdly self-employed – not a plumber or a hairdresser… a freelance puzzle compiler??? Try finding that on any automated career lists. I’m also a baker/confectioner, a singer and a public speaker – so my income stream is from various things rather than just one, which (to the folks with the funding) is even less desirable. I need to demonstrate stability.

3) Even if I could get that, they’d do an affordability assessment on me too, and I’d probably fail that. The fact that I’ve paid rent steadily for 2.5 years means nothing. Lenders give no credit for past achievements!

4) Assuming I could convince someone to let me have a mortgage based on my income, and plus my deposit (Z), I could afford less than half of this house.

5) So if I wanted to buy it I would need to find X-(Y+Z) more spondoolicks.

6) I could ask e.g. ten people I know to “gift” me X-(Y+Z)/10. This is ultra-complicated. Their investment would have to be a “gift” as lenders would shy away if they knew they were sharing house ownership with ten other parties. However, it would be my intention to pay the investors back what they put in plus their share of how much the house had increased in value when I was ready to move on/repay. Messy. Tricky. Relies on trust. Not a good idea.

7) The Government’s “Help to Buy” scheme is apparently linked to certain houses only. They don’t give you money, they merely underwrite a portion of your mortgage i.e. vouch for you. I could borrow a bit more, should I be eligible and should I deem to live in one of these certain houses (which are mostly newbuilds). The scheme ends this year, so if it was my direction I’d better get my skates on.

8) I could find a guarantor. This is basically someone who applies for the mortgage in their name for me. Their income and age would be taken into account, so it would need to be someone with a good couple of decades of working life left, and earning around three times more than me. Apparently the age factor is very important. It could be more than one person, but everyone who signed up would have to have their credit checked and go through all the hassle of obtaining a mortgage. After that, it would be me that made the repayments. After winning the lottery, marrying a sugar daddy just for his cash, selling my body, this is actually the most sensible and likely thing to do. And it looks like my only hope.

I did think about crowdfunding to make up the deficiency. With that, I’d have to pledge a reward in return for the donations. I did me a little menu of what I might offer:

•          In return for a £10 donation, you would receive a decorated “Thank You” biscuit, handmade be moi.
•          For £50, a handmade batch of something (choc brownie, Malteser cake, millionaire’s shortbread – oh, the irony), sent to anywhere in the UK.
•          £100 would get you a basic party cake, sent to your door.
•          For £200, I’d record and upload a vid of me singing a song of your choice, dedicated to you.
•          £500 and a custom-compiled crossword all about you would be yours.
•          If you could stretch to £1000, I could write you a script for a pantomime, tailored to your specific pantomime requirements.

Yes. It made me laugh too.

And of course, it wouldn’t work. Who’d give money to some git to buy a house when there are tonnes more worthy causes? Who’d pay over-inflated prices for stuff they could get more cheaply elsewhere? Even if they did, how would I honour all these pledges? I could find myself having to write fifty pantomime scripts, and it still wouldn’t be enough money. It’s a shame they don’t allow you to offer sexual favours – I might have stood a chance there, killing several birds with one ill-advised illicit stone. In conclusion, it’s a “no” to crowdfunding.

Age-wise I’ve got about twenty-five working years ahead of me. (I know it’ll be a lot more than this, but that’s what the banks see.) I feel as if this is make or break time for me: I need to buy something now-ish or I will miss the boat and be a tenant forever. I asked if it was possible to sell the house to an investor with me in it, continuing to pay my monthly dues. Yes, it is, though it is down to the vendor’s discretion, and also the first thing my new landlord would do, almost definitely, is to raise the rent.

ARGH! It’s all so annoying.

So that’s the summary of all I have done so far to honour Part C of my plan (see previous post Turn! Turn! Turn!) In terms of Part B (selling stuff to downsize) it’s going to take a while to get the Ebay ball rolling. My priority for the next six weeks is making products to sell at Christmas markets and online.

Part A is something I have been thinking hard about. What is it I love about this home? What do I dislike? What am I looking for in a new abode/workplace? I might take you on a virtual tour when it’s not so messy. In the meantime, here’s what I need:

•          Light, airy, spacious house, not only inside, but around it. Avoiding the feeling of being boxed in.
•          Three bedrooms. Could work with two. (One to sleep in, one spare, one office. Could combine the spare and office.)
•          Shower. Bath optional, but I love having one.
•          Gas supply. For central heating and cooking.
•          Large kitchen – kitchen diner would be best. Plenty of surface space but preferably an island in the middle rather than edges. It’s nice to face the room when I’m working, not the wall. Double oven very useful.
•          Big windows, green stuff outside. (Not moss or mould…) Ideally a good view esp of the setting sun.
•          Parking
•          Ideally detached as I make a lot of noise (singing, playing, cooking) and do things at strange hours. Semi-detached OK. Don’t want to live in a terrace or a flat please.
•          In a nice, peaceful area. Not too many comings and goings, revvings of motor engines, drunk teenagers staggering past.

(NB all this is pretty much what I have now. DAMMIT.)

As if all that wasn’t a big enough ask, I want to stay in this town. Living here is fabulous. I have never felt so settled or happy in all my life. I’m establishing myself as a member of society; I’ve made new friends – people I really, really like. I know my way around and love learning more about the locality all the time. I am not going to leave Dursley/Cam. No thank you.

Just had a look online. Anything like the above to buy is equally out of my price range, leaving me with one-bedroom flats or teeny tiny terraces. I know how miserable this would make me, so it’s not really an option, not even a temporary one. (Please, not temporary anything. The prospect of having to set up phone and broadband and services, and notifying EVERYONE about me change of address and... then having to do it all over again when I have to move again?? Oh lordy lordy. Life is too short for that!) There are a couple of OK-ish ones to rent. (I think whatever happens, I’m in for a rent increase.) Nothing that has made me want to start throwing things into boxes and hiring vans.

You might want to offer your help, now I know what I need. It’s either a “gift” of that portion of money that I am lacking; or maybe you are prepared to be a guarantor for me? Or you know of someone who might be able to do either of these things, and can forward them this blog link. You can get in touch by emailing thewizzylizzie@gmail.com without feeling obliged to follow up offers. Maybe you know of somewhere I could rent? If none of the above, console yourself with the fact that you just read through this load of cobblers, which means the number of views this post has had just increased by one. Knowing that I have the support of people, even just in spirit, provides me with a great deal of strength and makes it easier to breathe.

Are you an eccentric billionaire who would give me the price of my house in return for a night of passion and Nutella macarons? If not, why not? Another question I won’t be answering in the next exciting instalment, more gripping than cling film on everything except the thing you wanted it to cling to.