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...

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…