She Works Hard for the Money: Part One

I write in the wake of Calamity Jane, one of the best shows I have ever been lucky enough to be part of. I think it's muscled in to my All Time Top Five, which is getting a bit crowded to say the least. The music was superlative, as any orchestra led by X is bound to be. (Biased? Me?) The singing matched it, with stunning performances from all the principals, as well as remarkable strength from the chorus, even the chaps! I got to do lots of dancing and interacting with a huge variety of the cast. It was so much fun.

During one performance, I had the chance to do some on-stage contemplation just before the finale, when I was standing behind the blacks, waiting for the preceding scene to cease. I knew that in a few seconds the cloth would be pulled back and there would be nothing between me and the audience. The second my cover disappeared I would have to smile and sing and dance and perform. My face was so close to the curtain that my nose was touching it. All I could see was black, but I could sense my fellow chorus members about me, and could hear the band changing to the relevant number. It might sound terrifying, but not to me. I felt completely comfortable, not even a bit nervous. Being in musical shows is something that I relish. They fill many needs that my life is lacking -  closeness, teamwork, hugs, laughter and performing. I am totally at home on a stage, especially the one at the Armstrong Hall.

Being at home, stage left...

...stage right...

...and downstage centre. 

The problem is that you give yourself entirely to the thing and it takes over your life for a couple of weeks. When it goes, it's like someone pulling a carpet from under your trotters. So while I love show week, I dread its end. This time, the usual Saturday night plunge into misery was cushioned by the tablets and I felt it. A sort of comfortable numbness surrounded me, making the inter-show void a doddle to plummet through. But there is only so much that 150mg of sertraline can do, and I was therefore unprepared for the tsunami of self-loathing and jealousy that plopped on top of me in the wee small hours of Sunday.

Basically - and stop me if you've heard this before.... What? You have? And you're fed up with it? Me too.

Basically, I hate the way I look, the size of my body yada yada, which I am much more aware of having shared a dressing room with thirty other folk. I got increasingly jealous throughout the aftershow party, looking at the pretty "youngsters" standing in a circle and laughing. They don't exclude me - I exclude myself because I decide that I don't fit. I was incredibly impressed with the leading lady, and not a bit jealous of her. I could never have done what she did - a whole week of shows and not a single problem with her voice or her body, or her attitude. She was exemplary and I want to remember that and use her as an inspiration for my future endeavours. With no outlet for jealousy, this became yet more self-hatred: Why couldn't I do that? What is wrong with me that I would worry about everything? Why am I so uncomfortable in my saggy, aging skin that I wish I could be more like someone else?

One of the most perfectly-formed of The Crowd did approach me afterwards and slurred if I wanted to go on to the pub they were all going onto later. (I don't mean that bitchily! She is perfectly formed, in every possible way, and another remarkable woman.) It was a genuine invitation and one which I would have lapped up if I hadn't been so tired. And my feet hadn't been throbbing. And I hadn't been so ridiculously sober. I am increasingly of the opinion that I should start drinking again. It might have helped me relax when introduced to a gorgeous lad a few minutes later. Oh, he was tastiness personified, single too... but only twenty. I felt ridiculous flirting with him.  When a female fellow chorus member joined us (older than me, but way more, er, loaded), she was sucked into the chat and it was like I had evaporated into a mist. I slipped away, unnoticed. I can't do competition.

There's a - hmm, what is the collective noun for a large number of theatrical ladies in their 20s/early 30s? I'm going with 'abundance' for now as I don't want to be uncivil. If I was, it would arise from personal bitterness and nothing else, as they're all really lovely and incredibly talented. I can't complain about that. But I also can't compete. I feel like there's a chasm between me and them, getting wider all the time. When a female role comes up that I might have gone for in the past, there's a queue, and I'm somewhere near the back of it. Auditions for the pantomime will be soon upon us. I wonder if I can lean on the Sertraline to get me through those too? 

Sadly this black mood accompanied me to my friends' house where I was to stay the night. We sat up a bit and I mainlined crisps and monologued, further resenting myself for doing both. I am so boring! I talk about the same stuff, over and over.  I snuck out the next morning as I didn't want to bore them any more than I already had done.

The same goes for you, so invoking my inner Python (oo that does sound like fun...), here's something completely different:  

Back in September, my mum came all the way from Margate to help me with my stall at the Food Fair. She was invaluable, but at the same time managed to get under my feet in the way that only mums can do. (She is very little, so it's easier for her! But she is also very, very sweet so I hold nothing against her.) While I was busy serving customers, she was trotting around the rest of the fair, spending her money as quickly as I was making mine. She bounced back to me clutching a fistful of raffle tickets. Apparently they were for a draw to choose someone to switch on the Thornbury Christmas Lights at the ceremony in November. Having seen an opportunity to promote my business, she'd purchased a daft amount. I can't write about her doing this without getting a lump in my throat. As I said, she's very sweet.

Mamma being invaluable. 

Anyhow, I had to fill in my name and contact details on each ticket, and at that point in time it was not convenient! I was trying to sell my wares and make eye contact with potential biscuit-buyers etc. But would she leave it alone? Would she accept 'in a minute' as an answer? NO. To appease her, (polite way of saying "shut her up") I scrawled name and email on all the scraps and gave them back. She bounded off up the street to hand them in. It was done. I felt a bit sad that she'd spent so much money on such a futile cause. I don't see myself as one of life's winners. I hate to see the hope that she carries in her heart crushed. A few weeks later she asked if I'd heard anything and I put bright tones in my voice, saying "not yet" when I really meant "of course not."

Last week I was exiting the hall after our first dress rehearsal for Calam, feeling very low and exhausted. It was late. Apart from everything else, Mamma, along with my bro and a sis had all gone to visit my Uncle in Czech and I hadn't been able to join them, what with it being show week and me being broke. Automatically I scanned my phone, and there was an email from some strange woman. I clicked on it and my evening took a turn for the bizarre.

I'd only gone and won the flippin' draw!

Yes, I - (along with the manager of Bristol Old Vic, but who is he to such a local star???!!) - I will be switching Thornbury's Christmas lights on this year!!! I also get an article and picture in the local newspaper at some point before the event. Drug-induced numbness snatched away the tears that I wanted to spill. (It doesn't discriminate between those of happiness and the other kind.)

There was only one thought in my mind - thank goodness Mamma's gesture had not been in vain. I managed a call to Eastern Europe, but it being nearly midnight and her being concerned about cost, it consisted of hurried whispering, ending all too soon - kind of an anti-climax! Of course she was thrilled really, as I found out when they got back to Blighty, and she'll be making a special trip to "laugh at me pressing the button", which I will be doing on Tuesday November 17th. Oh, Mamma.

All the above has taken my attention away from another "pressing" matter, and it is this that I wanted to address. Not loneliness or bonce health, simply my work/money situation. (Hence the blog title, do you see?)

As mentioned previously (Only the Lonely, second half) I am low on cash because I am low on work. If I tell folk this, the response I often get is:

"Have you considered getting a job?"

*sigh*

Here's the deal: I have had what might be described as jobs in the past. They've all ended badly. My self-employed status is one that I am very happy with, and I won't be changing it. I don't know why I struggle with Dolly Parton hours - having to be in A Place at A Time with A Boss watching my every move and jumping on my back when I do anything they don't want me to. Many folk can handle it, but not me. Nor my parents, come to think of it: Dad's just winding down his forty-year French polishing business and Mamma is a skilled seamstress. Even my employed siblings are freelance/agency, thus giving them a little more control over what they do. So this is another difference between me and Most People, which most people don't understand.

Here's a brief précis of my employment history, 18-30: 

Scientific research on two placements during my degree. 

Me, not orgasming (1996)

Did it 'cos I had to, but never could achieve the orgasmic thrill that my fellow students got from attending seminars and reading journals. Was relieved when both sets of six months came to an end. Turns out it wasn't what I wanted to do after all, and that maybe the four years studying biochemistry were a bit wasted. Or were they, as I became:

Secondary Science Teacher, full-time. Loved it to begin with - it was my dream career. 

Tut tut tut, and where were your safety specs Miss?

Dream lab, dream career. (1999)

Form EL all point to where they think Miss's marbles have gone

I loved science and I wanted everyone to feel the same. I communicate well and the idea of being able to inspire kids was wonderful. What went wrong? Reality. Admin and politics got in the way, discipline decreased and colleagues' support waned. I lasted three years inc time off to have breakdown, which didn't quite finish me, until:

Secondary Teacher, supply. Nuff said? Lasted... I don't remember. It was horrible. I obviously didn't think that my previous educational stint had done enough damage to my mental health and wanted to see the job finished properly. With breakdown in full effect, I spent a little while not working at all. Eventually (and reluctantly) I claimed sick benefit, or whatever it was called then. Within my sixteen hours permitted work I tried:

Care Home Events Co-Ordinator, part-time. Struggled through care home inmates eating the paint and moaning about my singing. Final kick in the head was a colleague's complaint. Was in no mental state to stand up for myself. Quit and fell apart. Rallied for:

Receptionist at a Paediatric Ward, part-time - was OK but fell foul of politics, of colleagues not wanting to take on board my suggestions. Quit after a couple of months, much to the other two receptionists' (who happened to be twin sisters) delight. Rallied for:

First Aid Trainer. Not quite full-time, but more hours as I was beginning to recover. Again lots of fun, but soon got dull as it was exactly the same thing, week in, week out. Quit after five months. Wanted to be a writer. Found this:

Sub-Editor/Puzzle Compiler, full-time. Sadly heavier on the editing than the compiling, which was basically marking but without the red pen. Got fed up with the commute into town, the restriction on my freedom, the paltry wage, and some tosser in the office who kept the air conditioning to what he liked and didn't care that I spent my working hours with nipples I could have hung coats on. Quit after four months.

...leading my then boyfriend to say that I never stuck at anything. He hated his job but still dragged himself to it every weekday. Why should I be so special? Find something and stick to it, no matter how miserable it makes you, said he. But how can you stick to it? I never could.

I've also done a stint with a catering agency - a very, very short stint; I've done a lot of home tuition - science and maths - but even just an hour being trapped (often in my own home) was too much for me. I've also worked behind the till at several shops. That's not bad - interaction with the public can be nice, and if you're busy enough, you don't notice the time. I have started volunteering at a charity shop in Dursley for various reasons, (see next blog entry for details) but not as a career.

All of this makes me shudder in memory. I wouldn't go back to any of it. Leave me to work under my own steam and with no colleagues. Don't bore me and don't trap me, and I will work and work until my fingers fall off.

So in conclusion m'lud, it ain't a job that I need, it's work. Speaking of which, I'm pausing here to get on with some... back later. 

What does Lizzie-of-all-trades do for money and do you need her to do it for you? Will she be stepping into Aladdin's fishnets next February or are there bigger tights to fill?  All will be revealed in the next chunky chunk... and sooner than you think! 

Only the Lonely

Loneliness.

I'm not talking about solitude - that's the pleasant version. Nor am I referring to lack of company - I have company by the bucketload, more than I can handle some days. I'm a very lucky girl in that respect. No, I'm referring to the bit where I turn out the light of a night time and roll over to snuggle up to NOBODY. I'm talking about waking up on a Sunday morning and looking lovingly into the eyes of my teddy bear. Going for walks with no-one's hand to hold other than my own. Cooking meals for one with no affectionate arms about my waist and no words of happiness whispered into my ear. Etc. Etc. Etc. That sort of loneliness.

It isn't just the being loved that I'm missing, but the having someone to look after and fuss over and care about more than anyone else in the world. I'm a girl who thrives on that sort of thing. To find myself a man (oh yes, definitely a man. Maybe it would make life easier to be looking in the opposite direction, but that's not my (old) bag,) to love and be loved by.

I'm sick of people telling me to be patient, and my time will come yada yada. They always say it to me from the comfort of their conjoined lives. Their time came, most of them didn't have to wait. For several of them, it's not their first time either! How have I missed out on this? My time should be HERE, NOW, while I'm still young enough to enjoy it. I should have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince, you say? Well let me tell you, there ain't a single reptile leaping onto my lily pad, other than the odd married toads, slimy and not even worthy of a snog. Not that I'd tiptoe over that particular minefield again...

I am writing today, in spite of having a billion-and-five other things to be doing, because I want to convey the raw despair that bubbles to the surface from time to time. It's usually triggered when I see a well-established couple, comfortable and in tune with each other, like they have been for years. Or a new pairing, flushed with the excitement and novelty of it all. Where have I gone wrong that I'm not part of any of this?

Life as a "one" is so much harder. Obviously it's a financial struggle. With another person in my home, I'd be paying half the rent and a third less council tax than I am now. (A concession to us soloists is that we get a 25% discount for being stuck on our own. Not 50%, 25%. Sigh.) I might even have a crack at a mortgage! Everything else would stay the same. In terms of being socially acceptable, it's like a disease. Who invites single people to anything? We mess up your lovely even numbers. We bang on about being lonely. Far better to just ignore our existence and stick to your own kind. I wanted to attend a quiz night a few weeks ago. Teams of four. I couldn't think of anyone to ask to come with me. I couldn't bear to just turn up and see if I could tack on to a group of strangers. I stayed at home.   

I've all but completely forgotten how wonderful love can be. It'll be things that you attached folk take for granted, I dare say. In the times in my life where I have been half of a whole, I valued them daily: The touch of a loving hand on my face. Losing myself in beautiful eyes that were in turn losing themselves in mine. Cuddling! Not platonic hugging, proper cuddling where you hold and you hold, that can only happen between partners. Skin-to-skin contact, anywhere. That sort of thing. Definitely the, cough, physical side of things too. Apparently, as a woman of my age, I'm at my sexual peak. What's the point of that when there is no-one to reach the summit with me? What. Is. The. Freakin'. Point. ??.

It is definitely the company of a special man that I crave, and for that reason I do some sad and heartbreaking things. I talk to myself all the time, ironically to keep me sane! But more - I talk to my ted, Bracc. And my car, Jeremy. They are my best friends. My constant companions. I am on the very brink of buying some chaps' deodorant and spraying it about the house. Or adding a few drops of aftershave to my pillows. I have so nearly bought a man's shirt on several occasions, just to put in my wardrobe, just to pretend.

Two years ago, I did something unwise: I listed all the attributes that I would find pleasing in a bloke. The result was my ideal man, created in word form, and then just as quickly written into a story which has since expanded to almost novel proportions. In an attempt to hone it, I recorded myself reading it out loud and thus gave him a voice! I play these files sometimes when I can't sleep (which is almost nightly,) and I imagine what he would be like. (He has a name of course, but I'm not ready to divulge it.) I talk to him too! I think of what he'd be doing, what we'd be doing, especially in those moments of utter loneliness. He even has a playlist on my iPod FFS. Of course, I am madly in love with him. It's all a bit Pygmalion really, and just another reminder of what a tragedy my life has become. The unwisest part is that now I've made him, I'll sub-consciously compare any man I meet to him, and no-one will come out favourably. I've set myself an unattainable target! The only advantage that anyone has over him is that they exist. He, poor chap, cannot.

But being real is not enough! At the very least, I would like:

• A man.
• Who is straight.
• Who is single.
• And roughly my age, maybe a tad older - this is not a deal-breaker, because...
• CHEMISTRY. (Which can happen at any age, and is so valuable, and so elusive. If you've got it, cling on to it. It's wonderful, you lucky sod.)

Am I being too picky? Am I asking too much? I must be. 

I feel like I have no choice. Given all that I have written above, you'd think I should be glad of whatever I can get. Beggars do not have that freedom of selection, right? If a single man is showing an interest in me, I should grab hold of him, regardless. Well I've got news for you, world: I cannot do this! To quote that great philosopher Cyndi Lauper - It's not real if you don't feel it. (The Goonies 'R' Good Enough, 1985) When I feel something, it's in my heart and it radiates out. If it's good, I'll want to laugh and scream and shout about it, and love and love and love. I have never faked anything (yup, anything...) and there's no way I'm starting now.

Ahhh this writing is helping. I've been at it for an hour and I've just stopped crying. Hurrah for the power of words.  

Hope is dying, I'm afraid. I always say I won't give up, but nearly three years of experience and hurt is changing my mind. I've used the word "never" a couple of times in conversation. I'm afraid that I don't believe there is anyone for me. Not anyone that I can be with, at least. Finding straight, single men at around my age is like looking for a point to Kim Kardashian's existence. I know that folk mean to be kind, but "you'll find someone when you stop looking" is another phrase I could do with never hearing again. I mean, how does it work? I'm not really looking. I did try Guardian Soulmates, but I stopped using it after that chap blocked me back in July. Yesterday was the first time since then that I have logged in. Just seeing the page upset me greatly. It brought back a flood of emotions - all those messages I sent that were ignored; the few messages I received that fizzled to nothing, and the ones that were from totally unsuitable guys. I sidestepped it all and headed for my account settings, which I altered to ensure that they don't take more money from me when the six months I originally paid for is up (this Wednesday). It would appear that my second foray into internet dating hasn't worked either. I doubt I'll try it again. This too is not my carrying device.

So Well-Meaning People, if I'm not looking, how come no-one has turned up to claim me, eh everybody? Maybe it's that, while not actively seeking companionship, I'm doing it sub-consciously. All the bloody time! I'm sizing chaps up, whenever I see them. Of course, they are almost always already attached. I don't understand this either. Where are the single men??! I'm guessing that it's unusual for a girl... er... woman of my age to be single and childless. Blokes my age are probably those with young families, who haven't fallen out of love with their wives yet. (Cynical? Moi?) I'm too old for that cluster of singles before people settle down and too young for the batch of divorced dads on the other side. I fall between two stools. Into a pile of another sort of stools.

Basically, I'm saying that having established that the chap is straight, single and sexy, there’s all the other crap. And if, after all that, I decide that I like him, I could almost guarantee that he’s not interested in me.

I’m not (completely) stupid. I know that beauty is much more than the surface. However it is that surface that can be the first thing people notice. In terms of what I see, I'm more likely to fancy someone who is taller than me, who has hair, and who is musically inclined.

The height thing troubles me increasingly. I feel like a big, hulking girl. Even at 11st 10 ish. I’m broad of shoulder, thick of limb; Wide of thigh and of knee, and of the top bit of my lower leg (what is that called? Is that my calves? They’re more like heifers.) There is one (or rather two) place(s) I could do with being a couple of sizes bigger, not because they are that small (they are) but they aren't proportionate to the rest of my enlarged frame. Of course, as I get older, they just get smaller! While not the tallest of women, I am increasingly aware of my height: It's above the average for a UK lass by 4.5 inches, and only one inch shorter than the average UK male. Without heels. (Of course he could wear the heels, but then he would no longer be average…) I feel unfeminine and ungainly around shorter folk, so it follows that I am going to go for tall blokes. Of course shorter women tend to have bagged them first! I guess it's something to do with wanting to feel protected. Just 'cos I'm approaching 6ft in my stilettoes, doesn't mean I don't want that! 

In terms of what the world sees, I feel as if I'm already on a loser. How can anyone possibly think that the collection of cells that make up this Lizzie is remotely good to look at? I wish I knew where this came from. Was it the boys at school who always laughed at me because I was a bit different? Was it the fact that when I was a teenager, everyone seemed to have a boyfriend except me? I hope you're making a list of Stuff Not To Say To Me, 'cos you can add the old "nonsense, you're lovely etc" to it. I must learn to feel attractive by myself, even comfortable in my own skin, and not to need someone to do that for me. It has got to come from me. The most important thing is to be true to yourself. I am who I am (cue for a song…) and I want to be proud of that. It’s just that some days I can’t find the resources, and today would be one. Yet the way I feel about myself is a small part of the issue, and doesn't have much to do with this aching, yawning chasm that nothing else can fill.

So apart from all that malarkey, how is the rest of my life going?

My birthday turned out to be the best in my forty years so far, thanks to several wonderful individuals, including my parents and my sisters, and to me managing to stop crying for long enough to have fun. I had wanted this entry to be all shiny and positive on the back of that, but today's despair has got in there first. Plus, there were a couple more of those sorts of events that knock this girl off her feet and back into the poo around that time, and I'm still trying to stand up again after both of them. Although it has been a couple of months, I'm logging them here:

The first arose from the rock/pop band that I was singing with. (Should I name and shame them? Not gonna. I'm not that sort of girl. They shall be WJ for this tale.) After the whole "singing flat" debacle, which expanded into me falling foul of rotten communication between band members (who have been mates for over a decade), I was persuaded to go up for a rehearsal, at which a bass player and drummer were present instead of the backing tracks. This changed things a little, but I liked it. Live music is always best, though not always possible for reasons of space etc. I'd had to make a super effort to be there - I was already slithering downwards on my spiral, and it was the first time seeing the chaps after Everything. But in the name of not giving up, I made me an effort.

To say it was loud would have been an understatement! I had to scrape my brain off the wall after each number. The new musicians were related and incredibly talented, and I could see the gap between me and rock more widely than ever before. I'd been OK with the backing (eventually). Comfortable, knowing that it would always go the same way every time. Here was pure rock, where the chaps in charge would do what they damn well pleased, which would vary according to sobriety/memory etc and have little to do with the singer! My comfort zone waved at me from several miles away. Mr You-Sing-Flat-I-Sing-Great was as he always had been with me; Mr The-Sensible-One was really sweet, and gave me a huge, comforting squeeze as I left that evening, reassuring me that everything was going to be fine. I wasn't sure.

Anyhoo, shortly after my last blog entry - maybe even because of my last entry, which would make this even more lamentable - this happened: I was idly flicking through FB. Someone had posted on the WJ page that I had set up for us, which I and Mr YSFISG administered. I went to look. It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new bass player. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new drummer. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new singer.

Er, what?

In disbelief, I checked the page. All references to me, pictures of me were gone. Instead was someone else, who had had one rehearsal with them and was clearly very excited about the whole thing, just as I had been a few months back. She'd even posted a little video clip, which my curiosity made me watch the first thirty seconds of before my pride made me stop. She was all right actually, and looks as it she'll fit in with the whole rock ethos better than little Miss Sixth-Form-Prefect here. I didn't mind being replaced - I'd been expecting it. The thing I objected to was the cowardice of the method used. Wasn't I worth a phonecall of explanation first, even an email? This was akin to being dumped by your bloke sending you a pic of him with his new, prettier girlfriend. I was incredibly hurt.

So much so, that I decided I did not want to be reminded of any of it. I removed the other chap as admin, and then deleted the page - only that took fourteen days until it would let me actually remove it (FB rules). I knew he would set up another, and that was fine. I just wanted all my friends who had liked the band because I was in it, to not like the band any more. No reminders. I unfriended certain people, who clearly weren't my friends. This isn't like me, but again I didn't want the pain. If I was a vengeful girl, I could have caused a bit o'bovver - the guy behind all this was one of the inappropriately-texting married men that I remonstrated in a previous blog entry. I still have all of his messages on my phone, and know how to contact his wife. But as I said earlier, I'm not that kind of girl.

(I've just been reading the email exchange that led up to this incident, and it makes me so sad. I'm definitely better off out of it - a fact that I used to console me between blubs - but I will miss it. It was, for the most part, a wonderful slice of fun, and another experience to add to my collection.)

What concerns me the most about this is that I have a feeling my mental state and my lack of confidence let me down here. Regardless of the reactions of others, I wonder if I had been happier in my own skin and less open about what bugged me, would I have been able to make a go of it? I think I miss out on a lot of good stuff because of this.

Oh, and note to self: Stop joining bands in Spring then being kicked out of them in the Summer. Two years in a row now!

Number two number twos: And this one actually matters...

Yes, I love being self-employed and working freelance. I must do, as I've just celebrated a whole decade of freelance puzzle compiling, and I've never stuck to anything even half that long before. The pros are corkers: Flexible working hours - ideal for a creative mind that doesn't always get going when you need it to, then wakes you at 3am, sparking with inspiration; working from home suits me admirably - no commute; no fights over the air con; no-one looking over your shoulder and berating you for doing anything that isn't work; no clothes, if I feel that way inclined! Oh man, it's perfect.

However the main con is big and fat, and happened just after all the birthday loveliness. I'm not employed, I'm not contracted: Work can appear in an instant (which makes my day), but it can disappear just as quickly. I got a call from the place I freelance for, and when it was over, my monthly income had been reduced by just over a quarter.

A quarter!

I was already struggling, now I'm drowning. I've done the maths. I can pay my rent, my council tax, electricity and gas, contact lenses, TV licence, broadband, mobile phone.... and then that's it. No money for, oh I don't know, food. Petrol/car. And I have to pay my taxes too. What stinks even more is that I was quite slick at the two puzzles that have gone back to the office. I had them done and dusted so quickly that it made for an eye-watering hourly rate. I'll not get that again working from home, unless I go for a, er, different kind of profession. I haven't altogether ruled it out!

Life since then has been All About the Money, All About the Dum Dum Da Da Da Da, much to my dismay. One by one, the little things I love to do that keep my morale ticking over are being kicked out of my life, and replaced by big things that I need to do to keep my financial head above water. Cost-cutting measures include eschewing Twinings decaf Earl Grey and going back to plain decaf; yer basic liquid ibuprofen instead of Nurofen, and eating a lot - a lot - of beans. Oh these First World Problems. 

I am not, contrary to what you may believe, a fool. I know that the reason for my low income is that I am not doing enough work. The depression impedes me somewhat, yet I must find it within myself to overcome that for long enough to get some sort of momentum going. The increased dose of tabletage has been working its magic since the summer. It takes the edge off the lows, I can't deny it. In fact, it takes the edge off everything. My head is a swimmy, floaty mess, like it's covered in cellophane. Remembering things is like nailing that wobbly dessert stuff to the brick structure that supports the ceiling. As my doc has pointed out, it has to be this way:

"If you want to not feel the lows, you can't feel the highs too, I'm afraid. It's a price you have to pay."

Dammit.

That's me then. Lonely, broke and vacantly grinning through all of it, while working my arse off to pay my rent. More about that in the next entry. Work, I mean. Not my arse. It's not a good thing to get them confused. Speaking of which, it's time for me to get off of one, and get on with the other. You can decide which.

Is it better to be single and unloved, than in a relationship and unloved? Is it better to be in love with a man you can't ever have, than to not be in love at all? Is it better to just shut up about men and stuff your face with chocolate, and be glad that the only fart gas you inhale on a regular basis is your own? If you know the answer, drop me an email. In the mean time, I got me some chocolate to eat...

Paint It Black

I'm holding myself at gunpoint until I complete this entry.

Don't fret. It's a metaphorical firearm. It's more of a "no-breakfast-for-you-'til-you've-finished-this" sort of gun. My reluctance to write couples with the white noise between my ears, making this all very difficult. However, people are starting to notice my absence in life and are worrying, and the absolute last thing I want to do to such kind folk is make them concerned. You want to know what has happened to Lizzie? So does Lizzie. Read on and see if we can't fathom it out together...

Since I last wrote, a spiral appears to have opened up below me and my sorry arse can do nothing but slide down it. Every time I feel I have a grip and might be able to climb back up again, something will give me a shove and I'll continue to plummet. The lower I slip, the less force I require to keep me descending. Enough with the metaphor - I'm still ill, and The Verve appear to be right.

It's a toughie to understand. Many people - including me - think "oh just SNAP out of it". I've had it before and I got better. In the decade that has passed since then, there were many times where I was low, but it was just the usual run-of-the-mill downs that accompany the ups of life. Face it, they come as a pair! You wouldn't notice the one unless you have the other. This is very different to that and I see it. I comprehend that I am not well. I couldn't be more fed up with it, and yet I have no fight in me. It's part of the illness.

Oh, but it's hard to write today! I apologise for the stunted tone. I have to get this all out so you can be reading it and making sense of my odd behaviour: The strange staring and silence; the self-hugging, nervous creeping, and shoulders up to my earlobes that make people think I am permanently cold; the lack of replies to emails or text messages; the crying - god, the crying - and crumpling, even in public. Leaving the house becomes more difficult. Minor panic attacks become more frequent. I'm tired much of the time. I sleep a lot, and wake in the night unable to relax. I surround myself with things that make me comfortable and rarely go anywhere without several changes of clothing stowed away in my bag. I must remind myself that these are merely symptoms of a cruel condition that renders me powerless to deal with it, and NOT who I am.

There's more that you can't see. This sense of hopelessness. Everything is pointless. 

The total lack of self-worth - that's a big one. I've never been a great one for blowing my own trumpet. The occasional parp now and then, followed by embarrassment and trying to pretend that someone else did it. The Big D has taken my instrument, snapped it in half and lobbed the pieces into a steaming, tarry pit. On Thursday I sat clutching my knees, tears streaming down my face, repeating the phrase: "I am nothing. I am nothing." This is how I feel right now. Worthless. And before you go all "Lizzie, you are NOT nothing blah etc" on my ass, let me point out that, kindly though it would be meant, it DOESN'T WORK. Your words would have as much effect as raindrops trying to soak a duck. I am so convinced of my immateriality that I find it hard to accept anything remotely nice that's aimed at me. This is somewhat puzzling, as it's unkindly words and actions that have contributed to this mental state. Recent events pool together to knock the wellness out of me, each one hitting like a hammer on delicate glassware:

* The "Committee" Incident (see last entry) - SMASH.

* The "You Sing Flat" Incident (bandmates' feedback) - CRASH.

* The "You are selfish, cold-hearted and shallow, only interested in parties and having audiences watch you perform etc" Incident (relatives' feedback) - SMACK.

* Being ignored by all of the blokes I have contacted on the dating website, and worse - being BLOCKED by the last one, with no explanation. I haven't looked at it since - THUMP.

Please note that these were all incredibly distressing, and I'm not going into any detail as reliving the episodes pains me. I also do not wish to pain anyone else by their implication. Situations like this are beyond my control. The only thing I am in charge of is my response to them. Not so when my little trickle of whatever it is that keeps a person rational and content was already struggling. Now it's dried right up and I don't know what to do to make it flow again. Each incident has reminded me that yes, I am not significant.

This is probably as hard for you to read is it is for me to produce. The reason I am doing it is because I want to spread some sort of understanding here. If you haven't been depressed, you have little idea of what this is like. Imagine the most beautiful sweet shop you ever did see. Full of delights and treats, piled high with more colours and flavours than Mr Wonka could imagine, even after a serious acid drop trip. Chocolates filled with every possible combination of fillings. Caramels, candies, creams: A veritable heaven of pleasure. (NB. If sweets don't do it for you, insert your own simile here. This one works for me, so I'm going with it.) Now imagine that there's a party going on inside the shop and everyone you know is invited. They're allowed to help themselves to whatever they want. They're tasting and sampling and laughing, and having the best time ever, doing all the things you want to do. But you aren't among them. Instead, you are outside, with your nose pressed up against the window, watching it all happen in front of you and desperately wishing you could participate. You're not just silent, you're crying, screaming to be part of it. The irony is you have only to open the door and let yourself in. And you know it. Just move to the door and pull it open. Go on... just a step. Some of the people inside notice you and point to the door. They may even help you open it, but they can't open it for you. Only you can't move at all. You can't even lift your arms. You can only look on in despair and longing.

This is how it is. Mr D has me in a headlock. I'm crippled by him, paralysed and he's gradually squeezing the life out of me. (I assume he's male - they seem to cause me the most trouble.) I feel as if I'm shutting down, gradually letting things go until there is nothing left. Sleep is bliss. 

When I'm sleeping I can't remember a thing about this lamentable situation. I sleep a lot, and I hate waking up. I have considered how good it would be to stay asleep until all this is over, waking refreshed and ready to face things. The problem is that time still goes by and events will still happen while I'm comatose. Such as that big birthday.

Yep, there's only a fortnight of my thirties remaining. It is traditional to wander down the old 

"... and what have I got to show for it?" road at this point in life. Well you already know where I am here, you've heard it all before: no kids, no man, no money. No wedding ring, no house, yada yada. Bo-ring. There are so many "I should"s in this situation. Yes, I should focus on what I do have, not what I don't. Mr D says not. 

Originally I was planning two big parties, with my band providing music at each as that's what I enjoy, whether I sing in tune or otherwise. It's more to do with giving people I care about a fun evening, rather than having them watch me. Anyhow, I had set a date for the first one - what would have been a dream come true: a huge event with family and long-unmet schoolfriends reuniting. But it was all so hard - finding a venue, convincing my bandmates they wanted to make the slog all the way over to the South East (where the shindig was to be held) and finding them all accommodation for the night. Not to mention actually getting people to come along! Plus, I am broke - how was I going to pay for all this? I couldn't face it, so I cancelled. I was devastated, but when July 18th came round, I was a quivery mound of gloop, clinging to the stair carpet and wondering how I could even have entertained the possibility of celebrating anything to do with me.

Someone told me today that I am "a force of love, music and creativity". What powerful words! I don't believe them, but I know that they are what I want to be, so I am holding them to me, repeating them in the desperate hope that they will have meaning.

I hide away for many reasons. One important one is that I don't wish to inflict myself on anybody. I have little to say that is entertaining or interesting. Would you want to spend an afternoon with a sadsack of a girl, who is making Eeyore look like Mr Happy? I certainly wouldn't and I'm bloody stuck with her! I remember all this from the first time around, back in 2000/2001. There is no happy answer to "how are you?" and once the asker realises that no, I'm not OK, conversation grinds to a halt. What can you say to me? I wish I could help you, but I don't know. I usually receive a combination of sympathy, or suggestions as to what I might try to get better, or invitations to coffee or for chats, or talk of how this and that happened to so-in-so before. Suggestion-wise, I know exactly what I'd like to do... it's being able to do it. Mentally able. It's overcoming the lethargy and tiredness to get up and do a thing, and fighting the fears that come with that. What if, what if, what if? So in conversation, I'm conflicted. I know everyone is trying to help, but all I want to do is shrivel away and stop putting a crimp on their day. Any crack at courtesy is met by my sense of worthlessness, which bats it right back at its offerer and makes me feel guilty that I made someone feel that they needed to make the offer in the first place. I can't believe how much easier it was to have cancer than to have this!

Facebook too is a challenge. Everyone squeezes the best from their lives and uses it to paint their pages. Whenever I log on I see engagements announced, babies born, wedding anniversaries celebrated - they are particularly abundant this time of year, along with holidays to interesting places. I want to be happy for you, believe me I do, but Mr D puts his evil filter on everything. Instead of "Wow, that's wonderful! Like like like!" I think "Look at these lucky sods. Why isn't that me, eh? EH?" The opposite is also true - if I am reminded of those who have a much worse lot in life than me, the voices in my head all join together in a chorus of "You see? Look how fortunate you are, silly moo. You have a roof over your head and all your faculties. You are not persecuted by anyone other than yourself. So stop whinging. And put down that Mars Bar."

I was listening to this the other day:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02xk5r8

The most notable comment was Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff - recently MBE'd cricketer. Apparently he was at the top of his game - Captain for England as they faced the Aussies for another round of Ashes excitement. Financially, incredibly secure. Young, healthy, famous. And yet he could barely get out of bed in the mornings...

I must confess to being scared. When I was in this situation before, I had fallbacks. I was living with people who paid the rent/mortgage so that I didn't have to worry. Their income also fed me and kept me warm and safe. All I had to do was exist until such time as I got well. It took a good couple of years, during which I lolled around munching comfort food and becoming Just like Jabba. Part of that was the fault of the antidepressant fluoxetine, which made me eat most things that weren't nailed down, and some that were. When I went to see the doc last week, I was in the worst state yet. She upped the sertraline tablets to 150mg - three times the dose I started with, almost a year ago to the day - and said that we'd review it in a month to see if I needed something else. The pattern I'm noticing is that it works beautifully for a bit, then (about six months later) I come crashing down. I could not bear to be taking something that makes me mainline Pralines'n'Cream like there's no tomorrow, and yet I may not have an option. Being overweight makes me incredibly miserable indeed. In fact, it is one of my biggest fears. So I'm frightened from the point of view of my bathroom scales, and also my bank balance. (See what I did there?) The crosswords keep me going. They just cover my rent, electricity, council tax and most of my monthly outgoings. Not including food. Nor petrol, nor my car. I am running out of money because I cannot go and find the extra work that I need to do. I cannot do it because Dirty D is stopping me. Two circular and weighty issues that have me quaking in my size 16 nix. (Size 16. For now.)

Fluoxetine: Sponsored by Cadbury, Pringles and Haagen-Dazs

The weather is not helping much, though it seems to be improving. A week ago last Friday, the day when it rained so much that I swear I saw Noah rushing off to the docks, I forced myself to go for a walk. Walking has proved helpful in the past and, as I hadn't executed any exercise for a bit, I thought I'd try. The metaphorical hand of my parent self grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me out the door, clutching an umbrella and a backpack full of comfort clothes, and yelling:

"Get on with it! It'll make you feel better."

Parents are sometimes wrong.

Even with my iPod giving me its best calming music, I was on edge. My right shoe filled up with water almost immediately, and I unevenly squelched the route until the left one joined it.  The rain was cold, wet (well dur) and prolific. I silenced my 'Pod in preference for raindrops bouncing off the brolly, but this only served to make me feel more agitated. The whole venture was a mistake.

Minging in the Rain

Despite this, I never turned back. I forced myself all the way around, sometimes crying, always yearning to be back home. I was cold, soaked, tired, hungry and lonely. All such sad words. Reaching for a positive spin, I reminded me that as soon as I got in I could get warm and dry, rest and stuff my face - all of which might take my mind off the loneliness, which is out of my control. I should point out that it's not necessarily lonely for company. Those invitations for coffee/a drink/a chat are very real, and in good supply. Apart from the fact that I am very dull, drinking only decaf tea or water, I don't feel like talking. I'm fed up with going over and over this bollocks. As I said, I wouldn't want to talk to me! No. I am lonely from being single. I want to find someone who loves me. I want, I need, to be loved. Conversely, I have a massive need to give love. So it's GOT to be two ways. It's ridiculously difficult to find. Especially as the dating website activity has ground to a halt at the moment. I mean, how can I possibly sell myself to another person when I can't even sell myself to me?  

But I digress - back to the walk. I caned the last mile or so, reasoning that the more I legged it, the sooner I could stop. The second I was home, the panic attack set about me like a tsunami. OK, it was only small - more like a tidal wave. I saw it approach and felt it hit, washing over me in a torrent of fear. I took off everything that was sopped and left it in a soggy pile by the still-open door. Then off I went round the kitchen, pacing up and down while my breathing got faster, hugging myself and stroking my shoulders, repeating:

"You are safe now, you are safe. No-one can get you, you are safe."

I threw my damp near-naked self bedwards, and grabbed hold of the ted. Poor Bracc. He's well within his rights to demand overtime, even danger money. I'm cuddling him so tightly he's getting squashed out of shape and I have to keep plumping him up! (Woe betide any future partner... ) However, he'd be worth every penny. Much bear-squeezing later and calm arrived, enough for me to get on with feeding and resting. The only good thing that came out of this sorry episode was the five-figure number on my pedometer. I suppose I should be grateful that at least there was something.

So what the hell am I going to do? The drugs aren't going to solve this, they can only carry me through. I loathe them and their necessity. I tried a guided meditation session in the (very local) community centre. It was an interesting experience, right on that relaxing/stressful cusp. I was a bit rubbish, hiding from the rest of the group, staring moodily window-wards and saying little. When the woman in charge asked my email address, I reeled it off: thewizzylizzie@gmail.com.

"Funny that, 'cos I don't feel even the slightest bit wizzy these days."

I doubt I would have had the guts to go again this week, but the choice was out of my hands - they've broken up for the summer and won't be back until September.

I'm trying to hang in there with the musical theatre rehearsals, though that's also proving difficult. I originally became part of such a thing as a result of my first encounter with Mr D, so I know it's important to maintain it. However it's getting beyond Scissor Sisters now, in that I don't feel like singing either. Last week I didn't even feel like being. It's Calamity Jane - such a cheerful musical too, which doesn't help. Everyone else just blows in from the Windy City; I just blow.   

Something that I do look forward to - probably the only thing - is the weekly boot fair. Yes, the boot fair. Held on a field within easy walking distance from my home. I'm getting used to it, though I still hide under the brim of my sunhat, earphones wedged in as far as they will go as I browse. I'm learning to walk away if something is too expensive or to tentatively knock a seller down. To boldly haggle where no Lizzie has haggled before. It amuses me to go through the unwanted goods of others. I don't buy much, but I find it interesting to see what is on offer. The sort of things that will get me reaching down the side of my rucksack for a few coins are generally craft items - fabric, beads, buttons - and really cheap jewellery, that I can either wear as is, or refashion. Similarly clothing, especially as even charity shops are becoming too expensive for me, so that avenue of pleasure is, for now, closed. The first week I attended, I bought a jar of buttons for £2 and spent a happy afternoon going through it, sorting them into colours and packing away, for future crafting purposes. (Pinterest has a LOT to answer for. Sometimes I find that owning the materials is more fun than making anything out of them. You have the possibility without the commitment!) I enjoyed going through the spoils of my purchases that I've returned each Saturday since then. I don't have to justify this. It gives me pleasure and it harms nothing more than my bank balance, and the amount of free space in my wardrobes. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't sit in cafes and sup overpriced coffee, nor go out to cinemas or gigs. My vice is a few pre-loved DVDs a week, and some beads to play with while I watch 'em. Oh good god, I'm going to become one of those hoarders, aren't I? The kind that is found crushed under a pile of Encyclopaedia Britannica and all the Guinness World Record books since 1972. It's better than being eaten by your cats. Or is it?

The one thing that really bags my billy about the boot fair though, is how rude people can be. The number of times I've had folk barge me out of the way, or push in front when I am clearly browsing. Last Saturday the following occurred which almost ruined my usual BF buzz: While perusing a stall, I came across a small box of dolls' clothes. Crouching to inspect them, I realised that they were vintage, 60s or 70s, possibly Barbie/Sindy. I had a good look, and found a couple of Sindy labels on them to confirm. They were in OK condition. What fun it would be to have a rummage through and ID them, to see if they matched any of the partial outfits I had. I've got a bit of a collection and a smattering of knowledge - I was going to love it. It is precisely for finds like this that I go to these events! Just as I was preparing myself to ask the price, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Someone I knew from the Dursley theatre group. He's also a member of the Open Door club - an organisation which provides social activities for adults with learning difficulties.

"Oh hello, R" I said.

"What's that you've got there? What, old dolls' clothes? What do you want them for?" he asked, in his typical fashion. 

I didn't want to reveal to the stallholders that I collected as I was worried it would push the price up. 

"I... er..." I mumbled.

"How much for the dolls' clothes?" He interrupted.

How sweet, I thought. He's finding out for me.

"Call it a fiver."

A fiver? Great! Sold.

But before I could get to my cash, he'd handed his money over to the lady, who duly gave him his change. Right in front of my eyes. While I was still holding some of the the items.

"Er, hang on R... I wanted those..." I trailed off. What was the point? I put the dress I'd been looking at back in the box and walked away, so disgruntled that I abandoned my water bottle on the ground.

OOo I was fuming. What did he - a middle-aged man - want with a box of dolly dresses? Huh? And what on earth was the seller doing not giving me first refusal? Is that how this works? She seemed to know him too, though I could have been wrong. I'd been barged out of a purchase that would have made my afternoon. I seethed all the way around the next two rows of cars, unable to let it go. Why had I not been firmer and insisted that they were mine? Had I given him a concession owing to his condition? Had she? It's one of those things that I'm never going to be able to forget now. Dammit.

Despite all this, I seem to be doing well talking to strangers. While out the other day, a chap parked next to me, and seemed to be having trouble opening his car door.

"Are you all right there, sir?" I asked, gently pulling the door open and offering him support, "Would you like an arm?"

He laughed.

"That's what my wife always says."

"And I bet you always decline, don't you!"

With difficult he unfurled himself from the driver's seat, and stood ready to cross the road. He did look unsteady on his pins, and moved awkwardly.

"I've broken both my hips", he said, apropos of nothing.

"How did you manage that?" I expressed the appropriate concern. 

"I fell."

"Oh dear! Was it the drink?" I joshed.

"Yes!"

He saw the joke, hurrah. My turn to laugh. What a wit I am.

Of course, as I stood and watched him stagger across the road alone, clutching coins in his hands, desperate to get to the shop on the other side, a gentle breeze blew the waft of a recently-consumed brandy breakfast my way. And it wasn't yet 10am. Poor sod.

Ah well. Where do I go from here? I don't know. Wait for the tablets to take the edge off again, until the next crash. Face forty with a false fortissimo. Ask for help... but what help? I don't know what to ask for. All I know is I'm one very lost soul who just wants to find peace, but doesn't know where to look.

No mindless optimism to end with here. No witty "what is next for Lizzie" questions. I'm stumped. What IS next for Lizzie?