Find My Love - Part Two

As promised, here’s the next instalment of what – SPOILER ALERT – is not going very well at all. You may recall that I’ve placed my face above the parapet and into the firing line of internet dating once more. Having signed up and parted with hard-earned hard cash, it was time to look at some of the other victims…

The way it works is this: They offer up “matches” for your perusal, and they’re quite generous about it. The pairings are based on the responses given to the questionnaire, in categories like “Altruism”, “Exclusivity”, “Relationship Values” etc. There are fifteen groups, and how compatible you are for each is given as a percentage. Thus, you could look at the results and say “Well, we’ve got 95% agreeableness congruity, but only 81% extraversion…” and know that that means… er…

Anyway, they show you the ones with high percentages, on the premise that you will be more suited to each other. You can refine the matching process by tweaking more relevant factors. For example, I took any smokers out of the mix, once I’d cottoned on to the fact that this could be done. That’s one of the simpler criteria that would define a potential partner for me. After that, it gets a bit trickier. (For more on that, keep reading) My first batch of matches, selected by the Algorithms of Lurve using the above, were waiting. My romantic heart whispered: “Let’s get down to it – one of these could be one of The Ones!”

One of them could indeed be. Gulp.

Looking around the sides of the rose-tinted specs showed me fifteen or so photos of middle-aged men in various poses, that they had decided would bring in the laydees. Instantly I felt like a voyeur, and not in a good way. The photos made me sad. Here are men with hope in their eyes, looking for love. Life has led them to this point, as it has led me. I’m sad yet hopeful too, so I know how they might be feeling. I know that all the things I have to offer could lift many of their spirits, but not necessarily mine. NO! I must not do anything out of pity. I sifted through their profiles and felt much, much worse about the whole thing. I had a little paddy and a big cry. Why have I done this? WHY??

Then a sensible voice overruled the wailing infant: You’ve got three months. You don’t have to contact anyone, nor reply. If any dates arise from this, you can look upon them as practice, research, experience. Something to blog about. The same way you look at everything else.

Time passed ... 

It snowed. A LOT. 

I worked hard.

Bought a sofa from the Lions for £20, delivery included. Was smug. 

Went to an awards ceremony. Lost the award, but won a lot more. 

Some days, it was windy. 

Easter happened. Bernard was thrilled.  

... and time passed.

As it’s been nearly two months since I opened this particular worm container, I have learnt a few things about the sort of annelids that might get me dangling from their hooks. Things that are going to make it very difficult for me to ever find one to wriggle along with. I have decided to be fair. A single photograph might speak a thousand words, but they might all be incorrect: I need to read the accompanying profile before I draw my conclusions. Of course, I will encounter some things within said profiles that are going to get my finger hovering over the “NEXT” button. Enough of them will make me press it and move on. I see them as “STRIKES”, like in baseball, though it doesn’t always take three to make me take off.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Strikes…

Not into Music: It’s important to me to have something to share with a partner, and this is my thing. My dream relationship is someone to jam with, especially accompanying me singing. So, if I am searching for people in the same way I’d search for a fridge-freezer, I’d can choose the one with the most ideal characteristics for my needs.

Drinking/socialising: I couldn’t share this. Yes, I like to be around folk, but I’d rather be doing something at the same time. To have a purpose for being together that wasn’t just chatting. See me at a party. I’ll be the one offering to help serve, or tidy up, or provide entertainment. If anyone manages to pin me down for a chat, I’ll usually squirm out of it as soon as I can do it politely! Things are different when one remains sober.

Money: Not necessarily the fact that you’re rich, but that you think my knowing about it will make me get in touch. So you retired at thirty did you? Well you can enjoy that while I get on with my puzzle compiling/baking etc.

Travel: I’d love to travel more. I don’t because I’m broke, alone and nervous. Sure, maybe you could help me out here, and it would indeed be a wonderful thing to do together. It’s not a priority though, and my lack of cash in particular means I can’t make a good travel buddy.

Kids: A tough one. We all know my thoughts about being a mum. The list of reasons why I’m not one is into the 40s, as am I, and topped off with “I’d make a terrible mother.” Mind you, it could be negotiable - “I have kids” on a profile could mean that they’re grown-up. Where I call STRIKE is when they are shoved into the profile under every possible category. Passionate about? My kids. Thankful for? My kids. Spend your leisure time? With my kids. Some of them even infiltrate the photos, which does seem a bit of a safety breach. I’m glad that there are such devoted fathers in the world, but I know I can’t share that with them. Funnily enough, the number and gender of said offspring does make a difference. I’m less “STRIKE”y with sons, and the fewer the better, and I can’t explain why.

Sport: If you are a sporty chap, brilliant. You might be fit and healthy, and, depending on the sport, have a good sense of teamwork. Some sports appeal more than others e.g. cricket, golf. I could participate! I would certainly be happy to spectate. But there are different levels of sportiness, that go from the “plays it every day” to the “will watch anything that’s on Sky Sports”, and not all those levels are attractive.

I appear to be struggling to articulate here. I will watch rugby if it’s on and the person I’m with (and cares about) wants to watch it. I might have to be doing something else at the same time though. Ditto cricket. Football, less so. I used to, but over the years I have come to resent professional footballers and the multiples of nurses’ wages they are awarded to play increasingly disappointing and dull games. And motorsports? My mate’s husband was obsessed by F1. I can still hear the racket. I never understood how she put up with it. They’re divorced now, so maybe she didn’t.

Oh, and if you’re a gym bunny – forget it. Muscles turn me off more than money.

Gaming: The only thing worse than watching sport on a screen is gormlessly gawping at one for hours on end with a headset on, clutching whatever passes for a joystick these days.

One photo/Short profile: C’mon chaps, at least give me something to work with! Make me believe you’re serious.

Bad spelling/grammar/punctuation: Word’s cant express how much it pain’s me to see apostrophe’s being misused. Or when their not aware there getting they’re “theres” mixed up. Or if u type in txt spk. Or Put Capitals Where They Don’t Belong. or leave them out when they do.

*swallows little bit of sick*

Snobby? Moi? I prefer “discerning”. If this restricts my choices further, then so be it. I’ll take the hit.

Height: Tall, broad-shouldered girl with body issues; small, bony men make me feel like Shrek yada yada. I might have mentioned this one a bit before…

I could of course instruct the site to only show me the 6’3”, childless etc candidates, but I understand that it’s not as simple as that. Just because someone is a dad that likes football doesn’t instantly rule them out. Nobody is 100% compatible and actually, it’s good to have some different hobbies in order to spend time apart. That’s why short profiles are so annoying. I want to see the reasons why, not the reasons why not! Anything that pings my dinghy would be the opposite of a STRIKE. In this case, a “TWANG”. Guitar string? Pant elastic?? Make of that what you will.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Twangs…

Well Educated: University, you say? Oxford, you say? TWANG.

Funny: Got me to lol at something you’ve written? Unexpected humour? TWANG

Good Looking: Aw come on, I’m only human! TWANG

Over 6ft tall: Goes without saying (again). TWANG

Well-written profile: TWANG

Plays a musical instrument/sings: TER-BLOODY-WANG!

Oh, that’s it. Top six then.

But wait! One of the reasons why this entry has been turtle-heading its way to the internet is that the above lists scream SHALLOW, and that is a hideously unattractive trait, which I didn’t think I had… until I read what I wrote. I worry that it is forced out of one by this whole process. You’re choosing suitable candidates for a partner as you would pick out anything else from the internet. I know what I like on paper, but – as we all know, to our chagrin - that doesn’t always bear resemblance to the delivered product. I would probably not select my friends as my friends from their lives condensed into written profiles, and yet in reality I couldn’t live without them. Therefore, I’m glad we met in reality! It’s such a shame I don’t seem to meet chaps in the same way and have to resort to this.

Of course, this is just my side of the bed. I’m aware that I’m being judged just as I am judging, and that not everyone will be going beyond the profile picture. A few have, and a few of them have even got in touch. A very, very few. I’m wondering if one reason for this tumbleweed-strewn inbox might be that I am too easy to stalk online. Google “Lizzie, singer, Dursley” – all details on my eHarmony page – you get the vid of me singing at the xmas lights, and my surname. (Don’t bother joining the five people who have watched this video - it’s not me at my best!) What also come up are links to my Just Lizzie FB page which is fine… but again, there’s my last name plastered everywhere and with links to my main page, from where I link this blog. Hence a die-hard pursuer would have access to this bilge, and thus the growing suspicion that, if he dared to get in touch, he’d end up being publicly humiliated on these very pages. If you’re one of those guys, you’d be reading these words right now, so here’s a message just for you. If you’re not one of those guys, you can read it anyway:

Dear Internet Stalker,

Hi! If you’ve found this, you must be doing a sterling job with your stalking – well done you!

Please rest assured that I am not in the business of publicly humiliating ANYONE (other than myself, on occasions). I rarely mention names on this blog, or on my FB page, and would only write about you if you did something really mean to me that I could look back at later and laugh about, to stop me crying.

So, thank you so much for your continued interest. Don’t be afraid to send me a wonderful message now and make my day.

Ever grateful for your slightly creepy devotion,

Lizzie

x

On the subject of no takers, I read an article. This one, in fact:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/f0227cb3-c772-446c-a8dc-bfeb75a2ccd0

It states that the less you say, the more dates you get. It’s about Tinder (over my cold, lifeless corpse…) but I expect it’s the same all around the internet dating community, which might explain some of the pathetically short profiles I’ve been frustrated by. It might also explain my lack of contacts – I’m way too interesting! I don’t leave anything to mystique or elusion. But it’s ME. It’s pure me, splattered all over the page like a badly-timed chunder. I can’t be doing with salting the mine or arranging the cheese in a particular way to trap more mice. (No euphemism here!) Does this show that I’m actually not that desperate or is it yet another reflection of how unlikely I think it is that I, Lizzie, shall ever find a mate?

For who, in their right mind, could possibly want me? This thick-limbed flabby-thighed perimenopausal mess of hair and anxiety; this miniature-breasted (more about that soon…) saggy and baggy ageing teenager with a head-splitting laugh and a penchant for talking about herself 85% of the time? If hope didn’t burn eternally in my soul, I’d say forget it sister. The only chap you’ll have a meaningful relationship with is Ben and his pal Jerry. At least there'll be plenty of spooning.

Beshrew me, the lady’s in poor fooling today. Better a witty fool than a foolish wit! By my troth, I do believe I have been learning lines for Twelfth Night (CTK Hall, Thornbury, 6th – 9th June, http://octopus-thornbury.co.uk/ for more info) Read on, Macduff, and see if the next entry brings a Troilus to this Cressida, gawd bless thee. 

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) 

Black Betty/Rama Lama Ding Dong

I feel so useless, so hopeless.

This bastard illness has got a lot to answer for. I don’t think I can write, but I’m going to try – I’m desperate for relief. I’ve had the coal-coloured canine on my shoulders for weeks now and it’s making me so frustrated. I’m a prisoner in my own body.

On Friday night it was so overwhelming, I tried to fix on something, anything that I was looking forward to. There wasn’t anything. With every minute I am fighting the instinct to return to bed and space out, wasting the time and muscles of my nearly-forty-two-year-old bod. Why is this? Why me? Why can’t I just get on with things, the way that most other people seem to manage to, huh? HUH? This morning I was physically clinging to the mattress with fear. WHY? The other urge that plagues me continually is the “stuffing my face” one. Eating because it may comfort me, because it’s done that before. My appetite is bipolar – all or nothing. Even when it’s nothing, I’ll still sometimes cram stuff in in the hope it’ll make me feel better. It never does, and I never learn. I watch my belly rounding in the mirror and avoid stepping on the scales so often. The recent hot weather has had me lamenting every inch of myself. I hate me. No, I loathe me.

The last time I wrote it was of my housing crisis, the denouement of which was that the landlady put the house on the market and it sold. I was served notice a couple of weeks ago, which fortunately coincided with me finding somewhere else to live. So August will be a hive of transference: in to the new place on the 10^th; out of this lovely, wonderful home by the 15^th. It will be interesting to see how that affects this year’s birthday, two days later.

I knew I wouldn’t have been homeless, and I count that as a blessing. I had been looking at places to rent online since January. I knew that I would be able to find somewhere, even if it was a Bradley Stoke shoebox. I’d also had several offers of rooms and, right at the end of my search, two different friends’ properties became available to rent. I knew I was going to be housed. How lucky am I? Nevertheless, I trawled through hundreds of dwellings, shacks, flats, bungalows, as notified by Zoopla and Rightmove. I saw so much beige carpet and magnolia wall, I began to worry that my laptop had stopped displaying colour. Also small kitchens, non-existent gardens, close neighbours: nowhere grabbed me enough to take control and leave.

The ones that did catch my attention were slightly quirkier – cottages, converted barns, that kind of thing. Number 18 arrived into my life on a Monday afternoon, while I was in the middle of working: a Zoopla email alert onto which I clicked with the usual non-commitment. Seconds later I was twanged out of my haze by quaint red brick semi-detachedness. Hours later, I was standing in it, and again even later with my best friends. We all agreed it was a good match. Luckily, its owner thought the same of me and the deal was done, not forty-eight hours after first learning of its existence.

It is definitely cottagey, and much less ideal for me than here (at £45 pcm more too, though that was inevitable.) It’s smaller, without garage or boarded loft. No gas cooker, no large kitchen workspace, no upstairs toilet. And, to begin with, no allocated parking. The natural light coming in from the free side will be obscured by the house currently being built on what used to be its garden – 18A. Yet there was something about it. I knew as soon as I saw it that I was going to be living there, just like I had known when I saw the kitchen I am sitting in now. Funny. I will make it work.

I am proud of my behaviour throughout this awkward situation that I’m sure many others must face every day. I have been co-operative to idiot levels. Every time there was a viewing, I cleaned up. I de-cluttered and did as much as I could do make the house saleable. I did my best to put viewers at ease and not cower in a corner blubbing. Though I didn’t always achieve the latter, I did it so discreetly that I don’t think I ruined anything for the estate agents. Even now I continue to answer the phone when they call, cheerfully making time for visits from the outgoing landlady, surveyors, builders etc. And the new buyers – that was a tricky one. Having all these strangers stomping through my home over the last four months has been pretty nasty, but the lucky sods who managed to succeed where I failed – to get a mortgage and be able to own this house??? No offence to them, they seemed ever so nice, and I know they will love here as much as I have done. I tried to stay calm, but I was working myself into such a snotty mess, I thought I’d better clear off until they’d left. Never let them see you cry. Happily, the young chap from the agency who accompanied them had accompanied them, and he chatted to me gently to take my mind off my misery long enough to offer them the cakes I’d made especially for the occasion. Idiot, see?

This unsettled sensation has been with me from the very moment the For Sale sign appeared in the front garden, and now I know that there is an end to my tenancy, it’s got much worse. The enforced thinning out of possessions and subsequent move has triggered this paralysis. To explain it to someone who has never gone through this – it’s as if some invisible entity is sitting on my shoulders, pushing them down. My freakishly long monkey arms are pinned to my sides; my hands curled into fists. I press my chest in the centre to relieve the ache and to feel comforted. I’ve even taken to – oh this is so tragic – taken to hugging myself and stroking my neck, to relieve the agitation. You know like your annoying brother used to do, to make it look as if he’s having a snog, then he’d turn around and reveal it was just him? No? Only me then. That might explain a lot.

The conflict too is tremendous. I am teeming with loneliness, going through whole days without human contact. Yet it’s too much to pop next door to the neighbour (also lonely), or visit friends. I’ve even found it hard to continue with the volunteering that was so therapeutic to me. Hopefully I’ll be back to that after M-Day. When I am out, the pull of my home, and thus safety, is so strong. Rather than be out and in company, I want to stay hidden. Preferably in my bed, with Star Trek TNG on Netflix, a bowl of assorted chocolates and a computer strategy game on my laptop, the mindless playing of which is wrecking my thumbs. My dislike of myself is that gargantuan, I don’t care to inflict me on any other living soul. Don’t get me started on boyfriend stuff either. How can I expect someone to love me when I don’t even like me? Who am I going to meet if I never go out?

This time last year, the local boot fairs were gems in the turd of my life; this year I struggle to derive the same pleasure from them. Knowing that I’m supposed to be downsizing takes all the fun out of spending money I don’t have on things I don’t need. I went today, but passed most of the time worrying that I need others to be going through my crap and offering me 50p for it, not vice versa.

Why do I keep going? What is the point of me? I ask that over and over in conversations with my various stuffed toys (Bernard the Bunny downstairs, Abbraccio the overworked Bear on my duvet.) The truth is, I don’t know. I have some very dear friends, and I like being around them. They in turn do a sterling job of keeping me afloat. There’s not much in our relationship for them, yet they still answer my calls. That piece of craziness maintains my sanity. My heart bursts with love. Another thing that has pervaded my life is this mystery hobby that I have banged on about in the last couple of entries. I’ve been doing it since February 2016 and it’s having an interesting effect. As-yet-unrevealed is about to be revealed, but first you have to guess….

That’s what I said to my family before my mother’s visit last June, where she found out what I’d been up to when I took her directly to watch it. Some of their guesses were, quite frankly, unflattering. Pigeon fancier? Nope. Pole dancer? Maybe next year. Mamma actually hit the nail squarely on the bonce with one of her last guesses, though I played the game all the way until I took her to the church one Tuesday evening… and around the side, and up the tower to watch me ring the bells.

Yes, I’m a campanologist. An atheist campanologist at that, something which I am having no difficulty maintaining, especially as my respect in the beliefs of others seems to be reciprocated. At least, if anyone really minds, no-one has said. Everyone has kindly refrained from telling me I’m wrong, or making me stay to the services that sometimes accompany our branch meetings. In repayment, I’ve been squirm-free throughout any praying I’ve been accidentally caught in, and asked intelligent questions rather than laughing openly into my companions’ faces when the J chap is mentioned. To be fair, that’s rarely happened. Oh world, it’s so important that we accept each other. What a different place it would be if we could all live and let live! But I digress.

Who’d have thunk it, eh? Me, dangling off sallies every weekend (which sounds like one of their naughtier hobby suggestions, thank you family…) When I was at York doing my PGCE, (back in… oh crikey, twenty freakin’ years ago this autumn!!! And this is supposed to making me feel better?? Cue over-use of punctuation. Man!!!!!) Anyhow, York, PGCE, ages ago etc, we had to give presentations on a hobby of ours. I don’t remember what mine was about, but one of the mature students in our group – a lady called Susan – gave hers on bell ringing. Oh, how we laughed. How we howled with derision behind her back. She spoke so passionately about it, not just in the presentation. It was clearly a massive part of her life. What a weirdo, we guffawed, and bonded with our mutual dislike of her and her stupid pastime. Well I wish I could find this lady now, because I would apologise repeatedly to her face. Not just because the group never really gelled with her, and she must have found that unpleasant, but also because she was right to get excited about a hobby that makes so many small-minded idiots like I was back then react so disapprovingly.

When I say what I do, I say it proudly. I am proud! Look at all the places it’s taken me in sixteen months: I practice once a week minimum, and ring Sunday mornings for services, walking to and from the church as much as possible. I’ve rung at several weddings, despite my cynicism for such events, and I get a small payment each time. I’ve rung at most of the local churches; at Tewkesbury Abbey, where they have twelve bells and six churches in Wales; I rang on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, which helped me feel less lonely; I rang in 2017 at St Mary’s, Thornbury – the best start to a year ever. I’ve rung two Quarter Peals, which is forty-five minutes non-stop, no mistakes allowed, and I want to do more. Even though I’ve been terrified, I’ve done all this. Why? Because…

Firstly, it’s bloody difficult. Never mind mastering the technique and the fact that you are controlling a lump of metal that might be several times your body weight, swinging it around above your head. Once you’ve grasped it, literally, you’re into learning “methods”. (Like a “tune”, but not really ‘cos it’s more about sequence than music.) That’s where you have to concentrate and remember and really control. You have to learn a whole new jargon as well. Look to, treble’s going, she’s gone, go plain bob doubles, bob, bob, single, this is all, rounds, stand – that’s a conversation, that is! With it comes phrases that turn me into Finbarr Saunders: “I couldn’t pull it off, it was too stiff.” Fnarr fnarr. “Don’t stop, I’m not quite up yet.” Arrrrooga! “Long, slow strokes… let it go all the way up,” etc, shameful etc. By employing a touch of self-discipline, I’m able to be present and respectful and dignified at all times, which for me is pretty darned amazing.

Secondly, it’s physically demanding. This must be the first summer in years where I’ve not given two hoots about whether or not my arms are covered when I go out, even though I’m a good stone heavier than I’d like. All that donging behind (yip! Yip!) really makes a girl tone up.

Thirdly, it’s mentally stimulating. All the lovely, lovely maths and patterns, and learning. Guffaw if you will, but it’s probably this part that keeps me coming back for more each week, and thus strengthening my body and smoothing out my ruffled mind.

Lastly, and by no means leastly, I’ve met a really interesting bunch of people and have a connection with many others countrywide. As a ringer, you can go into any tower and ask to join in! I’m already into double figures tower-wise. While the groupings might be different, the dopamine reward for teamwork is the same. So everything about this pastime contributes to my continued existence, maybe even making me well again.

So now you know. And you also know how much it means to me to be accepted by these wonderful, interesting people, and to be educated, encouraged and even commended by them too.

In terms of productivity, this evening’s not been what it might have. In between rounds of Lines ’95 and Captain Picard, and a bacon and mushroom sarnie with Daddies’ Sauce – something I can manage to get on the outside of, no matter how rubbish I feel - I’ve put together the bilge that you are now scraping from your eyeballs. I value your sacrifice, though I cannot be held responsible for alcohol subsequently consumed. This lonely girl, bashing away at a keyboard (while resting her head on a fed-up ted) has been able to reach out to the world for a few hours. Thank you for that.

Will this Boot Fair Bitch get a Boot Fair pitch? When can repeating the phrase “it’s going to be all right” actually start to hit home? Plot a course for the next entry at warp factor four to find out. Engage.