unverifiable-frogmatter

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

On Suicide

“Make a stupid remark, kill yourself. You like the movie, you live. You miss the train, kill yourself ...“

I’ve missed mental health awareness week. But then it doesn’t matter, because I am aware of it all the time. Sometimes I even talk about it.

As this is more of an open diary, than a blog, I write from the heart, so maybe one day, somebody might get something from it. 

The above quote, I associate with pretty well. To me, it sums up mental illness and all its oft fleeting forms, really rather well. I’ve been thinking about suicide and, as I have known someone who completed suicide, I would be doing her a disservice to not note it for posterity. 

I don’t even know if I meant to use those particular words, you see I have been steadily losing a grip on my once rather splendid vocabulary. I seldom care. I carry the mantle of a potential failure about my shoulders, and I don’t care. 

It’s not that I care not, I care less. I am aware of the gigantic implication of failure, at this juncture in my life. Suicide flits across my awareness.

I’ve tried it a few times, don’t you know. With no success I might add. 

I’ve never died. I suppose I am lucky for that, in that it was ill-timed and lacking in genuine rationale. If I should take my own life, there should be a beautiful reason for it. By that, I mean, one I have come to terms with.

Suicide is painless. Doubtless true for the deed completer, but not, nor ever, for those left to find out and to question why. 

I’ve lost a lot of people. Death is not an uncommon thing, it’s not a unknown entity. I nearly died. People laughed, most, that mattered, cried. I survived.

I like the idea, that there is a common theme for those who experience death, a loved one you know, is waiting for you, you are aware, but completely at peace. That kind of thing. 

What is more terrifying than death, is the concept of not being at peace with yourself. How do you come back from that? How can you reconcile yourself to it, if you aren’t ready? I think there is a degree of knowledge, when the time is coming close. But what about the surprise ending? Is it just a surprise to those who are still alive?

Kill yourself.

I don’t feel ready for ending my life. I like to flirt with the idea that I have a lot more I can do with my life, I might make a difference. I want to make a good difference. I want to be memorable for good reasons. But I’m often fed up of merely existing. My life is on hold, yet it constantly moves forward. One minute it is all good, another minute catastrophic. Like the line quoted at the top. Fleeting variations in my day.

I suppose I am more vulnerable than I like or care to admit. Realistically, I wound very easily. But I’m getting better at concealing it. Nobody tolerates a weak person. For long.

Have you ever thought about ending your life? Have you made plans? How would you do it? 

Have you ever asked someone questions like these?

You could save a life. It’s a weird concept, because up until now, it seems, suicide was meant to be something shrouded in secrecy. Because someone who goes through with it often leaves no clues as to their intentions. Or do they?

I believe that there are clues and signs screaming out, if you are tuned in enough, and courageous enough to ask such difficult questions.

There is a likelihood that, a child who experiences the loss of a loved one to suicide, is highly likely to complete suicide themselves.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Death

Death is a funny one. Just when you think your lack of emotional reaction to everything means you’re on the road to recovery, you get the breath-stopping, sharp clawing lump in the throat, reminder that they were once, now they are not. Here.

Death stops for nobody, not even the remarkable ones who have seemingly “cheated” old Grim. It’s just what the term “cruel twist of fate” was written for. Nobody gets out alive. And so here I am, poisoning myself, doing myself some untold damage, and I got that cruel instant pain of loss. It’s not just loss of a loved member of my life circle, it’s the painful sense of betrayal, when the creeps emerge from their rocks to mock you with their intense loathing for you, the lies that they have been holding on to just long enough, to really remind you that you are now in fact, very much alone. They never cared, and they never will, they got what they wanted out of you and then left you, like the disposable person you are. We all are, in fact, disposable. 

I wonder, will they re-emerge one day? What will the context be? Will they lie, and cry and lie again, for the sake of appearances? 

For now, I will unashamedly say Thank You, from the ventricles of my heart, for being there, to walk me down the aisle, to amazing me as you played your beloved drums, for being ‘Papa’ to my beautiful boy and adoring and doting on him. I thank you for being in my life since I was so much younger, and for being the shining light for my mum. I thank you for your fatherly love and fierce protection of me, and the acceptance of everything my family is. I thank you for everything you have taught me, for filling my world with humour and heroism, for making me cry because I love you and miss you so much. For being gorgeous, inside and out and for always finding the humour. The most heroic thing about you is you, and always will be. I love you DaDave. 

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Thought of the day

As is my wont, I had a considerably weird thought. 

I am carrying around with me, the small remains of a human being, and this is all I have left of him, in a tiny necklace.

This is weird, and considering my morbid fascination with morbid things, you might think it is normal. But it isn’t.

What is nice about it is, that it means he can still travel around, and he can experience things that I experience. 

My initial reasoning behind having this part of him with me, was for him to be there for my graduation. Seems silly now, because the bigger picture took hold, when I actually took a moment of clarity. My original reasoning somehow now seems too transient, like what am I going to do with it afterwards? I like the idea that I can continue his earthly ambulation, at least in a totally disembodied way. 

Sometimes I worry that there is not enough of him in there, but I realise, that even if there were more, it wouldn’t change the fact that he is dead, and that even a token small part of him is better than having nothing at all. 

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Yea boi

As I sit here, smoking and feeling generally crappy about myself, I see the above picture, and  I think... What would Dime do?

Life grows abundant in my garden, the new bulbs are budded, the day has been beautiful, and I have met some high-ranking people, who are interested in me and getting my perception on things. You’d think to yourself, why are you polluting yourself and feeling so down?

You’d be right to wonder. I wonder myself. Just when I think I’m back on track, and exciting opportunities are out there for the taking. But for me I feel crappy and hopeless. I’m nearing the end of my degree and there are a lot of things I could do with my life when I’ve got my qualification, but I wonder a lot, about my real motivation.

One of the worst things you can do, is compare yourself to others, especially going by what they post online, self-promoting how amazing their lives are. I have fallen into that trap so many times. And still I ask, what would Dime do? 

Dime is a hero, not because he drank to epic proportions which, were he still alive today, would no doubt be causing him a lot of health problems. No, Dime is a hero because he represents the happy person I wish I could let myself be. He is permanently etched into my, and millions of others’ consciousness, as a one in a million, a one of a kind. Someone who defined himself and stayed true to what was important to him. 

I lost my dad this year and I think I have lost my will to continue on the route that I have been on for the past 5 years. I don’t really know what it is I am doing. I just want to be happy, and I think I’ve made a rod for my back in choosing what I have done. I’m not where I want to be and I’m not really sure what to do about it. 

I don’t know if suicidal cuts it, but I think what I am internalising is the thought that, if I fell asleep and didn’t wake up, perhaps things would be better. I feel like I am wasting time. I’m fed up, but I know that things could be better. It seems most like it’s taking too long. But what happened to taking your time and “getting there”? Why does life have to be so fast paced, and high achieving, especially among the young? I didn’t exactly have an amazing childhood, but I look back at the time in which I was a child, and I do think that there was something amazing about it. 

I was 8 when my dad came into my life. He made my and my families life better, just for having him in it. I thank him for that. I wouldn’t give him back for the world. But what I would give to have him back. I never called him dad, I called him by his Christian name. I don’t think that would change, because that is just me. But the cruelty and loss imposed by his unexpected death has raised questions and ultimately left a void that is never going to be filled. He was stolen from us by a twist of fate that just set in motion the end of his life. He overcame lung cancer, and his body was on the mend. How fucking sad is that? 

I think depression is the theme of my biological family. But survival is also a theme. Do I want to buck that trend by bringing about my own unnatural end? Most of me says no. I look and I see there is more to this picture than just me. But where do I fit in this picture? I can’t really see.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Time robs us all.

And we were robbed. One hundred percent. 

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Emotional Weariness

Internal stress over my feelings on things which I can do nothing about.

It has been almost 13 years since the murder of Dimebag Darrell. Even now, it still seems unreal that he is gone. My heart aches for the people that were closest to him, I could tear myself up over the fact that he’ll never write another riff, I won’t get to see him live, experience the joy of being near him, the warmth that exuded from him, share a shot with him, tell him how much his music and who he was has changed my life...

I want and need more people like Dime in my life. I want to share that kind of outlook. I found his girlfriend on Facebook and I really wanted to add her, but didn’t do it, because I don’t know her and didn’t want to be creepy. But what I am feeling is the need to have that human connection, the soul enriching connection to that and those which I admire, that link to what makes my feelings soar, which I find from time-to-time, that I just want to live 24/7, what I can feel flooding my veins, that I don’t feel like an entire lifetime is ever going to be long enough to fully enjoy in its entirety. 

It’s a weird thing, this thing called admiration, because you can have it for anyone, and it can be all-consuming, overwhelming, scary, frustrating, warming, unrealistic... Anything you allow it to be. The fact that Dime had a smile that was infectious, that he had time for everyone, came across as a happy, friendly and innocent soul, talent insurmountable, a sharing, giving nature, makes me want to be like him, makes me so fundamentally sad that he is no longer in the world - incapable of comprehending why he get murdered or how anyone could take the time and effort to defile his memory and his final resting place. 

All of it makes me cry, as though he was a personal friend that I lost. And to be honest, he could just so easily have been, his willingness to be so accessible to his fans. 

I am eternally grateful to people who have personal mementoes, memories of him, that are amazingly sharing with the world, of their personal keepsakes - videos, tape recordings, encounters. I watched a video that someone took of a band performing in a pub, where Dime walked in with Rita, his soulmate, and the band got Dime to come up onstage, which he did and performed several numbers with them. I love that, he was so cool, unpretentious and down to earth. This is why I want to surround myself with that kind of positivity. I am crying just thinking about that. It’s messed up, its unfair and there is nothing I can do about it, except express my feelings on it. 

I went with my husband and son to a local music shop, owned and run by a really cool guy, Jamie. Prior to this, I think it was the night before, I’d said to husband, if I see a Dean from Hell, I’m just going to have to have it. Well, there wasn’t one of those, but there was a Dime Signature Washburn (Dime 32), which had the powerful sound that made Dime so unique and special. I’m a lefty, and one day I will own a signature Dime - but I’ll never have the skill, charisma and  ingenuity of the original - my hero. 

Gone - never forgotten, and always missed. 

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Like Suicide

When you are training, some of the professionals seem to treat you like you don’t know what it’s like to be one of their patients; to want to die. To feel anxiety, to hate yourself, to feel irrational fear. Or to want to complete suicide. 

Complete suicide.

I dislike that term, “commit suicide” says it more poetically. But, much like everything has to be, the label for it has changed to one of the more literal intonation.

I don’t think there has to be one big thing that causes someone to complete the deed. Your contract is signed in blood one way or another. Sometimes it takes nothing more than a series of little events to cumulate into what is ultimately the final push.

Chris Cornell sang about it, it’s all over his music, and yet the act was a devastating blow, like 2016 all over again.

I sit here feeling hopeless. Those small things are accumulating, the Tempranillo is burning its way through me.

This is all it takes. 

There is always something that pulls me back, but the shit remains. 

There is so much more I want from life. But these things are only going to happen at the instigation of someone else. I am no longer me. 

Sometimes life and its daily events fill me full of the wonder of possibilities, of what I am going to do, where it can take me. Today knocked that out of me. It only takes a little thing.

Nobody should have that ability to do that to someone else. Shows you how powerful and how fragile we are. 

I am full of dualism; the sense of amazement at the achievements of humankind, and the revulsion at the destruction we are capable of. 

But what I do love, is that nature always gets the last laugh. 

Take Chernobyl for instance, intrinsically uninhabitable to humankind, except for the hard core of oldies who refused to be evacuated since the 1986 disaster. But more importantly; the range of wildlife that is thriving there now. Humans can no longer touch it. That’s a beautiful one in the eye for Mother Nature.

So I am fed up. But I will get up tomorrow and carry on.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Thoughts

Primarily, this little entry is driven by my contemplation of the events of Monday. 

Horrendous and devastating as it was, and continues to be, there are lessons in all of this.  Or realisations.

These murderers, it seems, are intent on blowing humankind back to the middle ages. 

Back. There is no moving forward, in their intentions.

I’ve been doing reading and learning about this period of time. It’s a very dark time. 

Wars, plague, bloodshed on a monumental scale. 

This is what the terrorists want us to return to. But this is not progress. Back then it was progress, protection or furtherance of ways of life. Humans are built to progress, they are engineered to grow and develop, it’s only a gene mutation that causes them to be retarded. And I say that in only a scientific way.

So what does this mean? 

Are terrorists retarded?

No, that would be an insult to those born like that, because that is how their biology is made up.

Terrorists are backward-thinking, and determined in their quest to make everyone like them. 

Thank fuck for progress. Thank fuck for free-thinking individuals, masses, masses of individuals, that protect our humanity, rather than trying to pervert it.

It’s a genuine sense of the unfair, that drives my feelings. I don’t want my child to grow up, knowing this barbarity exists, even now. 

Children are innocent - and these perverts want to corrupt their innocence, for a sick ideology that gains nothing, but a murderous cause that belongs to them, and them only.

I fear for the children over there, in the war-torn brutality that they have long become accustomed to. It makes me deeply sad for them, they should only know a childhood that is long, full of play and development, and love.

I feel sorry for the innocent parents, that lose their children to false ideology. Allegedly the murderer spoke to his mother but hours before he stole masses of innocent lives, he said “forgive me”. Did he think there was some kind of romantic fatalism in that? Like the history books would devote pages to remembering his heroism? I hope his mother spits on his memory.

He will be forgotten, much like the masses of so-called martyrs for the murder of innocents. Their black deeds will fade into obscurity, much like their blasted body parts. 

What a waste of a body, that is so perfectly engineered for the infinite possibilities for which its being was intended.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Room a Thousand Years Wide

The pensive thrills and swells, the anger and rage-filled voice, the beauteous wonder of the darkness of it all.

Why can’t bands make music this complex any more?

This is my tribute to Chris Cornell. I am still in a state of disbelief. I watched Pete Thorn’s video tribute to his friend and, even though I don’t share his experiences in common, I understood at a gut level, when he said things that resulted in tears in my eyes. Things I could genuinely relate to.

2016 was a horrific year for loss in the humanities. But in terms of unexpected loss, the suicide of Chris Cornell ranks high.

I suppose this is representative of the reckless abandon with which people approach mental illness. All the campaigns in the world, cannot stop its insidious nature, when one person, even having battled it for years and seemingly being ok, it creeps up and takes victims indiscriminately.

I imagine, in those artists which are loved on a national scale, a global scale - something stupendously incomprehensible to most mortals - the equivalence is in being in a crowded room screaming with nobody hearing you. 

I can attest that, everything can be ticking over nicely, and then all of a sudden, somebody commits suicide, or severely harms themselves without warning, or any kind of inclination from those closest to them. It is the hand that reaches out and grabs you in the night, leaving nothing for people to hold on to in the morning.

Most people leave signs, or give some suggestion, but what they are relying on, is either that someone will be sharp enough to jump to their rescue in time, or everyone is so obtuse as to be ignorant of the signs until it is too late. Either way, something is proven - that the suicidal person is cared about or they are not. 

It’s an extremely hurtful and diseased way of living and approaching ones own death. But nobody is immune from it, you’re only seen to be predisposed to it if there is addiction, or family predisposition, or a personal history that is laid open like a book for all to see. 

I’m going to be open and say that I often think about killing myself. I don’t know how I would do it. I fantasise about it being painful. I cannot see it really happening - there are things for me to hold on to. 

People who see it through, they might have devoted partners and cute children. So why do they complete suicide?

This is an extremely complicated question, and I can only speak from my own experience, observations and experience. I think there may be an element of selfishness there, however...

I would also say that, when you are feeling so hopeless that, you do not see your being there as being worthwhile in anything, even when you have a child, or children, it is hard to justify the continual mental suffering.

But why not just seek counselling or therapy?

Well this is a sticky subject, and particularly for me.

I went to see a counsellor when I was younger, who continually wasn’t there and didn’t contact me to tell me they wouldn’t be there, until I was already on the journey to get there. This is the truth, and I discovered from my notes, that the daft cunt had written falsehoods about me. 

Of course, professionals, who truly value their positions will not abuse said position and lie like the shitty bitch I mentioned there. However, I can say, it is certainly easy to lose faith in those we seek to help us, when they judge us and refuse to help in the manner in which we need, or they fail to establish and maintain clear channels of communication. Such as a whatever she was, who saw me, at my own request. I was a mess when I saw her first and better when I saw her again, she closed my case without letting me know, and wrote some shit in my records, having failed to refer me to the clinician she was supposed to. 

I hate self-important people like that.

So I can sympathise with the lack of continuity and the absolute bullshit people write about you, thinking you won’t ever find out. The pity is in the fact that it gets discovered so far down the line, that these incompetent dickheads never get called to account.

Mental illness is a fucking hellbroth; take the bastard seriously.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Tempus fuckit

I am plain exhausted. Exhausted mentally, exhausted physically. 

I’m exhausted trying to do, say, be; the right thing, the right way. What is “right”, anyway? Everyone seems to have their own take on it, but what is it? When life is precious and every motivational meme out there tells us to just “follow your dreams”; “live as if there is no tomorrow”, blah blah blah. But in all honesty, I am so over this picky, I-know-better-than-you existence. 

Hey guys, I am trying to be one of the good people, why must you keep testing me, when all the bad ones get the easy way out?

Why must it be, that those who choose a “righteous” path, must be the ones who are tested until they are broken? Isn’t the main thing the fact that the right path was chosen in the first place? I’m fucking sick of it. It’s exhausting.

If my choices aren’t right, then I don’t know what is really “wrong”.

Crime pays

Obedience slays

Something like that. 

I’m supposing that this is too intellectual, or existential or whatever, to be followable. I am not one of those people that seem to have any kind of popular opinions. But that’s not what bothers me. 

What bothers me, is that I’m really trying to be a better person; reflect on my flaws and try to do something good about them, but all that seems to come of it is that it’s not good enough, like anyone ever really is. 

I don’t think I have the magical formula, that makes me approvable, even to those closest. 

I don’t really want to share all of myself, but it feels like I need to, in order to offload. Nobody’s watching, just jump, fuck sakes, let go of it all.

I’ve been a mum for 7 years now, I’ve been there and I’ve done that. Nobody wants my opinions. Actually, one friend does. One friend values my knowledge, and when it came to it, I didn’t know what to say. It’s tough, and maybe I’ve shied away from it, because so many others, even those who shouldn’t, have thrown opinions at me, unsolicited and fully weighted. 

I’ve been married for 10 years. It seems like nothing short of a miracle. And in spite of every trial we have put each other through, it still seems that nothing has changed. Well I have. I’ve made decisions about my approaches to challenging aspects. But it’s not enough, even in the self-mustered calm, a piercing threat to my efforts impregnates my every effort. 

I’m being deliberately abstract. But it’s most likely a wasted effort. Much like the effort that gets thrown back in my face by certain someone.

I have considered myself to be extremely lucky in so many aspects of my personal life. But maybe it’s just me, it doesn’t seem like I’m that much of a gift. Harsh words so easily thrown say as much.

I’m to blame for everything that is wrong - the house looks like shit - must be my fault, the dishes weren’t done - must be my fault, you are going to be late - it must be my fault, I am only human - must be something wrong with me, with what I am doing.

Always my fault - never anyone else’s. 

I’m still trying to be the best person I can be.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

When you are awake at stupid o’clock and you know you are going to be knackered for the rest of the day, but...

It’s just not right, is it?

I decided to eat the tortelloni left in my fridge, I made an executive decision and owned it.

That’s the problem. Not in eating it, per-se, but I won’t have any later on. But I’m hungry now, so that’s ok.

What is not ok, is being awake at this time. I have an appointment at 9, so this is calamitous really. 

I think it started with me waking up and needing to go to the toilet - perfectly natural, after all, I am getting older and going a whole night uninterrupted is no longer part of my regular sleep pattern. This I can cope with, after all, I don’t want to wake up, fully slept, to an unpleasant surprise. So at least my brain still functions at a primal level. My reptilian brain is still alive and well.

What worries me more is my daily functioning. And not just mine, but everyone’s. Really, not being able to do or say or act in any way without the need to qualify it, or second-guess one’s own actions, rationale, relevance and standing in amongst others’ own sensibilities. 

I got caught up in reading, not just one post, but almost all of the resulting commentary on said post. It seems that nothing is conversation any more, it’s competition - “I’m right, you’re wrong”. Apologist states of mind. “I disagree with you because I don’t understand what you mean, so I am going to shout you down and back you into a corner, cause you to feel you have offended not just me, but everyone, because I jumped to a conclusion therefore I must be right and you politically incorrect”. 

Something along those lines.

In actuality, it all stemmed with racism. And privilege. White privilege, in fact. And an entirely new concept that I had never considered before; black people, by virtue of their colour, race, whatever, cannot be racist.

I am shocked by this, but not surprised. 

By virtue of myself, I am not racist, however I accept that I am fallible and possess the potential to be prejudiced and judgemental.

By virtue of being human, and sharing this with all other people, of any colour shape, build, race, religion - or lack thereof, gender or gender association etc. etc., ad infinitum, everyone has the potential to be racist - or to not be racist.

I accept that at a personal/individual and systemic level - racism is generally something directed towards people of a different ethnic minority/colour/religion/persuasion. HOWEVER... It’s just not a unilateral thing. And injustice exists at all levels, in all ethnicities - white/caucasian being included as an ethnicity. White apologist mentality is ridiculous. The post I am referring to was made by a black person and they were being shouted down by WHITE apologists lecturing him on black injustices. 

Just to boil it down to its most simplistic form and remove all need for argument regarding nuances and finer points and the like - this is endemic of our Western society/societies, and it is called political correctness. 

I think the ability to articulate ones own point of view is a beautiful thing, but the propensity to take anything anyone says and slap a political embargo on it is stupidity in extremis. It’s also dangerous. It gives certain mentalities credence to justify their own ignorance by labelling a general population, or an individual as racist. In a sense it is extremely easy to become a racist, without having that intention.

To say that black people can’t be racist propagates an idea that they are somehow a separate humanity. And frankly it is complete bullshit.

I’ve experienced racism, I’ve been called an “English bitch”, in spite of the fact that I am not English. This was from a complete random person, who is white. But I’ve also been referred to as “white girl”, and by the same person, told that I wouldn’t be noticed, because I “blend in” (story short). These examples, in themselves, are hardly the most offensive things said about me, when taken in isolation, but when you consider the source and then try and say, “but they are black, so it can’t be racist”, I’ll argue tooth and nail that it most definitely is racist. It’s taking my colour and subverting it - setting me apart from her, all she saw was my colour, not me - the individual who wasn’t calling her “black girl”. If I had called her “black girl”, do you think that I’d get called a racist straight away? Put it in context with her referring to me as “white girl”. It seems ridiculous, and on the face of it it is. And racism is ridiculous. But it is also serious, given it’s historical context. But I would argue again, that just because I don’t have a history of white slavery behind me, doesn’t mean I haven’t personally experienced oppressive treatment and prejudice. I have experienced that, I’ve experienced adversity, but I don’t feel the need to ram it down someones throat when they do the same to me.

It is nauseating how some people use social media to prop themselves up as having the liberal upper hand, and yet the way they speak to others is just as oppressive as the historical basis for their self-righteous outrage. And they are often the most privileged of privileged - they have a voice and place to air their views, not everyone has that, and the irony of it is that it is just a voice, in amongst all others. It’s the shouting down of other standpoints that is frankly irritating. 

I’ve struggled a lot, to try and articulate my views without somehow sparking the self-propelled righteous outrage of others, but then, when I think about it, I ask myself why? Do they question their own actions as much, or do they blindly believe that their views are the only ones that are valid? In which case, is it worth being so considerate? If I value myself and my opinions, as well as those of others, then yes. If the other side wishes to try and shout me down regardless of what I say, then I suppose it’s less energy wasted just to let them. 

Take the utter ignorance of the female who called me an English bitch; I tried arguing with her, saying that I wasn’t, and it was like butting my head against an immovable object. Same can be said for those airing their opinion online. Everyone has one, everyone is entitled to have one, because, like arseholes, we all need something with which to excrete. Same again can be said about opinions - a lot of them are just wasted air, a lot of it is just shit being spoken because it “just needs to be said”. Unfortunately, unlike arseholes, opinions don’t always serve a purpose, but almost always, someone is going to get offended by what it is.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Never underestimate other people and their propensity to disappoint.

Believe me, I know. I have been there, I have disappointed myself many a time. The difference between me and certain unmentionables, is that I try and get better at not doing it.

To that end, to preserve dignity for those that might dislike what I am about to disclose, names shall remain nameless.

My disappointment is poignant, so I am recording it for posterity. 

Short story - I send a picture or two, of a happy moment, to someone I thought would respond in a suitable way, and the sad response (there in no happiness in it), belies a plaintive and pitiful concern for the stuff we (myself and another) are sat upon.  

This may seem frivolous, and most things in life are, when you take them for granted, but the sentiment to me, effectively represents so much about my life. 

Trust, I have written invectives in the past, for all to see, details and all, and instead of the subject taking it as something they needed to think about, it was put back on me. This might be fair, I don’t care for others airing their dirties in public, so why should I do it? I was treated as an embarrassment and made to take my writing down, as though my pain was just so easy to eradicate. I believe it was called a “cry for help”, however it was diminished to dust, as “attention-seeking”. I’ve seen that shit before and what it does to people. 

I’m stronger than that now, but my difficulties in dealing well with, well, difficulties, has been long and drawn out. Combative on occasions.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, hey?

I’m fairly numb to it now, Sunday Drivers aside, I think my anger levels are getting far more manageable for others. To a degree. I find it hard to believe anyone will believe me.

Perhaps I should write poetry.

In all earnestness, I try to let the small stuff wash over me, it’s not worth it after all, but sometimes...

I just want to let the silence do the talking. But I’m still not sure the message goes in. 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. After all, we are all on our way out alone, just as we came in. There’s that modicum of isolation we all have from one another. Anyone that thinks they need someone else, feel a real need, for validating their sense of existence, obviously hasn’t realised that sometimes, just sometimes, we do need to be truly alone.

We need that silence, that comes from no judgements, no expectations, no disappointments, just truly and completely being one entire person. Until we can learn to live with ourselves, how can we be a part of another person’s life? 

That’s true of loving and caring. It all needs to exist for ourselves before it can really be given amongst others. 

That’s why it is important to be strong enough not to get disappointed by other people’s shortcomings. And that is often the hardest thing to do, when you cannot love yourself. 

It’s also difficult, when you are already wrapped up inside someone else’s existence; we all do it, we forget we exist, or used to exist, as one entire person, with all our own something or other, and now, because we are inside this bubble of another life, something of our own is taken away. 

Maybe some people like that, maybe their own life was too much to handle, and the deflection for another is far more appealing, I get that as well.

I’m not going to deny that for some, completion is in the thrall of another. I’m just not that kind of person. 

Maybe I would have been, if past experiences had been different. But my life is what has shaped me to be who I am today. You probably don’t like that.

Who cares what you think? It’s been my life, and I make no judgements of yours.

There’s always something that could have been done differently; better, worse? Who knows? It was done at the time, for reasons deemed suitable for that occasion.

Are there regrets? Maybe - I’m only human, after all. 

Do I suppose I would have done things differently? I’ve given this fleeting thought from time to time and to be honest? I probably wouldn’t, because I didn’t have the benefit of hindsight then. If I could force myself back through the vortex of time and move things about so they ended up a little prettier - fuck yeah I would. I’ve suffered because of others. Why would I let myself go through that if I had a choice? 

Maybe because I would revert back to the level of cluelessness I was at when those things happened. 

I don’t know, it’s like trying to count to infinity - how do you know what it looks like?

It’s like all the trivial things - nothing is trivial, when put into context. Taken out of context and it’s easy for me to see how anyone could trivialise those things. 

Like the shit that spurred me to write this. Actually I am fairly unemotional at this moment. I just wanted to write. Even though it is something that might have incited rage message after rage message before; now, I simply don’t have the energy to give to it. 

I just hope my silence does the talking.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Unentitled

I’ve been thinking a lot about the sun, and music. I’ve been listening to Britney Spears and started watching Buffy again.

I love these things because they are pretty and fresh and full of hope, and I need this in my life. They take me back to a place in my youth that was special to me and I feel now, more than ever, that I need to fill my world up with things that I love, because they make me feel happy or good about being me.

Being on a course to become a nurse, I sometimes wonder if I have precluded myself from doing anything else in my life. For instance, I’ve been feeling this primal need to have a dog in my life, but the choice to nurse has almost backfired on me, like I have shot myself in the foot for wanting to do something selfless, something good, but ultimately rewarding.

Shit man, but I am lucky

I have a house over my head, I have food, I can treat myself to little luxuries, I feel empowered to do something corrective for myself, to make me feel better about myself. It would seem like I’ve got it all. In fact I have, and yet all is never enough. My happiness isn’t tied to material objects, my pragmatism keeps maturing every year. I accumulate little material things because they form a representation of me, and yes, sometimes they do make me happy, happier than if I didn’t have them. But it’s the life experience I feel I have lost in certain choices I have made in my past. It saddens me to feel constrained when life holds so many possibilities. 

Where would I be without solidity though?

I see people announcing happy things in their life and I feel like I haven’t got anything to announce. But then I remember, life is dull sometimes, you can’t have things to be excited about all the time. To put it childishly. And then I think about all the people who suffer unspeakable things, their own private hell, and yet they continue to have smiles on their faces and positivity in the hearts and I feel so massively ungracious for all that I have.

To be humble, in spite of everything, is probably one of the greatest gifts a person can have.

Anyway, I look to the future and I see that my graduation day isn’t far. Well, it is, but it isn’t. Scary how time sifts away through the narrow hollow of life. 

I want to feel a sense of well-being in my life, and to know, when I am coming close to the big sleep, I have done well in my life, I did good things. In spite of all that I could not do.

There are lots of things that I want to do, but my mind blocks my ability to do it. Someone might say “it’s all in the mind”, this is true. I love to sing and dance and create art and write. Writing is about the only thing I willingly share. Strange that, as it has the potential to lay me just as bare as any of the other artistic things I mentioned. 

I take risks, good risks, embarking on full time education to gain a vocation is a big risk, and costly in a lot of ways. Positive risk-taking, as they say in the trade, and it is often a better payoff than not taking risks at all. Depending on the risk.

This is all part of being an adult, everything feeds off of every thing you do. It is not easy settling into a routine. I kind of like routine, there are certain parts of routine that I can’t live without, but I hanker for the wilderness of discovery. It’s a fantasy of mine, to beable to go off out into the forest one day, with my wolfie dog at my side, and run and be free for a while. Sunny day, beautiful blue sky, or run on the beach I do miss a good beach.

I want to understand me and where I fit into the world. I want to own that place in the world, be valuable be indispensable. I want to accept myself. Where is the value in being accepted without first being able to value and accept yourself?The same with loving and taking care of yourself. Having a child places all of that into perspective. You are, for all intents and purposes, placed in that situation where you have to take care of yourself, and if you don’t know how you have to get good at it pretty fast. 

All that said, I was just dancing manically in my kitchen to Britney Spears. I feel proud to have been part of that generation. I Miss those days, more for what they could have been, than for what they really were. There are things that I feel nostalgic now for what I didn’t appreciate then

I have begun learning yoga. I started, probably rather ill-advisedly, by following videos on Youtube. I am going to build it up gradually, using the ten minute video, hosted by ‘Golden’, to start with. This is important in delaying gratification. I am one of those people who often wish to run before they can walk, at least I used to be pretty bad for that.

I’ve got exam prep to do now, this is just meant to be a post of thoughts and hopeful inspiration for the future. Get outside and enjoy the sun. It does good things for you. 

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

Sometimes I feel blue

http://nymag.com/thecut/2016/10/when-your-husband-doesnt-want-a-second-baby.html

This story sums up what happens sometimes, in my thoughts, as well as what goes on around me. 

Compromise. It’s a word that gets bandied about easily enough, but to all parties concerned, is the true meaning of it fully appreciated?

Expectations bitterly stolen. My own experience has been a bitter pill to swallow. 

I keep this deliberately vague, because I don’t desire to fully disclose the extent of my feelings. 

I won’t deny, however, the impact of children, has been a fully profound one. For me, what it gives me and what I have given away, has been given willingly and received to the great humbleness of my heart. 

For the most part. 

Painful memories of certain experiences still eager to remind me of what can and does go wrong. Haunting me, with the nagging reminder of assertions I blindly set aside, in full acceptance of what others were doing, that I gave away, in the wilderness of believing that “they” knew what they were doing, that in spite of the giving away of my dignity in exchange for bringing in new life, I believed that I was in good hands, I couldn’t have any say in what happened with my care because it was in the lap of the medical professionals now.

I’ve learned much since. 

There are the inevitable regrets, but why regret? It’s done, the choices made then, were made in the spirit of it being “right” at the time.

Would I do things differently now? Yes.

Of course, there are elements of control over my body and the say I had in the proceedings, that were given away unquestioningly, it’s naivety, and that is all.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

The interminable frustration of learning.

Before I carry on, I am the first to say that learning is a beautiful thing...

... When you are not being forced to learn by rote. Force-fed education. Oh, the first world problems, of which are varied and many, I suffer them all.

Anyway. 

I love learning. But when I find myself distracted by something I’d much rather be doing, it makes it a challenge to return to track. 

All this seems perplexingly obvious to you, my dear and many readers. My fellow sufferers. My adoring fans and ardent absorbers of my truthfully prosaic writing.

I love learning, that is why I am doing this degree. But as the saying goes, true learning begins outside the classroom. I suppose that’s how they get by the whole University being a place of reading, thing. You read, therefore you seek knowledge, therefore you learn of your own volition. Why then, can I not just read loads of stuff and award myself a big fancy degree at the end of it?

The dedicated educators of the RGU prescribe to their charges, a reading list. None of which I adhere to, me being the radical that I am, I find stuff to read all by myself. But the fact of the matter is, there simply is not enough time.

To read?

You’re damned right. I suffer from a restless mind, probable OCD and tangible threats of Tourette-like behaviour that scourge my attention span and threaten my ability to do anything of any use for any long length of time.

Take first, for instance today, the first time in a long time that I have sat down to prepare myself for an impending exam (coming on Monday, folks). I am reading a wonderful book, a relevant book, a book that could shape beautiful and forward-thinking minds. It is relevant yes, but how do I avoid reading aimlessly for the sake of it, instead of merely zoning in on the bits that matter?

I want to know it all!! 

I mean, I want to read it all.

I think that, for semesters as short as the just-past 7 weeker, with three modules to absorb all of its appropriate knowledges and terminologies does ask a lot of the feeble mind. And yet...

That again, is how the institution gets round it, because it’s a challenge of organisation skills and prioritising. Of course it is. But still.

I am organised, much better organised than I used to be in my young youth. However, my thoughts are frenetic enough already, thank you. 

I have already warned one of my lecturers to expect my essay to be like a stream of consciousness. I am not sure whether she was alarmed, bemused or fascinated.

Speaking of stream of consciousness, can I just take a moment to mention one of my old teachers. That’s you, L, C., (cow). For embarrassing me in front of the whole class, for vociferously shaming my bloody tangents, instead of constructive criticism delivered in a private and dignified fashion, you opted in your sinful, short skirt wearing, I’ve-got-a-degree-and-flirt-with-all-the-boys-because-they-fancy-me, hoorish fashion, to belittle one of your own students.

For shame.

My point is, that experiences like that, although they still make me feel some kind of emotion, speak more for her than they do for me. Educators. Pah, you get good ones and you get bad ones, and she, most resolutely, was a bad one.

But do they set a precedent anyway? Does the confidence, once knocked, become just so, for an eternity? I have changed in many ways, since the days of old. I have developed and grown, become more resilient and confident and aware of my rights and responsibilities, which is useful, considering the route I have opted to take.

But oh, the concentration levels lack, most painfully. I think I know what I am doing, but I’m not sure...

“Every day is an opportunity to do it differently.” 

I love this, it suggests redemption. It suggests infinite fresh starts, it suggests that all is not lost. In a world where forgiveness is divine, but to err is most definitely something you must rake yourself over and over about... It’s a nice mindset to have.

Are you still with me?

My levels of concentration mean that I find it difficult to see completion as an achievable end. I see things and then I see more things, which I wish to explore, but with no end-game, no result as such, other than perhaps just acquiring more and more stuff. I mean knowledge, but once again, to put it into context of the wider variety, and nice little quote from the aforementioned book I am currently reading...

“The more affluent a society becomes, the more miserable and angst-ridden it also becomes. Little wonder so many seek the dream of a simpler life.” (Barker, P., 2009)

This is appropriate, not because I am seeking more material wealth, or material stuff; I am seeking more knowledge, but in doing so, in the time constraints which are effective at this moment, I find myself frustrated at many straits.

Still with me? Hey L, C., you’d have a field day on this one.

Ad infinitum, ad nauseam, tempus fugit.

I can actually feel my neurons bumping and jumping about, making little sparks here and there, at junctures where they should be completing their journeys, but also frustrated by the over-stimulation of my mental processsssessss.

I like tangents actually.

I think tangents maketh the process more interesting, but you have to have a mind open to all possibilities, in order to threat together why someone like me, might have arrived at them. I could have argued to L, C., that the tangents were all relevant to me, in assembling my written piece, however, to her, it was prosaic and not in concordance with her prescribed methodology. Ah, fuck her, and the broom she rode in on. 

Education is not about producing fresh and willing minds; education is about rotting minds with the filthy words and messages contained therein, of those that have already done it. Education is not about making you an innovator, it makes you a copier, a repeater of lines. But I am damn lucky to be a recipient of it.

I am smart enough to put things into perspective. I am a first world inhabitant, a receiver of a free education, where others must pay a great price. Fortune favours those that are in the right place at the right time (or have the right kind of mind).

This is not finished.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

When you think about food at the most inopportune moments

I read an article whereby Mr Chips, of fish and chips fame, generously donated about 24 fish suppers for poorly people to give them a boost, this friday past. 

Personally I feel a lot of things about this, and if I could find the original post, that might help. 

Healthy eating is an obvious priority in public health, as it has been for a long time. Refer to previous post, when it comes to motivation to cite my sources. Bad drills, I know.

I fear for my health, particularly because my sugar and empty calorie intake of the day has been somewhat excessive. Someone tell me to stop!!

Is merely “fearing” for ones health motivation enough for change? It seems not. 

“Tasty toxins”, as my mum calls them, are prevalent way over and above the normal, in fact they are the normal.

I empathise with my representative Government, and indeed any Government, with a drive to push for healthier eating choices, because the enthusiasm is there, the will is there, but the convenience is getting in the way.

[unverifiable-frogmatter]

First times are formative.

This is my umpteenth attempt at ‘blogging’. Please excuse my poor effort, I am attempting this on a Saturday night and I have been frying my brain all day... on academia. 

I am cool purely from that alone. I don’t need to abuse substances to waste my brain matter. I absolutely have lost the capacity for logical thought. And on that note, I have decided to reward myself with a Franziskaner, and a bit of Alice in Chains. 

Alice is no more, or less, chained than I am at this precise moment.

At this precise moment, I am indulging in the panic-mode thoughts-process most commonly indulged in by students who, under duress, contemplate doing anything - ANYTHING, but continue down the path of academia already commenced upon. 

Anything - I will stack shelves, I will housewife, I will embark on mind-numbingly tedious office work - ANYTHING, but suffer the sheer indignity (inaneity - feck you all - I invented a new word - O-K?!) of essay writing, ever again.

Language skills, sentence formation, rationality, logic et al (2017)... it all suffers in the over-excitatory behaviour related to anything to do with an essay. Synapses are quickly formed and exploded with over-indulgence of too much information for one neuron to deal with, let alone 100 billion of them. 

I pity the brain, truly I do. It works hard, to the point of incomprehensibility. Especially on my part.

I looked at my clinical skills polo-neck shirt and saw the fruits of my burden - right there. It’s all blood, sweat and tears, the evidence exists. I promise. If I ever become famous - this shirt will become the holy grail - a testament to pure dedication.

Heck, I didn’t mention that there are two essays, for those who care, and an exam to prepare for, which all terminate in the space of one whole week. It’s not a lot of time. Every day counts, right up until the 11th hour. And that 11th hour is essential.

Maybe.

I aspire to grandiose, impressively verbose linguistically stunning sentenceseses - but to be honest, my mental state won’t permit it. Plus, this is the modern age, and there is no need for that sort of thing.

Point I am trying to make, in a roundabout way is - I struggle, much like any other homosapien mortal, to express myself in exactly the way formulated in my mind, usually exactly just before I express outwardly. It’s a crutch, what can I say?