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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

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The real beauty of adverts without the advert...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ezIDjud6PD0#at=112

Well, it really has been a busy week.  First of all, I have successfully survived a one hour period with a dentist.  It was, I think, the hardest thing I have done in the past decade, and I don't know how I got through, but I did.  Couldn't walk in straight line when I left, and collapsed in the car park, and shook so much during the procedures that I had to be given 'breathing breaks' to get my pulse back to a non-cardiac-arrest-inducing rate, but the fact remains, I sat it out.  I felt a little sorry for the person sat in the waiting room, as I staggered past them, white, and holding back the tears.  Ten minutes after leaving I was able to walk and felt absolutely fine.  As though it never happened.  Strange.

Then I had to play quite a bit of catch up with the T course to get the iCMA in, but actually, if I'm honest, it was less time consuming than I anticipated.  I don't suppose the same will be the case for the two ECAs that I need to do asap, not to mention the S3 course, which once again hasn't had a look in.  I remain entirely fed up with studying this year, and have no motivation or enthusiasm for it.  I can't wait for it to be over, so I can rejuvenate myself, and get back to taking pleasure in what I'm doing.

I got a letter through this morning from my therapy woman to say I was now discharged from the service.  That's a relief.  I also got a cheque for a wrongly taken direct debit, which I had thought would be more of a battle.  It's written out to the wrong name, but who am I to expect complete accuracy and efficiency in this day and age. 

I've spent lots of time catching up with friends, and quite a bit of time doing nothing at all.  I've had very limited sleep for several weeks, apart from on wine nights.  And that never seems to give me good sleep, just the fast passing of time with closed eyes.  I still wake up tired.

I have decided that I will go to a festival on my own.  If I don't enjoy it, then it's just one weekend, and if I do, it opens up a whole new world of mental space for me.  Nothing to lose really.  That will make 4 festivals this year.  Not too shabby.

Right now I'm eating a chupa chops lolly.  I had sworn off sweets since the dentist, but this is a one off.  I picked it up yesterday.  It was in the pudding section of a Chinese buffet.  Weird right?  There was pretty much the entire Mr Kipling selection, as well as a bowl of lollies, jelly babies, milky bar yoghurts, and the usual cakes and ice creams.  I found it pretty exciting.  When I was a child I would have been unable to contain my excitement.  I had a similar experience at Exeter train station earlier this week.   I decided to get a snack from the machine, which is something I am usually loathe to do, but I was running on empty.  I was struggling to decide which item to buy, and to find something that wasn't solely unhealthy, when I spotted that one of the chocolate ones was hanging a little over the edge of the ring that contained it.  All thoughts of health left me immediately, for I had spotted a possible opportunity to get 2 for the price of 1.  I put my money in, made the selection, and the rings started to coil, releasing first one packet, and then a second packet.  I could not have been happier!  So there it is, teeth rotting as they may be, I could not resist the lolly that I considered a sort of freebie.  Tut tut.  The dentist has caused me to completely give up pepsi max though, which was a bad habit I picked up at work a few years ago, and then became seriously addicted.  Prior to that I had never touched a fizzy drink, apart from as a mixer.  In fact I don't even like fizzy drinks as a rule.  But pepsi max had me gripped.  And now I'm back to never touching any of them.  So that's good, as I've been trying to quit it all year.

Evidently I have nothing to say.  I thought that I did when I came on here, but I am fast proving otherwise, so I'll return another time.

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by ROSIE Rushton-Stone, Sunday, 19 Jun 2011, 17:41)
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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

Rec 2

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What trickery!

Don't get me wrong, it was a very entertaining film.  However, I have a huge fear of aliens and ghostly happenings, particularly in relation to abduction and possession.  When I was evidently too young my babysitter made me sit through a whole DVD of an 18-rated x-files series.  Being prone to obsession as I am, I spent the following four or five years living with an unhealthy conviction that I would soon be taken from my bed and probed in space.  I woke up screaming quite a bit, and the sound of anything moving outside would force me out of bed to the window, where I would fearfully sit for a good half hour until I was fairly sure there was nothing trying to get me.  I still can't deal with the x-files theme tune, especially if I am on my own.  And I still have to stare at aeroplanes until they go out of sight if I am on my own, just incase.  I think it's because underlying the fear is an indestructible belief that these things exist.  I don't however believe in zombies.  So I can watch zombie films as much as I please, and though I may jump from time to time, it does not involve the same destructive fear that poltergeists and aliens do.  So, last night we watched Rec 2, and all was fine, until the theme changed from zombies to possessions.  I'm wondering if this will stay with me for future zombie films, or if I can section it off in it's own genre in my mind.

I'm pretty bored right now.  I've got loads of things to do but I'm too bored to do them.  I really need a change of scenery. 

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by ROSIE Rushton-Stone, Sunday, 12 Jun 2011, 17:21)
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Another one of those mornings

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More specifically, another one of those odd mornings.  The way the day pans out as a whole really does seem to follow in the footsteps of the first hour.  Which will make for a surreal day today.

Yesterday, I woke up, and before doing anything else, studied.  That determined the themes for the day.  Speed and efficiency.  The study section I had to complete I had already pretty much studied in another course, and so took me no time at all.  A phone call to my mother that would usually take several hours, took only a few minutes, as she was about to go out.  My drinks disappeared at a greater rate than I had anticipated.  And so on.

Today I woke up to the 6am alarm, and for a good ten minutes whilst stirring the porridge, had to sieve through a heap of memories, straining half into the 'that was me' section, and the rest into the 'no, that was a dream' section of my mental boxing system.  Once boxed, it became apparent that I am once again dreaming normal.  Which leads to utter confusion.  Dreaming normal is the term I give to dreams that give the memory of having completed (sometimes important) day-to-day tasks.  It hasn't happened for a while, but I used to regularly screw up because I was unaware that I hadn't completed a task.  Now I have a fairly accurate filter system, provided I concentrate on separating my reality from my sub-conscious as soon as I wake.  This morning, despite my brain trying to fool me into thinking otherwise, I established that I had not completed the impending iCMA, written my blog, broken the laptop, or juiced our entire fruit supply.  I also didn't book tickets to go to a bluegrass festival on my own.  So a mixed bag really.  As far as the festival goes, although it wasn't thought of with my conscious knowledge, I'm not going to dismiss it just yet.  Sometimes I come up with very good ideas behind my own back.  Or behind my own eyelids, whatever.

Following on from that, the phone rang, and for some unknown reason, I answered it in the voice of what can only be described as an Australian gangster.  Given that it was a call from a professional, the only logical way out of the situation that I could see at the time, was to pretend to go and get myself.  So, alone in the house, I had a brief, but nonetheless ridiculous conversation with my alter ego, who I now discover, is slightly intimidating. 

By this point I had concluded that the theme for the day was likely to be 'odd'.  This means not only will odd things happen, but I will think more oddly than usual.  Which is odd in itself, because I am not known for my normal thinking patterns as it is.  Perhaps I could odd myself normal again.

I should be tired but I'm not.  I'm buzzing.  My hands and feet are tingling, and I keep having to jump out of my chair and run up and down the stairs.  I can't sit still.  My doctor tells me that this pins and needles sensation throughout my entire body is a common symptom of severe anxiety.  That was quite a relief at the time, as I was a little bit concerned that I had some major problem with my nerve endings.  But I don't feel anxious right now.  I do feel full to the brim with adrenalin though.

My cat had a full blown fight with my sock this morning.  It was an orange and black stripey one, and for the short period that they were rolling around the room, I had the heart stopping moment of thinking that he had somehow caught a deadly snake.  Working backwards, that could have sparked my fight flight response, which could be held accountable for my adrenalin fuelled jitters now.  It could also feasibly explain the unexplained Australian accent.  After all, it is home to some particularly scary snakes.

That reminds me of a story my Uncle told me ages ago.  He had me crying with laughter.  Not because the story was utterly hilarious, though it was funny, but it's the way he tells it.  In a really really slow and boring way.  And with no change in tone or volume, apart from making every sentence into a question at the end, as Australians are prone to doing.  I can't explain why I find him so funny, but I do.  Perhaps it's the British seriousness in an Australian accent.  Perhaps it's just me, and my sense of humour.  Incidentally, the story was basically a very drawn out description of how he spent an excessively long time creeping up on a very poisonous snake with a rake, or similar gardening tool, only to discover, after significantly increasing his chances of heart failure through sheer terror, he had in fact captured his own hosepipe.

It's possible that the odd mental state that I have found myself in is a result of dehydration, thinking about it, so I'm going to go and make a drink.  Then I guess I ought to get on with this next section. 

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

New blog post

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I've was reminded a few weeks ago of the embarrassment of discovering that I have misheard, and then repeatedly maintained use of, entirely incorrect lyrics to supposedly well-known and understood songs.  I mentioned it on facebook and had replies to say that other people had this experience, but only one who was prepared to share their idiocy.  I wonder why that is?  It doesn't look stupid if you are now aware that you are wrong surely.  I really want to know the words that people are singing.  It made me think I'd like everyone to write out the lyrics to all the songs they know, and then post them to me for review.  Judging by the response to my original statement, there would have to be a few gems amongst them.  Though no doubt some people would look up the correct lyrics to avoid humiliation, or what I would more aptly term, cheat.

So it got me thinking, and I decided to have a little google on the subject.  The first important learning experience was that most people don't really mishear lyrics when it comes to posting on websites.  As far as I'm concerned, a misheard lyric is usually misheard because it makes logical sense, whereas the actual lyrics, often don't.  The people who post to websites appear to be trying to be funny, in the majority of cases, such as changing 'peace' to 'peas' - which clearly makes no sense.  There were a few that I found believable, and funny.  I very much liked 'Dirty Dee and the Thunder Chief' for 'Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap'.  In fact there were a lot of funny ones for that.  I'm sure I'd have had many too, but I was very young when I sparked a love of AC/DC, and actively learnt all the words from the sleeve.  So no opportunity for failure there.  I ought to submit though, that I did believe they were called Acid C for a terrible length of time, due to the positioning of the zigzag on the first album I had.  Hmm.

The second thing that I learnt, is that these types of misinterpretations are in fact called mondegreens.  Now, if ever there was a word open to misinterpretation, surely that is it.  So now, if I ever make a record, I will make a point of inserting this word into a song, not writing the lyrics on the sleeve, and then asking everyone who buys the album to post me their interpretation of the lyrics.  I want to know what most people would get from hearing mondegreens.  Particularly in a line such as 'don't just throw back mondegreens to pretend you heard'.  Ha ha, or something like that.  It's a great word though, right?

I haven't done my lesson for today.  I've been far too busy researching.  And that's not even a lie, technically.

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A lesson a day to pass the iCMA

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6 days.  6 lessons.

One down.  I can't exactly claim to have studied it, but I did sort of overview it.  And then I printed it out, which is the sort of 'not condusive to learning' study that I appear to be such an active fan of.  So that's all I'm doing today, and it's ticked the box for 8th May, so I am now under a month behind.  In one out of my three courses.

It occurred to me today that my friends who were at the funeral last month have not contacted me since.  None of them.  I've tried to contact one of them but have had no reply.  And today I sent a message to another, and currently no reply, though that wasn't so long ago.  I wonder why that is.  I think it's the longest that I haven't heard from any of them.  It must be linked to the funeral.  I'm worried now that there is an awkwardness between us that I was unaware of.

I feel completely exhausted after my weekend of fun.  I could have happily slept all day today, and that's very unusual for me.  I think I overdid it a bit.  And now my body is punishing me.  I got it back a bit this morning though by going to the gym.  That deprived it of much of the energy it was using to make me suffer.  I'm pleased too; I managed to stay sensible, didn't keep running even though I could have and stopped well before I felt like I'd had a decent run.  So it did nothing for my anxiety levels, but as it is, it looks like my foot has coped with it, though tomorrow will be the telling point on that one.  There was an old man in there who was astonishingly fit, and I found it really difficult not to watch him.  Normally I hate to watch people, but there was something about him that made me want to chat with him over lunch.  You don't very often see people of that age looking so great, I guess. 

On my way home, I spotted a man at the end of the road in a blue boiler suit.  As soon as I spot someone ahead of me, my heart rate increases slightly, and I put my head down, and try to keep walking normally.  Or on bad days I cross the road, many many times, which is silly.  Anyway, on this particular road, there isn't really anywhere to cross to, so I kept going.  The man went right in the middle of the pavement and I could feel him staring at me, and could sense him sort of bobbing up and down as though trying to get my attention.  I did not look up, but I was thinking some quite mean thoughts about this man who was clearly trying to intimidate me, by taking up the whole pavement and no doubt expecting me to walk in the road.  I did my very best to ignore him and stay out of his way, until eventually I heard an 'alright Rosie' in my ears, looked up, and the man was in fact an old friend.  Who I haven't seen for a long time.  And what's the first thing I say to him?  Not a friendly hello.  No, a rant about how he freaked me out.  And then an apology for the rant.  And sometime later, finally, a hello and how are you.  It was not what I would consider a successful unexpected meeting.  My handling of unexpected situations seems to be further crumbling in the past few weeks.  I'm meant to be getting better, not worse!  Oh well, I suppose not running away could be considered the success.

Anyway, having quite wrongly convinced myself that I have worked very hard today, I'm going to go and chill and watch bollocks on the TV.  Lovely.

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

Lists

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I've got a long list of things to do today.  None of them things that I in any way relish doing.

But first, let's focus on the thing that I have achieved.  Yesterday, I went to the dentist.  That is possibly achievement of the decade for me.  I haven't been since I was about 12, when it became very clear it just wasn't worth putting me through the torture.  I'm not scared in the sense other people are scared - drills, pain, injections, or whatever else goes on.  It's having someone's face near mine, and allowing that face to fiddle about in my mouth.  I feel invaded, and I have to fight my instincts for every second of the experience, not to throw the dentist across the room.  Anyway, about a month ago, a bit of one of my teeth fell out, and I knew that I was going to have to do something about it.  Mainly, because it made me fear that all my teeth were about to do the same.  I have the same issue with any invasion of personal space by a stranger - my hair for example.  I have been to a hairdressers once in 10 years, and the experience was so horrible for me that as soon as I stepped outside the door I collapsed.  I'm lucky that nowadays my mum cuts my hair.  I let her do it once or twice a year, and she shoots around with the scissors and it's done in under 3 minutes.  Al's sister is a hairdresser and I've let her do it a couple of times at our house, and that was just bearable, but still something I now avoid.  I have long hair, and people are drawn to it which is unfortunate.  People are desperate to be able to style it, or colour it, or anything else that people do to make themselves feel good.  It's strange, but people just don't want to accept that different things make me feel good.  I consider hair cuts, dentist appointments, spa type things - massage and facials or whatever else, doctor appointments etc etc all to be equally horrible experiences.  I don't go around criticising my friends for having their hair cut and styled every 6 weeks, which I consider complete madness.  Anyway, because I knew I didn't ever want to go to a dentist again, I have obsessively cared for my teeth.  I could be termed a toothpaste addict, possibly.  So I was quite surprised when that bit of tooth fell out, and more than that, terrified of what it signified.  So yesterday I saw the dentist.  She was very nice and very good with me.  She didn't try to make unnecessary conversation, and she didn't pass comment on the fact that I was shaking all over throughout the whole experience.  I managed to keep it to more of a vibration than a shake, by clenching all my muscles as tight as possible, which was my part to play in making her job a little easier.  It was just as terrible as I remembered, and it wasn't until about 4 hours later that I felt I had reclaimed my sense of self with regard to my mouth.  I had forgotten that I felt like that as a child.  It felt like they switched my mouth for someone else's, and I felt uncomfortable having it in my face.  As soon as I felt the glove, I remembered the feeling.  I have wondered if that's why I don't like eating squid.  The good news is, she says I have to go back once to get the broken tooth fixed, and there is one other that needs a filling right at the back, but otherwise my teeth are in great condition.  She said if I keep caring for them as I have done, there's no reason to put myself through regular appointments.  I wasn't going to anyway, but it was nice to be told it was ok.  So one more appointment, and then, no doubt, an increased obsession with oral hygiene. 

Today, I am on a mission to find a way to contact my therapy woman without using the phone.  Somehow, I am going to find a way of e-mailing her.  I have decided to discharge myself.  The day I forgot her call, and dealt with the situation in such a weak way, I knew that I would find it nearly impossible to converse with her again.  That in itself makes me feel quite bad, as it's not her fault at all.  It's my brain.  Everything is so black and white, and therapy with her has now been ruined.  I've tried to talk myself around but it's no good.

Sandwich the facts.  Good thing, bad thing, good thing. End on a positive note.

I had a great weekend!  My friend has just finished her Law exams and so it was a celebratory weekend.  She came to stay with me, and we just had a lovely time, hanging around, watching films, catching up and drinking.  It was really chilled, and much needed.  We've both felt the pain of burn-out in the past week, so this was a compensatory blow-out.  Excellent!  And I got to go to Exeter in her car, rather on the train, on Sunday, which is a huge bonus.  Which gave me an opportunity to point out the scary dinosaur on the motorway that no one ever notices.  They all notice the giant man, and the camels, but not the dinosaur.  So that was good; I get a strange sense of supremacy when it comes to sharing knowledge of the dinosaur. 

Now of course, it's time for yet another reality check.  I am going to have to have another look at the T courses.  I have a deadline on 13th I think, and I am about a month behind in both.  I'm not sure that I'll do that today though.  I'm still not in the mood.  I think I'll just think about doing it instead.

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Forgot a title, again!

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Edited by ROSIE Rushton-Stone, Thursday, 2 Jun 2011, 23:56

Ergh!

I really knackered myself out with that assignment.  I sent it in around 9.30am.  Zero sleep, as ever.  Lay down, took an hour to unwind, and slept for two hours.

The next day I had a call in the afternoon from my phscho-analysis lady, which I had forgotten about.  I answered, heard her voice, and hung up.  I haven't behaved so irrationally for years, but I felt unable to cope with the conversation, and didn't feel I had the verbal tools to say I had forgotten.  She phoned 3 more times.  Then she left a voicemail that was quite understandably irritated, asking me to call her.  I'm a phone-a-phobe... I will not call her.  I know that.  She doesn't, I guess.  That night I had bought the other-illegal-half (from now on he will be Al) tickets to see the Shaolin Warriors.  He is an excellent kung fu student, and loves that sort of thing.  Though, as with anyone who feels they are in a minority of excellence, he did manage to compare each and every move to his own.  Much like I do with banjo players who far exceed my abilities.  I don't find that aspect of humans an irritant though, I find it quite wonderful.  So before, during and after that we had drinks.  Today, I missed a doctors appointment, that again I had forgotten about.  I have never done that before and it has caused me a lot of internal grief.  I tried to overcome it by tidying the house, in anticipation of the arrival of my obsessively tidy, yet lovely, friend, tomorrow.

We got cherries in the veg/fruit box today.  Normally, I would hide them and keep them to myself, but today I thought, no!  I must be more normal!  So I put a few in a bowl and gave them to Al.  It was a physically painful experience.  I am not good at sharing.  Not good at all.  I'm very generous... I just don't like sharing.  I can't abide someone asking for 'a bite' of my ice cream or chocolate bar, or worse, meal.  But I'll happily buy them one of their own.  Unfortunately I know a lot of people who don't want one of their own.  They want a bite of mine.  I don't get it.  Anyway, sharing backfired today.  Al came down the stairs gagging and making really weird noises, crashed into the kitchen, made more noises, and came out, looking pale.  Of course I laughed.  I asked what was wrong and he, eventually, managed to get out the words that there was a maggot in his cherry and he had bit it in half.  I laughed again, but not because I think it's funny he killed a maggot.  I laughed because I felt that a maggot in a cherry was a near perfect euphemism for losing your virginity.  Eventually I managed to express that in words, rather than the uncontrollable giggles that he initially received in response to his distress.  Ah well.

I am so happy that assignment is in.  I'm not happy about the diagram I drew around 7am yesterday morning, which resembles that of a 7-year-old child's attempt.  But let's not think of that.  I'm also not thrilled with the thought of only having done one day on each of my T courses, which are by definition out of my depth.  But let's not think of that either.

I have a story to tell of camera angles too, that nearly caused my internal pipes to asphyxiate for the pure pleasure of someone else making an utterly stupid, but unintended remark, that results in something unbearably funny.  But I have other things to do.  I'm writing this before question time, in order that it remains vaguely coherent.  Good on me!

Perhaps I'm more mature than I give myself credit for!

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Mothers and cave men

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My mother phoned me ealier.  I didn't answer because she's not one for a quick phone call and I had, and still have, a huge amount of work to do for this assignment (under 14 hours remaining).  So she left a voicemail.  It said, in a sweet, happy voice, 'aaw, I don't blame you for not answering, bet you're glad you got it in, hope you're off enjoying the sunshine somewhere, have a drink on me'... or something to that effect.  Lovely, apart from the time aspect.

So I sent her a text 'Remember the poem about the months? All the rest have 31?! Well this is one of those.  The deadline is midday on 1st, today is 31st, so I am working all day and all night'.

Really?!  Keep up!  Only yesterday I told her it was due in on 1st.  So that just made me resent this assignment even more than I was before.

Anyway.  I have done the research question at long last.  I am part way through writing an abstract about someone else's work, which is proving almost equally as irritating.  I guess that will take me up to midnight.  Then I have to read the text book.  Then I have to answer a question on the stuff I've read.  It's going to be close.  I've worked hard this week though, so I can't be criticised too much.

One of my best friends starts her final exams tomorrow for her Law degree.  One a day on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.  Then Friday she drives straight to mine and we celebrate until Sunday, when I trek down to Devon with her to see my mother.  Who most definitely owes me a drink after the error she made earlier.

I cannot wait for tonight to be over.  I could not be less in the mood for it if I actively tried to be complacent.  I have learnt my lesson.  Don't start courses of the back of other courses.  Have a break.  Never have a new course in the midst of post-exam elation, because it's not cool.  Starting a course already mentally exhausted is exactly how to end up feeling how I'm feeling right now.  Which is basically a string of negative words in material form.

I've just sent the hunter out for beer, wine and hot chocolate to see me through the night, while I forage around my brain for snippets of wisdom and berries of insight.  We're so stone age.

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

At bloggerheads

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"engaged in a virtual fight"

Linguistically stunning.  And in response to a pending facebook war after an intentionally antagonistic status update by yours truly.

I think that beats my blink.  Unfortunately.

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Deadline-induced insomnia, again

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This marks the second morning with only a few half hours of sleep through the night.  Only today and tomorrow for the TMA.

Met an old friend last night who brought along a couple of pictures from when we were kids.  In one of them, from the 80s, we are both wearing shellsuits.  I would have completely denied it had the evidence not been there, in front of me.  Initially I was convinced I must have borrowed mine from her.  But, each time I looked at the picture, my memory of it gradually returned.  And now I believe that it was in fact mine. 

It was strange how I was behind her in all the photographs, and only in one showing my face.  I asked her if she had been 'the boss' of our friendship when we were little.  It appears that I am in awe of her in the pictures, just trailing behind her all the time.  Apparently not though, apparently, even at the age of 6, I was a cameraphobe.  I'm looking forward to passing that information to my mother, as she has always maintained that my deep fear and hatred of being photographed began as a teenager.  Not so.  I knew it wasn't so, but in my family you can only win an argument if it is evidence-based.  And someone outside of the family backs you up on your evidence.  Photographic evidence is ideal.

She was also the third friend this year to remind me of a supposed obsession I had with somersaults.  I find it bizarre, as I have no particular recollection of it, though apparently every time I went to these people's houses I would set up an obstacle course around their bedroom that always involved somersaulting off the bed repetitively.  I believe it to be true, as I still have the urge to do it, and if I'm ever getting into an empty bed, I will, without fail, have to do a jumping somersault into it.  The same goes for seeing a bar far enough from the ground to somersault over. 

I went on a service user holiday to Lanzarote some years ago, and one of the routes into town had about 10 of those metal bars.  We had to change the route in the end because I felt as though my ribs were starting to bruise from such regular engagement with metal, but the temptation to spin remained too great.  I also can't resist an obstacle course.  When exploring Glasgow with my boyfriend, we were walking down a very steep hill, when below me I spied a playground designed as an obstacle course.  I felt the urge to run off, resisted... resisted... and ran off.  Completed the obstacle course, and walked sensibly down the rest of the hill, feeling invigorated and slightly hyper.  I don't remember, but it probably resulted in the singing of a silly song accompanied by a few bizarre dance moves.  He's used to that now.  Sometimes, he'll walk into a room, and I'll burst into some kind of verbally abusive made-up rap song, doing something vaguely resembling a chicken flapping its wings, right in his face.  Now, he just looks at me and says 'have you got a deadline again?'  The insomnia that kicks in without fail near an approaching deadline does unfortunately make me extremely hyper active.  Well as a child it was termed that.  Now it's more often termed manic, which is a term I am not a fan of generally speaking. 

I got most of my research for the TMA sorted yesterday.  Google scholar and I had a few fallings out along the way, but for the most part, it went smoothly.  I hadn't been aware how tedious it is to have to record your online movements.  Finding the sources in of itself was not too taxing.  Remembering how I found them was far more so.  Still, one piece of evidence still to find, and then I believe I can at least answer one of the questions.

As ever, I will be so happy when Wednesday morning arrives, when, after no doubt working all through the night, I reach TMA saturation, and accept I can do no more, and hand it in.  There's much work to be done before that moment of elation though.  So I guess I ought to make a start...

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

Internet research

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Up until today I would have never known that I could hate it so much.  It is the most time consuming, frustrating and irritating method of learning I have ever embarked upon.  The term 'refining your search' has been rephrased in my mind as 'slow death by keyword swaps'.  I am tired.  I am frustrated.  And most importantly, I am bored out my mind.  Now, at least, I have a bottle of wine.  I think that I have established that for one, my reaction to alcohol seems to have greatly lessened, as those tablets of doom leave my system; plus I think perhaps it was the ginger beer, not the wine.  Whether it is true or not is of absolutely no interest to me.  I have suffered enough today.

I've been contemplating giving up on the study this year.  By that, I don't mean not completing the course.  I just mean doing the bare minimum, and scraping, hopefully, a pass.  That type of behaviour goes against all my natural instincts, and ultimately, I just don't think I can relax enough to pull it off. 

Something just bit me on my cheek.  It's been one of those days, where I take such events to be expected.

I did go out to visit my ink cartridge man this afternoon, and despite having run out of refills specific to my needs, he gave me brand new ones and charged me refill price.  So that was kind.  I am a regular customer though, and we have reached the point of small talk about what utter drivel ran my ink out this time.  This time, I said, it was about whether painkillers are linked to hearing loss.  He looked at me with interest. 'Really?'  I looked at him with what must have been horror.  He said 'too soon?'  I said 'very much so - it's still firmly boxed in the 'fuck off I never want to hear of you again' section of my mind, reserved almost exclusively for completed OU courses and intimidating drunks'.  He said 'I'll charge you refill price'.

Ah... it all becomes clear.  Perhaps I am the intimidating drunk and I will end up imploding into my own mental box.  I don't think so.  I'm sober now, and I was certainly sober then.  Hopefully this sorry state of affairs will be rectified in the very near future.

Time doesn't tick.  But the deadline is fast approaching and my stress levels are increasing exponentially, with each hour certainly marking a mathematically quantifiable addition to the number of assignment-related tasks I am yet to undertake.  Task rate appears inversely proportional to available time, as ever.

I am no longer friends with google.  I am certainly not friends with google scholar.  And I'm not even a particular fan of the OU library as it has made my computer slow on a number of occasions.  I'm not even going to entertain the other search engines any longer, for fear of punching them in their virtual face, which would ultimately lead to the necessity of purchasing a new laptop.  I wish I could write an assignment on why I didn't write the assignment.

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

Pub Quizzes

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On Monday night, when trying to relax in a pub, I ended up in a heated debate about pub quizzes. 

My point was that at the time of ordering my drink, I should have been informed that about 3 minutes into it, a distinctly irritating bartender, would take it upon himself to throw questions around the room at a volume effectively prohibiting the continuation of my conversation, and make jokes that were in no way funny, witty or clever.  Add to that the irritant of everyone supposedly not taking part, in actuality taking part, I considered myself well and truly ripped off. 

My friends take great pleasure in playing devil's advocate when I get rutted into a rant, and their point was that it said on the door as we walked in 'pub quiz every Monday night'.  As if that makes everything ok?  For a start, I don't always know for sure what day it is.  And nor do they.  I often walk into a pub with someone and it's busier than usual and they will say 'what day is it?'... indeed wondering if the number of people is indicative of an unnoticed chronological malfunction resulting in an unexpected landing at the weekend, rather than the more obvious conclusion that a few extra people fancied a drink in the week.  So I am not alone in not being 100% sure of the precise day.  So the sign serves no purpose to those not wanting to attend a quiz.  Particularly as I didn't look at the door as I walked in.  I looked at the door handle, and then straight at the bar.  The more irate I become about these things, the funnier people find it.  Apparently it doesn't bother other people.  So next time I see one of them in a restaurant, I'm going to wait until their meal arrives, and as they begin their conversation, I'm going to stand at their table and sing.  Loudly.  About stuff no one has heard of.

Anyway, that night we moved pubs to prevent me bursting any blood vessels.  But we went to pretty much the same pub in another locality.  Same owner.  Same wines.  Same food.  Same crisps.  Same staff, sometimes.  And I continued my rant, as I felt the overriding sound of the quiz questions had somewhat taken away from the point I was trying to make.  I did finally get a small concession that my point was valid, just not that it was right.

Anyway, last night, I went back to the original pub.  It's my favourite of the two at the moment, despite the quiz shenanigans.  And, on every single table, there was a little piece of paper saying, quite clearly, 'quiz night every Monday'.

My belief is that the staff in the other pub heard my rant and wanted to put things right.  My friend's belief is that they want to get their quiz numbers up.  I will concede, grudgingly, that this time he may be right.  He is more than 30 years older than me though, so he should be able to win the odd argument.  And, thinking of all things wise, I found a random piece of entertainment the other day.  I seem, as is so often the case, to be alone in finding it funny, but I'm perfectly content for that to be the case.  Though, since I have posted it the viewings have gone up from 100 since 2008 to over 1000 in 2 days, so I believe people may be faking their disdain.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Kf34DFA3bs

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Socialising vs Walking

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Yes, I realise I shouldn't need to think twice about it, but I am by no means perfect in maintaining my health:fun ratio, and I certainly don't appreciate feeling dictated to on the matter.  Having considered the times that my new allergy has raised its fiery head, the only conclusion that can be drawn is that I have developed an allergy to alcohol.  What?  Why?

I re-tested it last night, and yes, within a few drinks my brain started to itch again, and I spent yet another night feeling decidedly ill.  So, of course, against all likely advice, I researched it myself.  Turns out, that the drugs I am taking for my otherwise impending death-by-foot pain relief, are likely to have induced an alcohol allergy.  A cruel irony, to have to choose between the ability to walk to the pub, and the ability to drink in the pub.

If only my assignment could have been about the links between drug use and alcohol consumption, rather than hearing loss, I'd be set to go.  Such luck is rare though.  I suppose to put a positive angle on it, I could say that I am pleased not to have been researching hearing loss as a result of personal experience with drug use.  How very British, to decide that I should be grateful for not having experienced partial hearing loss today.

My fizzy brain is struggling to focus.  I am desperately trying not to think of creepy crawlies alongside the sensation.  Much like I have to avoid thinking of maggots when cooking rice, or worms when cooking spaghetti or beansprouts.  Once the thought enters, there's no going  back.  It's ok for the thought to sit on the edge of the mental world; just not to be fully acknowledged.  It's one thing to decide I can no longer eat the meal placed in front of me, it's quite another to decide I can no longer keep my head.  I'm thinking of fizz wizz instead, to accompany the tingle.  Perhaps I'll use this experience when I next have to give examples of the times that I successfully implemented the distraction technique tool 'since we last spoke'.  Perhaps not.  I don't think psychotropic medication will do my allergies any favours.  Ergh, enough, I must go and try to summarise someone else's work.

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False memories

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Are some people more prone to these than others?  As an only child, and one that very much relished isolation, I had a very vivid mental world.  I dispute the fact that it was an imaginary one.  If I played a board game with me playing all the players, I didn't actually think I was sitting with other people.  I used to enjoy the mental stimulation of maintaining separate characters within my head, knowing that in theory each of them did not know of their opponents position, but I knew all of them.  I remained entirely honest to this at all times.  There was no fantasy involved.  I was fully aware I was playing a game with myself.  The other players didn't have personalities, and I didn't talk to them or any such nonsense.  I just needed to have them in order for a game such as monopoly to make sense.  I was also a massive daydreamer and retreated to my mental world whenever anything became too much.  Funnily enough, having tried not to mentally disappear from people mid-conversation for most of my adult life, I'm now being actively encouraged to do so by my cognitive restructuring woman.  Only now it's not called daydreaming; it's called distraction techniques.  Uh-huh.

Some memories, on the other hand, do appear to be entirely false, and I just can't work it out.  I was reminded of one a few days ago.  My bank manager phoned me up.  Given the fact that my last, and indeed only prior correspondence with this woman was a letter I posted to her when drunk, I was a little nervous about what I might have said.  It was initially an awkward conversation, as I tried to discretely establish what the letter had said.  It seems it was nothing too bad, just a conversational piece about my financial emotions.  And the fact that I would like to buy some shares in someone's wine cellar.  Good one Rosie.  This got me thinking about a long-held false memory, of my granddad's wine cellar.  Or supposedly false.  I refuse to fully accept it as false, but there it is.  When I was little I used to spend time alone with my granddad, and we used to look through his coin collection in an underground wine cellar.  Yes we did!  It was lined from floor to ceiling in bottles of dusty wine, all in the old wooden crates.  There were hundreds and hundreds of bottles.  On one side of the room there was a small tunnel, shaped like a tiny door, that even as a small child I had to crawl through.  At the end of the tunnel, which was pitch black, there was a perfectly round room.  The tunnel always sounded 'drippy' and the walls were all damp.  My granddad told me that a dragon lived in the round room, but it very rarely showed itself to people.  I always used to rush down there to see if I could see the dragon, and I never did.  My granddad put a red light bulb in the little round room, which only served to increase my belief in the existence of the dragon for whatever reason.  He died when I was young, I think about seven, but I was taken there weekly for a long time, and we regularly went to this place.  Only I could go in the dragon room because adults were too big to crawl down the tunnel.  Which does of course beg the question of how the red light bulb got to be in there.  The difficulty is, is that there is no wine cellar, no underground tunnel, no little round room, and of course, no dragon.  I have searched the house, and although there are many secret passageways and hiding places, and tiny little corridors within the house itself, I cannot find any way of getting underground.  No one else in my family has any knowledge of it.  The farm house was sadly sold a few years ago, so I cannot undertake any further investigation.  It's one of those very strange things where I just can't make sense of how the situation might have occurred. 

I had an allergic reaction to something yesterday and my head and top half of my body went bright red, and very very hot.  Consequently I felt ill all night, and was awake for most of it, running my head under the cold tap.  Even the slope of my pillow made me feel dizzy and sick.  I never used to be allergic to anything, so it's a bit strange.  I'm starting to feel ok now but I can still feel my brain tingling, which is an odd sensation.  Hopefully that will also stop soon.

I am fast running out of time to write my assignment.  I am determined to start it today, even if just to head the first page.  Well, reasonably determined!

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Farewell

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQQ6SfPZggw

I can't stand Wet Wet Wet.  I would never have believed that I am forever going to have to remember them!  But, forever remember them I will, as my friend was carried out of the church to Love Is All Around.  If she was still here I would have to have words with her about that.  It's the song of the chick flick.  And now every time I watch a pathetic 'romcom', and that song plays, I'm going to well up.  Strangers will think I'm soft.  Friends will think I've had a personality transplant.  And I'll have to put them straight.

I remember her getting tickets just before she got ill to see Wet Wet Wet and being so excited.  She was in love with a man called Marti Pellow.  For a long time I didn't know he was a member of the band.  She used to get such great pleasure in seeing my face distort in pain when she would talk of that band.  She said I'd love them if I listened properly.  And now she's pretty much proved her point, as one of their songs is ingrained on my emotional brain. 

Fifty years of life, and she still managed to maintain that terrible taste in music. 

One of the service users that she cared for used to absolutely adore her.  Well two did, but the other one left the home before she did.  The mother of the resident service user came to the funeral though.  I thought that was quite a wonderful thing.

I had not met her husband other than viewed through a car window, and nor had many of the people there.  Everyone went over to him to say goodbye and introduced themselves one by one.  When it came to me I said 'hi I'm Rosie' and he said quite enthusiastically 'oh, you're Rosie!'  I was pretty pleased with that.  I figure it means she spoke of me to him.

It was nice to catch up with some old friends too.

But overall it was just very very sad.  And I am glad it's over.  She will be greatly missed.

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Tomorrow slowly comes

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Tomorrow is today and yet could be anything before beyond or inbetween.  In any case, I don't want it here, in this mortal world.

The next twelve hours of my existence are liable to be the hardest in 10 years.  Even eating my weight in twiglets isn't helping.

Having consumed sleep-enhancing lettuce, hot chocolates, sleeping tablets, alcohol, carbs, music, de-briefers... etc...etc... I still feel wired.

Rock on Wednesday, I guess.

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Birmingham

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I live with a supporter of the aforementioned football team.  Enough said for today I think.  I'm hiding!
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Everything is not as it seems

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I really feel as if my whole world has gone completely arse about face.  Good things are bad, bad things are good, weird things are normal and normal things feel weird.  I could go on, of course, but as I was taught as a child... try to say a little of your thoughts and then maybe have a little rest, while others have a few of theirs.

That gives me enough to be getting along with anyway.

Today, I went into town to buy some black trousers for my friend's funeral.  It's odd that I didn't have any, as I always used to.  I don't even know when I changed to blue jeans.  A long time ago I guess.  I've spent my days as a music-loving stranger-and-hairdresser/cutter-phobe punk.  This means that I go to the gigs, I wear the t-shirts, but I have long poor quality hair and wear only jeans.  I did wear black jeans for many years, but as I say, that must have changed.

Buying clothes is complex for me at the best of times.  Few people are willing to accept how it works for me.  Those that are, are my friends.  If I buy something new, be it jeans, trainers, CD, book, top... anything... it has to sit in my house or my room for between 1 and 12 months until I can accept it as mine.  It's not conscious, and it's not meant to be offensive.  My boyfriend bought me a book and a CD for Christmas.  I opened it and put it on the shelf in the sitting room.  And there it has sat.  I'm almost ready to bring it upstairs.  And then I'll use them.  I will buy a beautiful jacket and then wait a year to use it.  It takes me so long to accept new things.  Often I go out and people say 'oh, is that new?' and I say 'no'.  I get home and think about it and actually, yes I've had it for several years, but I only started wearing it a few weeks ago.  That's the way it is.  And I don't mind.  When I buy something I look forward to the time I'll feel confident enough to wear it out.  It's not about how other people see me, it's about how I see myself.  I have to be able to recognise myself in my own clothes, or I feel genuinely frightened.  It would take a lot more to explain fully, but trust that I have spoken in depth to others, and this is a fair summary.

I thought it would be easy, but it wasn't.  I don't know if it was a fear of lycra or reality, maybe both.  I hate the feel of shiny black trousers.  And I can't wear jeans to a funeral.  Why don't they make them out of a material that's ok to wear?  I went everywhere.  I found things priced between £5 and £300.  Quite honestly, I didn't care what I paid, so long as they were ok.  And none of them were.  Eventually I found a pair that were ok.  Aim not to judge them on this next point, as it was very much promotional and you'd likely be fairly off the mark, but whilst queuing to pay for them, a lady apologised for keeping me waiting for so long and offered me a glass of champagne.  This has never happened to me before.  I said yes.  As I walked out of the shop the champagne hit my brain, which said 'don't go home and study, go to the pub'.  So I phoned a friend and went to the pub.  On my way home from the pub I bought some beers and some wine and now I'm at home, with a pair of funeral trousers and an unnecessary amount of alcohol.  Now, there's the first upside down and back-to-front thing.  Normally I think that death is sad, but this time I don't.  I'm happy she's dead because she was so unbearably ill.  I miss her, terribly, but quite honestly, as she's not here, that's really just me, a selfish emotion in the non-negative sense.  But her family... her daughter... now that hurts.  A free glass of champagne would on any other day have made me jump for joy, but today it sent me straight back into a downward spiral.  After Thursday night I told myself I would behave, and yesterday I did, but today... well I didn't plan for it to go this way.

The washing machine is a normal thing, and it feels weird.  I don't understand it.  I don't know it.  I don't know how most people operate, but with every machine I've known I've had one set letter or number that I use for every wash.  I don't mix and match.  Usually a 40 degree normal length of time wash.  This machine is really complicated, which is silly as it was quite literally chosen by being the cheapest and most heavily reduced (combined) option in the store.  I've already used 2 settings and now I don't want to use it again.  I don't want to have to read an instruction manual every time I need to wash some socks.  I know, I know, I'll get used to it.  But why am I so slow to get used to these things?  How can my brain work so fast when I'm given a maths problem or a physics equation, or even the answers to the mind-games that were printed on the beermats in our local some time ago; then work so slowly when something important happens, or the physical aspects of my surroundings change.

I don't even feel unhappy, and somehow that makes it worse. 

I'm wearing the trousers now.  I know I have to wear them on Tuesday.  I'm not at all ready to wear them.  So I'll have to wear them a lot between now and then and look at them in mirrors a lot.  I've still got to sort out a top half.  I can't wear a punk t-shirt to this.  And I have little else to offer.

It's temporary I believe, but real.  I really don't want to do my studying.  It's not procrastination.  It's not thinking of excuses but ultimately knowing that I'll get it done.  I don't care.  And I really want to care again.  For sure, I don't want to extend this study continuum by yet another year!

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Stretching my clumsiness to new levels

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I can't believe it.  I can walk!  I have been in pain on and off for months, but the past week has been particularly bad, and my poor arthritic foot appeared to have completely given up.  It wasn't even allowing blood to circulate to bring it the nutrients it needed.  I reached a point where I just couldn't take it anymore, which is very unusual, and I went to A&E only moments before I felt I was going to have a pain-induced nervous breakdown.  Anyway, I have been given some new drugs, and they appear to be amazing.  Lots of supposed bad side effects if used for any length of time, but I took a tablet at 6pm yesterday, and by 8pm I was walking properly.  No limping!  Incredible.  Up until very recently I was very much against medication and to some extent I still am.  I've always avoided excess injections, pain relief and certainly mood enhancing substances.  I have been adamant that I don't want steroid treatment, but to be honest, yesterday I would have done anything to stop the pain.  These tablets are specifically termed non steroidal though, so I am happy.  So by 8pm I'd fixed my physical breakage.  At which point my friend phoned me up to let me know the funeral arrangements.  We spoke for an hour or so.  For the first time it really hit home that my friend was dead.  And that I was going to have to attend her funeral.  And that it was going to be awful.  When I hung up the phone I felt my emotional breakage start.  I felt deeply unhappy.  How do I fix emotional breakages?  Wine.  So I started on the wine.  Within a few hours I had managed to temporarily wipe the conversation from my mind.  Emotional breakage fixed.  Not long after however, it became evident that I had consumed considerably too much wine too quickly, and this is where the mental breakage occurred.  My brain stopped working in the way it should.  I phoned up lots of people and have no idea what I said to them; I wrote a letter to my bank manager and I have no idea what that said either, which is reasonably concerning.  I put up a status on facebook to confirm that I was mentally broken.  I was relieved to discover I did not decide to write my blog.  Particularly as at one point I was having yet another Question Time rant.  This morning I ate lots of fruits and vegetables, and drank lots of water, apologised to people and now I am mentally fixed.  So basically in a period of less than 24 hours I managed to break every aspect of my body and soul, each time fixing the breakage by breaking something else. 

 

 

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Coincidences

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I hadn't thought of my first Glastonbury festival in years.  Then I thought of it in my last post.  Then yesterday I bumped into the lodger of my mum's ex, who was camped by us that year.  Very cool to see him actually.

I had a brilliant day yesterday.  Trained my way over to Bath and did some wine fuelled shopping.  I bought an amazing pair of shoes.  I've never really been into clothes or shoes; I've spent my life in jeans, trainers and gig t-shirts.  Recently though I've been a little manic on the spending front, and bizarre items are appealing to me.  I won't actually be able to wear them as I am pretty much unable to walk fullstop at the moment, but hopefully that will change in time for my friend's graduation.  There was a massive gap between trains for some reason after 8pm, so I had to spend 2 hours sitting in the station bar.  They had Crabbies ginger beer straw promotional hats.  I spent some time persuading the bar staff to let me have one.  I must have been drunker than I realised as it's very unlike me to accost a stranger in that way, especially when I am on my own.  I got the hat though, and proudly paraded it around my local, after knocking on the window to be let in out of hours.  At the time, I felt like I had achieved something quite remarkable.  It made me feel better about the Carlsberg prizes that are currently available in the local.  Every pint gives you a scratch card and the chance to win a t-shirt, or some headphones, or other similar tat.  I don't drink pints (anymore!), so I won't win anything, and I felt that I was missing out.  So the hat made me feel better.

Today I remembered just in time that I had my telephone brain restructuring.  I hadn't done any of the work I was meant to do for it.  So I had to make up a whole heap of stuff.  There're a lot of forms I'm meant to fill in when I feel anxious about something, and lots of questions to ask myself.  It hasn't really been appropriate recently, as pretty much the only thing I think about is how painful my foot is, and worry whether I will ever be able to run again.  I'm also thinking of my dead friend quite a bit, but I didn't really want to share that with her as I didn't think she'd understand my non-emotional response, and I didn't really fancy delving deeper into my thoughts.  I found it really difficult to concentrate on the call today.  I wish it didn't have to be done over the telephone. 

The washing machine arrived, and was dealt with while I was out.  I haven't used it yet, but I assume it works.  It's surprising how different the house feels now.  Every time I walk past it I feel slightly disorientated.  Like I'm in another person's house.

I feel so tired.  I really do feel studied out at the moment.  I can't seem to get into the swing of things.  It seems this problem arises when a big course finishes.  I go all out for the ECA or exam and then the natural response is to crash out.  But there isn't really time to because as one course finishes another one is already underway.  Maybe I'll pick back up.  I just can't get my head around my feelings at the moment.  One minute I'm wired and the next I'm exhausted.  Right now I'm exhausted.

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Space?

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Was anyone about to learn to love them?  I grew up in an unconventionally cool environment, so to love music that was original was tricky.  Space was my thing.  Aged around 13.  My mother and her boyfriend took me to Glastonbury and they played.  I didn't get to see them because we left late and got caught in traffic.  I heard them through the car window though.  We left late because of drugs.  Well, in my 13 year old brain, that was the sole reason.  Now of course, what with all my studying of the human psyche,  I know it was more than that.  Stuff it, all I got to do was collect large bottles of water, watch my supposed carers talk extremely fast, and long to be 16 when I could do whatever I wanted.

Incidentally, my first year solo at Glastonbury was when I was 16 and I remember little of it, nearly lost a friend and am lucky to have survived.  I have never been since.  Other festivals, yes.  Glastonbury, no.  Ruined by having a 'cool' mother.  So to all you parents out there: be as cool as you can and it will put your kids off!

I am so stressed out tonight.  The washing machine is coming tomorrow.  We tried to disconnect our old one tonight and it didn't work out.  My poor boyfriend had no idea of the effect this would have on me, but let me say it's not a good one.  I have taken 2 of my sleeping tablets.  That's 15mg of zopiclone and 45 minutes later no effect.  I am wired.  All I can think of is what the man will be like when he arrives, will he fit everything right, will I come home to a washing machine unconnected.  I feel physically sick.  Me and him were on the verge of falling out just now, but luckily we both fell into honesty.  I told him that I knew I was being unreasonable but could he please understand that something this simple is enough to make me have a temporary breakdown, and as it is, I feel I'm holding back.  I just hope the tablets kick in soon.  I have to be in Bristol tomorrow morning, and in many ways I hope I leave before the delivery begins.  I could cry just thinking about it.  Ridiculous, but there it is.  Tonight is not a good night for me.  But I was sensible, told him that, went in the spare room (wrote my blog - perhaps verging on the mentally unhinged) and now I'm going to lie down and hope those tablets kick in.  They are my most valuable commodity.  It's rare, but there are times that I need knocking out.  Plus I didn't sleep last night.

I cannot express how stressed out I am.  I know it's insane.  But there it is.  I'd be better off not knowing it was happening.  Hopefully, tomorrow it will all be sorted by the time I get home and I can rest at ease.  In fairness, he did say he hadn't fully understood how much this was affecting me and he promised it would all be ok.  Sadly that makes it worse, as if it's not ok, I know I'll blame him, but know that's not fair, which means holding back yet more emotion, which ultimately, is quite dangerous for me.

Bloody washing machines.  I think I was designed for scrubbing my clothes on rocks and singing with mermaids.  Born too soon maybe.

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The ear

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I'm running out of writing space on my giant ear.

I've entered into yet another period of clumsiness.  It's annoying.  I'm constantly stumbling and tripping and banging into things.  Yesterday I knocked my deodorant bottle off the sink and it smashed all over the floor.  That pissed me off.  The day before I cracked my eggs directly into the food recycling bin.  You can't make an omelette without eggs, even if you did break them successfully.  Today I nearly put washing up liquid in my tea and cat food down the sink.  In the split second realisation that I was making an error in judgement, my reflex reaction was to jerk away from the offending action, resulting firstly in cricking my neck and secondly bruising my hand.  This means that over the next few days we will lose at least 3 glasses or mugs, and I will sustain at least 10 injuries.  I think I'm just going to lie down on the floor with my coloured pens and giant ear and try not to touch anything else.  I get a compulsion to draw on my face when I have coloured ink in my hand, though last week I managed to avert such silly thoughts when I was using permanent marker to colour in my trainers, so I'm sure I can manage it with washable inks.

I think when my brain is worried or upset, as it is at the moment, it forgets to concentrate on the normal stuff, like knowing where it's moving my limbs in relation to other objects.  My way of expressing emotion is to become a human tornado.

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Telephone voting

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I have never voted for anything in this way in my life.  Until last night.  When I was compelled to vote for Moldova.  I'm not sure whether it was the beer phoning, or me.  Either way, they got my vote.  It wasn't dissimilar to my all-encompassing love of clowns last week.  Their hats had the same effect.  Luckily I didn't go online afterwards, or no doubt I'd have some ridiculous wizard costume to go with my clown outfit.  I'd better hope for a fancy dress party soon in order that I can be excused my insanity.

It was strange when I called the number to have a recording of Graham Norton greet me.  I temporarily felt as though I was actually chatting to him on the phone.  It felt a little cool, I must say. 

As is traditional, we had our little Eurovision get-together last night.  Snacks and cats.  Beers and tears.   

Just before the Eurovision song contest, and just before people were due to arrive, a friend called me to let me know that a mutual friend had died.  A few minutes later another friend called me to say the same thing.  Neither of them could speak properly, and their voices were full of tears.  If that's possible.  I'm finding it strange to think of her being dead.  I don't think I quite believe it really.  In many ways I am pleased for her as she was horribly ill, and it must have been a relief.  I remember the phone call to say she was ill, a few years ago.  I was in Glasgow and just about to go and watch Bela Fleck.  I haven't reacted to the news yet, so I'm guessing my reaction will be pretty bad.  That's usually how it works.  When I was told she was ill I was also told she wouldn't see the year out.  I didn't cry because we were in a restaurant, but I had tears in my eyes.  I remember that I had just given up smoking and was tempted to start again to curb my emotions.  But I didn't because it seemed to be tempting fate, given the news.  I never did really react, but over the next six months, as I watched her start to die, I lost about 3 stone, leaving me skeletal.  Then I spent a year in recovery.  And eventually I was back into a weight that the doctors considered safe.  I wish I could just mourn like other people, and cry, and seek comfort from others.  But I'm just not made that way. 

Anyway, study waits for no man.  In keeping with my standard reactions to study incapabilities, I went out yesterday and bought myself some stationary.  This time, instead of my usual post-it notes and coloured pens, I bought an A1 note book and some tippex.  There's no reason behind this sort of purchase, it just happens.  Also weirdly there is a chocolate counter at the Staples tills, and I was tempted to buy a milky way, but I didn't.  I have drawn a giant picture of an ear on one of the giant sheets of paper.  Today I'm going to learn a little about hearing.

 

Permalink 4 comments (latest comment by ROSIE Rushton-Stone, Monday, 16 May 2011, 12:06)
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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

People

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Yesterday I heard a woman saying...

'My cousin lost 8 stone on the stone age diet.  He cut out everything beginning with B.  No bread... no beer... no potatoes...'

The words are worrying enough.  The fact that everyone nodded as though it made sense was even more so.

It could mean living on a diet of carbohydrate... cake and chocolate perhaps, whilst always remembering to turn down bananas, beans and B-vitamins.  It's such a ridiculous notion.  And an extremely poorly executed one at that.

I find it difficult not to engage in conversations like that because I really want to correct the errors that I hear.  I know not to with strangers.  I try not to do it with friends.  It's not easy though, and sometimes I try and try, but the nagging thought just won't go away, and about half an hour later I correct them, when it is completely out of context and consequently inappropriate.  Luckily my friends are happy to just roll their eyeballs around and laugh.  It is almost a physical pain in my head to hear things that are fundamentally flawed, misspelt or misused.  I can't even let my own mistakes go uncorrected.  If I send a text message with a spelling error, which I later notice, I have to send another text with just the misspelt word re-spelt correctly.  People are very used to getting random one word texts from me.  If I didn't do it, the thought would never go away.  I already have hundreds of those thoughts buzzing around my head; I certainly don't need anymore, especially not for one little word.  Every failure and every mistake is as firmly ingrained on my brain as other people's interesting memories are.  I can remember every spelling test at school where I got one question wrong.  If I start to think about mistakes, they flash before my eyes in their thousands.  I know how I was positioned and how I felt for each one.  An unnecessary brain clog. Getting bogged down with the details is my biggest drain.

Up until I was about 13, I couldn't bear to have anything crossed out in my school notebooks.  The mistake would stand out like a penguin in parliament, and every time I would use the notebook, I would see it, floating above all the other words.  So if I made a mistake at any point, I would ask the teacher for a new book, take it home, and re-write the entire book.  Sometimes it would take HOURS and HOURS!  Around the age of 13, those magic pens that rub out fountain pen ink came about, and I just about learnt to deal with them, though I always hated the ink that replaced the mistake.  Bright blue, and nearly as obvious as a crossing out.  But at least the mistake itself was gone.   I guess I've improved a bit now.  Although the temptation remains to destroy anything that isn't perfect, I resist it.  It does mean that there are many more of these irritating images accumulating in my mental collection, but it also means I spend less time repeating work that I have already done.

I have my uses though.  My mother uses me to edit her work.  I can spot repetitions of words in a moment and spelling errors in the same way.  They appear bigger to me. 

And I proof read lots of general paperwork for people.

I will be in an argument with my cognitive restructuring woman next week, as I don't believe I am a perfectionist in the way that she thinks that I am.  I think there are things to be learnt from the theory, but ultimately, I think my brain is wired up in a different way.  I suppose everyone's brain is wired differently really.  That's what makes us interesting.  Or irritating. 

Anyway, I came on here to do some nonsense on my DVD and look what's happened!!

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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

Whatever normal is

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It's been a strange week full of highs and lows.  I've returned to having my moments of unconnected-to-anything random moments of euphoria, which is ok.  A few hours here and there of believing I am capable of anything is nothing to frown about.  It does seem to come hand in hand with a return of my panic attacks, anxiety and insomnia though.  It's all so badly timed.  All through the night when I should be sleeping I have all the energy in the world, but a complete inability to focus.  I jump from one thing to another, and when I come back down to normal levels of mental activity I take a look at what I've done and barely recognise that it was me that did it.  I had a really annoying attack yesterday.  It went against all the lessons I've been learning in this cognitive restructuring.  I don't know why I can't call it by its real name.  I think it's because I associate the word 'behaviour' with service users from my many years working in care.  Anyway, the washing machine broke on Monday.  That immediately made my heart start beating a little faster, but it was my boyfriend's birthday and I was determined not to ruin his day.  I think I still spoke of it ten times or so, but given I could think of nothing else, that's an achievement.  Yesterday we went to get a new one.  It wasn't too bad, apart from on the way up there my foot went again, which means I can't go running, and also means I can't go to body combat tonight, which means I will probably never go again.  On the way back I needed to get boring bin bags, and I knew I couldn't face the supermarket alone.  Mistake one.  If you think you can't do it, take a moment, ask yourself what's the worst that could happen, realise it's not that bad, and then go for it.  That thought flickered through my mind, and I pushed it aside.  I thought no, I can't be fucked to have to take time out just to get bin bags, I'll ask for company.  So we went together.  When we got to the till I had worked myself up into a heart pounding state, and when the self-service woman had to come over to swipe her little card I felt so close to collapse that I ran off under the guise of looking for asparagus.  Mistake two.  Don't attempt to start the 'activity' while you are in a state of heightened anxiety.  Calmed myself amongst the fruit and veg and returned without the asparagus, was able to pay, got home, and took nearly half an hour to get my heart rate back to normal and stop sweating and feeling sick.  It's not even bin day until Monday!!  Was it really worth it?  NO!!  Mistake three.  Ask yourself if this activity would be better carried out at another time. 

There again, if I had followed her rules I'd still be walking round in circles in the supermarket now, trying to get myself into a calm state.  If there's one thing I know for sure, is that the only time I can be truly calm is when I am at home, on my own on Dartmoor, or drunk.  And I wasn't drinking, I've moved away from Dartmoor, and I wasn't at home.  At least I have my bin bags!!  Ha ha, and that will save me the even bigger stress of attempting the supermarket chaos on Sunday, when everyone round here seems to think it's Christmas, and that they may starve between 4pm closing and the time they go to sleep. 

This morning, after deciding I'm not ready to face the world again just yet, I decided to start reading my S3 Block 3 book.  Not taking notes, just reading.  All was going fine until a minute ago, when I remembered I have my next session next week and I haven't done any of the 'work'.  Apart from reading that stuff on perfectionism.  Now I feel even further behind.  I'm behind in study AND behind in my life. 

I feel completely exhausted again. 

On a plus note I did chuck out a whole bunch of stuff in a moment of elation.  I'm not exactly sure what I threw out, but the place certainly looks much better.  I really want to paint my walls now, but it's not technically my house, so I can't.

I used to find it really relaxing to draw all over my walls.  I'm no artist, but it was still relaxing.  Then when I was in a better place, I'd paint it all over white again.  I think of one of my flats that had a few hundred layers of paint on it.  I'd have liked to see the people who bought it when they came to stripping it.  They must have wondered what possessed someone to paint their home that many times in such a short space of time.  I have massive white boards to doodle on, but nothing is as satisfying as the big pictures you can do with a paintbrush and a wall.  Maybe I should buy a room.

Permalink 2 comments (latest comment by ROSIE Rushton-Stone, Wednesday, 11 May 2011, 21:06)
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