When I was younger, I baked regularly. From about the age of eight, I blended cake mixture (and licked the spoon and scraped the bowl), pounded pastry for delicious fruit pies, rolled out biscuits and generally did kitchen-esque things that would make Delia proud.
The art of making food – the textures, aromas, anticipation, salivation – have always been therapy from the stressors that have bothered me. I felt warm and safe in the kitchen, where I had my own corner of the counter as my mum went about making a Sunday roast. (I was tidy, showing early signs of Monica-from-Friends tendencies that have stayed with me, but it was a useful trait when dealing with flour and eggs...)
I especially enjoyed serving my creations to my family and friends. In fact, when I was in my twenties, I used to bake banana bread every Sunday for my colleagues. There was never much left by Monday lunchtime. Sometimes, I'd have a slice myself.
So, this afternoon, following a week where I felt churned up and deeply upset for a variety of rather heavy reasons, I Googled for a recipe for scones (as I knew I'd already have the necessary ingredients) and voilà...
The scones tasted good. Even if I do say so myself. And my headache disappeared as the smell of baking emanated from the oven. I can see myself spending a good few hours in the kitchen as autumn (lovely autumn!) approaches.
The other day on the train, I saw a woman who looked oddly familiar. She had longer hair than when I had last seen her six years ago. She had also added a few lines to those that had already formed on her face, but she wore exactly the same expression, which I can only describe as a half smirk/half sarcastic purse of the lips coupled with disapproving, hooded eyes that you only usually see when a sneer is on the cusp of someone's next facial movement.
I had to suppress the urge to make sure that the woman saw me as well as a powerful desire to make sure she didn't see me. This conflict of instincts made me stand up taller while also making me want to step backwards (though I didn't). We had been seated on either side of the train doors and now, at the final stop, we would inevitably clash at the doorway. There were plenty of people around but the rush-hour crowd was not so thick that we would be shielded from one another. I looked at her again and again, smiled to myself, and knew that I had more drive in me now than I had had when I first knew her (and back then, when she and I fought, I gave her hell). I was daring her to look up, to meet my gaze. But she did not, lost in some inane thought, no doubt. Or maybe she had seen me.
This woman, with her beige bag and beige hair and face (and personality) is the last person I worked for before going freelance [I am so tempted to name her here...]. Let's call her Linzi [she'd like to think that that would suit her]... So, Linzi. A bully in a beige suit. A bully who made me vow to never work for a company, to be tied to any one place for my income (after I woke one day with blood all over my pillow and duvet) was there, right there... I thought I had an ulcer but I didn't – there was a bizarre amount of blood over my chin and mouth, and I have no idea where it came from – there were no cuts in my mouth or bites caused by teeth-grinding.)
Linzi was a bastard and probably still is. I know where she works because me and my ex-colleagues (now friends – oh, how we bonded!) sometimes Google her. I know which train she takes now, and where she sits. And that she still wears beige. Not much changes.
Suffice to say that this woman tried all manner of means to get me and my colleagues to leave so that she could replace us with her cronies. I came off badly because I stood up to her. In time, the office ended up as a Linzi version of Friends Reunited. My colleagues and I eventually left because, frankly life was too short to put up with the evil idiot who embezzled a load of money and somehow got away with it – due to an incredible police mess-up with the case notes.
By the time Linzi's computer was seized, I must have been a distant memory, and had left only a legacy of my fury and defiance (I started cases against her – just to teach her a lesson – and I got the unions involved, though they were largely useless, but it gave Linzi something to worry about...). I remember when a friend called me to tell me that Linzi had been arrested. I was in M&S buying tights at the time and yelled with delight and laughed for about 15 minutes. Shame she didn't get to spend some time in jail.
If I see her again, I'll grin. She'll probably fall over on her beige shoes with shock.
My kung fu teacher yesterday said that I have no presence, that there is nothing in my eyes, that I look vacant/vacuous (I'm not sure which little insult he chose) and that he would not be surprised if my eyes roll back in my head, "as there was nothing there".
This little commentary, in the pub with about six other people, happened after I was telling a few of my friends there about being asked for ID (they had been talking about trying to buy alcohol when they were underage). He thinks that if I had any presence, I would not have been mistaken for a younger person. Well, fuck presence. I am seriously considering jacking it in – and telling him why. Kung fu is meant to relieve me of stress, not be a source of it. Maybe I am just not cut out for it (how many times have I said that?)...
I've arranged a day out for the class tomorrow [that was like pulling teeth] and now don't want to go (I am repeatedly deemed a "rubbish" social secretary even though I am the only one who has ever bothered to organise anything new; at least I make a bloody effort).
Another later conversation with someone else, which I won't go into here, ended in me feeling as though I'm a pain in the arse what with insomnia and so on. I suppose I am, at times.
I wish I could expand on all the reasons I don't sleep, but I don't want to. Suffice to say anyone going through similar wouldn't have much fucking presence and might find their energy is taken up with just getting through the day. It's all made me feel insulted and worthless. I slept for about three hours and feel like utter shit today.
I've read Nasim Marie Jafry's blog for the last 18 months. She's funny, clever, observant, wry, down to earth, and I've always thought that if I met her over a coffee, we'd laugh about gardens, the weather, sleep, blogging/bloggers, mice and cooker hoods. I've tried to remember how I came upon NMJ's blog, and why I instantly added it to my bookmarks. There was no big reason (the name of her blog made me scrunch my brow). She simply had a voice that I wanted to listen to, having read a few entries.
It was therefore no great surprise to me that I greatly enjoyed NMJ's book The State of Me, which I finished over the weekend. I read it fairly slowly, as I do when reading books that are penned mainly in the first person. When well-written, I savour such works. It feels to me as though someone I know is talking to me, telling me things, confiding.
The State of Me is about a young woman, Helen Fleet, who is flawed, funny and feisty. Nasim takes us from Helen's fireworks of adolescent-on-the-cusp to her fading fast and burning out as illness takes hold of her and sits her firmly down – for the best part of a decade, at least. The sense of Helen's isolation and inwardness is made clearly apparent in the way the story is told. It made me feel sad and guilty for not knowing what this thing called ME/CFS/Yuppie flu (ugh) really is, and how devastating its effects are. I'd heard of it, of course, but I didn't really get it until now. It was abstract, a bit strange, hard to grasp... (but in retrospect I blame the doubters who communicated – or miscommunicated – this confusion to the likes of me when it first came to light...).
Having said that, The State of Me does not set out to be a novel equivalent of a documentary. Yes, Nasim enlightens the reader, if the reader chooses to listen. But the essence is a damn good story – there's the undulating relationship between Helen and Ivan that comes and goes, comes and goes... The constancy of Helen's mother, stepfather and uncle, and one friend, Jana, root her and give her life. Even if she is not living to the full physically, Helen has the full repertoire of emotions... Helen's love, Ivan, is drawn particularly well. I liked him immensely and though at times he did not behave impeccably, you could understand why, though you hated some of his deeds for what they did to the protagonist.
Nasim possesses the arts of understatement and careful observation that, on several occasions, disarmed me. I loved that some of her references seemed as though they were aimed specifically at me. That surely is the writer's ultimate aim – to be able to connect through the pages of a book using certain words that are so well-chosen that they spark the synapses like Christmas tree lights?
My feeling as I put The State of Me back on to my book shelf, was that this novel is a highly impressive, enjoyable debut and, I hope, the precursor to many more books by NMJ...
But I understand also that TSoM was written by a woman battling ME. That itself is a feat beyond the as-if-that-were-not-enough feat of having a book successfully published. I commend NMJ for her remarkable achievements, wish her extremely rude health and hope to one day toast her in person in an Edinburgh café when ME, for my blog friend(s) and all who have suffered ME (and its allied misunderstandings and unnecessary battles), is just a memory.
Apparently, one of the reasons I can't always (well, often) hit as hard as I want to in kung fu is because I am internalising certain things (namely anger). I hold back. The reasons are myriad.
It's quite bizarre, this mind-affecting-body lark. I am going to try to cease with this internal baloney, which only ever damages me, and hit/kick the crap out of the next pad I meet. When I get there, the catharsis, I imagine, will be explosive.
Ever get the feeling you are, at best, mediocre at various aspects of your life? I feel as though I have the anti-Midas touch at the moment. Thing after thing... erodes the confidence after a while.
This has been a strange few weeks (I may have said that before on this blog). My mind has been a pickle. It has been pickled. Not in excess alcohol, but in excess thought. The amount of pressure in my head has been immense. It has caused me to sleep fitfully and dream the most bizarre, and often deeply disturbing, dreams – nightmares, in fact.
The brain is incredible. Literally in-credible. Its ability to spin thoughts into garish garments with three legs and four holes for heads is just phenomenal. At times, I have felt as though my head will explode. It happened slowly – one thing after another. Slowly, slowly, break the camel's back (sorry to mix metaphors)...
When One Thing after Another becomes hump-shattering, you just can't think. Clarity becomes an abstract concept and you lose your words. You just can't speak for the pressure cooker in your head. Why do humans do this? (Well, some humans...) Do the people that have tendencies towards thought spinning have an eye for the minutiae, nuance and unsaid that makes them perceptive where others simply drift by? Does this enrich? (I think it does – to a point.) Or, would their lives be easier if they could switch off and deal only in the factual? Hmm.
Do you ever have periods where others keeps tuning into your brain and say exactly what you have thought, using unusual words and phrases? It's happening to me at the moment. These synchronicitous (is that even a word?) happenings do, erm, happen, from time to time. But this time it's quite ridiculous. And good. I like all this sixth sense stuff. It's fascinating. And very real. It's all about wavelengths, I guess.
Heavens. I was asked for my ID again when trying to buy two bottle of Argentinian white wine. (This is the third time in six weeks; I was quizzed while buying Superglue at the weekend and had the wine situation a few weeks before that.)
I smiled as some of my cards fell out from my purse on to the floor. I didn't have anything with ID on it. The man looked closely at my eyes and smiled back with embarrassment. I said that this situation had happened previously and that it was very kind but I am 39, not 19. He smiled some more, almost shy. The queue built behind me. I think the people behind me thought my card had been refused or something as they shifted impatiently.
Eventually, he scanned the two bottles. I thanked him as he carried on looking at me as though I had just done cartwheels while swallowing fire and chuckled to myself as I walked back to my car.
I'm listening to the radio – so many people are calling in saying they know people who have suffered at the hands of sickos like Paul Francis 'Gary Glitter' Gadd. They talk of their children and grandchildren. And mostly, the abusers were people who were trusted. These people ruin lives. They wreck children, who carry the wreckage with them for life.
This has been a strange week so far. I haven't felt so ridiculously low in ages. There are various things causing me worry and I don't know where to start. I had work to do yesterday – a bit of work – but not as much as I had planned. I'd marked certain assignments in my diary and have had to Tippex them out. The pages stuck together.
So, my diary is now nearly empty but I'd arranged a few social things that may now have to hit the dust. It's not fun having time on your hands when you didn't expect it and haven't budgeted for it. I will of course be chasing new work but I've lost about a month's salary, at least, and have nothing booked in bar a few days' work over the next few weeks. There are no guarantees that work will come my way... talk of budget-cutting is all too common.
So, after doing my remaining bits of work, I sorted out a pile of letters, paid the taxman, shredded a load of documents and then switched off my computer. It gets a bit depressing, constantly flicking your eyes up to your inbox. I set fire to one letter – a rejection – and held it over the sink. At first, the flames were slow but they gathered pace quickly and I had to turn the tap on as I dropped the burning paper. The embers smelled good. I put the damp remnants in the bin, ensuring there were no flickers (I once emptied an ash tray into a bin at work, many years ago, and the whole thing went up in flames – it was pretty impressive...).
After 5pm, I lay down to have a think. I was shattered after spending the day trying to remain polite to the people who have pissed me off and messed me around. It's made me cry on and off since Monday. I haven't done anything to deserve such treatment at work and feel utterly disposable.
Most others don't understand – they'll just say that they, too, have money worries (while telling you about their next holiday abroad, knowing full well they will be paid at month-end). It amazes me that people think journalists are well-paid. Believe me, it's not the case.
I know the thing to do is to aggressively chase new work, and that is what I will do. These hiatuses show me I need alternatives and perhaps represent a doorway from the mundane and known to new pastures. I've been through much worse but that doesn't make this situation any easier.
One money-related problem is that I'm not sure I'll be able to afford my kung fu classes – they keep me sane despite my moronically bad performance. Though I think I must be one of the least coordinated people in the history of the world, I challenge myself to go. Even when I think I'll give it a miss, as I'm not getting anywhere, I somehow find myself drawn to it.
Sometimes I manage to draw down into the things that really do need to come out and I belt the pads hard. My technique, as my long-suffering instructor N says, is usually wrong. He is right, of course... it must be maddening watching people flail like squid in a weird ballet of ineffectual movement. But I try my best, though I am sure appallingness is the overall impression I give, and that – at times like these – makes me shrivel.
Today was one of those days when I wished I had stayed in bed...
• I've had one assignment slashed by half, at very short notice, and it has made me feel awful. It's an awkward situation where someone wants to save money and is questioning why I need X number of days to do something. I've taken X days to do the same volume for years and been praised and asked back again and again. But now? Now, all of a sudden, I'm being made to feel as though I've lied about the amount of time I spent previously (when I worked my arse off) and have been questioned about what I did. It's very depressing. I feel like a popped balloon. I haven't felt like crying about work for a long time.
• I had a headache all day yesterday as I didn't get enough sleep. Consequently, I didn't sleep well last night, which for me, is a bloody shitty disaster.
• I was absolutely dire in kung fu. I almost burst into tears in the middle of class; in fact tears did roll down my cheeks but I pretended they were sweat, not that it fooled anyone. N, the instructor, was infinitely patient with me. I think he was willing me not to cry. I was burning up inside as everyone seemed to grasp what we were meant to be doing and I ended up looking like a moron. My brain just wasn't retaining anything. It was like a vacuum. A couple of my fellow students said I was "doing well", but I know I wasn't. They were trying to be supportive but it just made me feel even more inadequate that they had noticed me struggling so badly, so much so that they (who are by no means brilliant) felt they could comment. I know they were trying to help, though... I know. But it felt rather patronising.
• I had a (surprisingly healthy) ready meal and some old cream liquor for dinner. I felt better – number – as the alcohol warmed my body and quietened my brain.
• I've had my hair cut recently; it was very long and is now shoulder length. Most people have said positive things about it but a couple of people have said nothing except "Oh, you've had your hair cut?" What am I supposed to say? "Er, no. I just have a wig on." Why do people bother saying anything if they think I look horrible? Why not just not say anything? The worst was one friend who said: "Ah, had your hair cut..." and then did this noise, a sort of elongated "oh" mixed with a "hmmm" while nodding slowly and unconvincingly. Yeah, that made me feel amazing – thanks. I'd never do that to someone – unless I wanted to hurt them. Main thing is that I really like my hair now, it is much more manageable and is finally in a decent style. S loved it and so do most of my comrades, so what does it matter? (It matters when it's one more criticism to add to a day-full...)
I went to Homebase to buy some glue, a new vase to replace the one the wind blew over and shattered this morning, and a paint roller.
The vase and roller (plus some plain white plates that hadn't been on my list) were easy to find but I couldn't locate the glue. There didn't seem to be a glue section, nor was there a big 'ADHESIVES' banner hanging above any aisles.
So, I asked a Homebase man where the Superglue was and he literally looked me up and down as though I was insane. He frowned: "Hmm, are you over 18?"
I am 39.
Thirty-nine!! Hahahahaha.
I laughed, how I laughed. The man, perhaps taken aback by my manic cackling, took me to the glue area and left me there, still looking at me somewhat askance, probably imagining me later with my hoodies and dem, swigging cheap booze and, erm, copping a load of Superglue fumes. There was a fat man standing in front of most of the glue display. Squinting, I read from a distance to see which of the many types of glue I could use, reached in front of his massive belly and plucked a packet from the display. He continued to stand, motionless, mesmerised by the yellow tubes of Araldite, apparently.
I've been asked for ID in the past two months when buying wine but at least there you have to look 21. I cannot believe this man thought I was 17. It could be flattering, I guess, but I don't want to look younger than 18, thanks very much!
Anyway, the vase is in place, the glue was used to stick down M's pawprint motif on her bed (she had pulled it up and eaten a bit of it), and I just can't be bothered to paint today, so am listening to rock music while online shopping and intermittently cleaning the place.
I'll try to buy some wine later and see if the youth fairy's spell is still working.
It really is. I cannot begin to explain how much better I feel for a good night's sleep. After Wednesday night's awful insomnia, when my head was filled with exhaustion and the accompanying craziness that it brings, I needed serious rest. The brain, when tired has the capacity to be quite self-destructive.
I was so tired yesterday that I ached like I'd been beaten. But I was determined to go to kung fu later so had a little lie down in the sun with M, my rabbit, sitting by my knees. Inevitably I dozed for about 20 minutes. I didn't think it would interfere with my sleep at night, as I was really beyond it and the exercise put paid to any energy left slopping around my bones.
Anyway, I did sleep. I had a nightmare about an awful train crash that woke me violently. It was vivid and frightening. But apart from that little brain treat, I did sleep...
Am I bad for having zero interest in the Olympics? A couple of my friends are very enthusiastic – one said he would book two weeks off work to watch them.
But while I will be very pleased and proud if we win any medals, which I hope we do, I can't say I'll be glued to the box to watch the games. I don't have the time anyway.
As for London 2012, I cannot believe we are spending so much money on a sporting event that will pass in the space of a few weeks. Insane.
Thank God I slept last night. I think sanity, such as it was, has returned.
My body ached all day with tiredness. I was hoping to just get through the working day, and would see if I was still standing come time for my kung fu class after work.
During the day, I drank plenty of tea: strong, dark. I ate a huge plate of pasta with fat black olives in it at lunch, accompanied by a friend. It was really good to have a hot meal at lunch – much better than mayonnaise-smothered cardiac-arresting sandwiches that purport to be healthy.
I switched on my iPod at about 4pm (my current boss doesn't mind), when I was seriously flagging and the old familiar feeling of deep exhaustion settled on me. But, listening to music – 'my top rated' – had a strange effect. The heaviness in my body disappeared. My head cleared. I felt energy course through me: endorphins caused by pleasure, I assume. It was quite a dramatic effect.
So, I managed to get to my kung fu class. I did feel pretty zonked, though. I felt like I would cry at times. I think my energy reserves, stoked by the music endorphins, were used up in the first 20 minutes and after that, I felt as though I was rubbish at what I was doing; my very short period of feeling any good drifted away. I know my instructor, N, wasn't impressed. I wasn't either. My shoulders were very tense, the sort of tightness that causes pain. They still hurt this morning. I need to relax. I need a massage.
Obviously, exercise releases endorphins in the body, giving one a natural lift and disguising pain, to an extent. The effect it has on me, when combined with my frustration, is to make me battle through things, like a fool, and push myself. (Adrenaline, another pesky hormone, does the same.) So, I decided, in my fatigued wisdom, to try to kick for the first time in six months. (This was kicking a thick pad.) As I did it with one leg, it felt OK. I was pleased. Then, I switched legs and felt a twinge. Just a little twinge. N asked me if I should be kicking. By that point I was on number 19 of 20 kicks with the second leg. I shrugged, thinking I had to test the knee at some point. Didn't feel any pain at the time – but you never do. Trouble is, the bloody thing is aching today. I'm hoping to God I haven't put myself back to square one. I really could cry.
Something unidentifiable but with visible form and shadows. Something like a Willo the Wisp. Willo scared me a little, but mainly, I was enchanted and wanted Willo to be my friend.
One year and four months into my kung fu career, I've earned some praise.
N said I looked as though I was, for the first time, actually hitting the pad. He said he thought I had something going on in my eyes for once. It's true. I felt it. It was deeply satisfying. He said 'good' and 'that's it'. And I felt, for a while, as though I was in the zone. N doesn't praise often, and when he does, it means a lot, makes the initial tears and frustration worthwhile.
I was annoyed at a variety of things at the time (which helps) but managed to transfer the emotion from my head to my muscles. It's not easy. But it can be done. There are certain things in my life that anger me so deeply that I have no words to express them. Maybe my body will show me the way. ---------------- Listening to: Portishead - Hunter
What are the chances of iTunes selecting Love Like Blood twice in a row when set on random? Class.
Anyway. So, I went to have a routine check-up at a specialist hospital – the last time I'd gone was two years ago. My asthma, which was never severe, had pretty much gone. But this past week, I've been feeling tight-chested and have coughed as a result. My GP didn't seem to take me seriously. Again. He went on about his own acid reflux. I mean, I know chest discomfort can be caused by acid reflux – that's why I have to take bloody antacid medicine, ever since my evil bitch of a boss bullied me into suffering stress so deep that I walked out of the job, telling them where to stick her notice period. That was six years ago, but the effects on my health were all too concrete. Insomnia, anyone?
As I sat in the waiting room, I read NMJ's book The State of Me. It was good to have a commute to the hospital as it gave me time to read about 100 pages of her work. I can hear NMJ's voice in my head (I have never heard her voice) when I read. And I feel as though a friend is talking to me, although this is a work of fiction.
The main character, Helen, has a phobia of spiders and, with synchronicity that startled me, a spider about the size of a halfpenny (remember those?) lowered itself from somewhere high to float in front of my face and proceeded to watch me as I sat in the waiting area, rigid. It was like Batman on a wire rope. I was The Joker. We know who won. (I don't have a fear of spiders but I don't want them on my face, thanks...)
Eventually, the spider did a marvellous move down an invisible thread of silken web and sat on a wall nearby. I kept an eye on it as I tried to continue reading, and was grateful to be called in to have my lung capacity checked. That meant I'd leave my seat, see a nurse and then be able to return to a spider-free area of the waiting room while waiting for the consultation with the doctor.
I expected to see an average film but was stunned by this one, which managed to reel me in for more than two hours. Most played their parts beautifully. It was exhilarating and somehow not over the top. It was dark, psychological and quite unexpected. I'm glad I went in with a neutral head on. I can't believe it was a 12-certificate, though.
And Heath Ledger deserves the plaudits. He does. For one so young, he digs deep – goodness knows what he might have become. The hospital scenes reminded me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Ledger is terrifying on screen. You can see why he went a bit mad – he was method acting the part of The Joker and lost the ability to sleep along the way, apparently. His ex, Michelle Williams, said he had had trouble sleeping for as long as she'd known him: "His mind was turning, turning, turning, always turning." And on the set of his last film, he was saying: "Dammit – I can't sleep", while taking pills to help him. It's heartbreaking.
But – The Dark Knight – what an incredible swansong.
I cried and cried last night. I have no idea why, but melancholia took over and I started thinking about certain conversations and events from my childhood.
I'd always tried to do my best. I tried. I was always the second cleverest in class. That my friend was better than me made me competitive but I could never reach her. I eclipse her in terms of what I can now do (I work with words; she is best at numeracy). But I was never quite as good at school, and that's where we are made. Will I ever be good enough? Good enough for me?
It was one in the morning when my sadness got worse, and I cried quite loudly, not caring if GFG heard through the floor. My life seemed to be flashing in front of my eyes. I switched on the lamp and reached for a tissue, feeling tiny. My eye mask was soaked with tears; I still wear it even though these last few mornings have not been madly sunny.
Happy August, all! White rabbits! (Meant to bring luck, I believe, if it is the first thing you say in the month, goodness knows why...)
And here is my sweet black rabbit, M, just to confuse matters. She has milk chocolate patches all over her lower body, which you can see when the sun shines on her:
