and...Rest. (exam time and beyond).

It’s been a fraught week. Like so much in life, there was a laboured build up, satisfactory climax, dreary come-down, and now other difficulties present themselves. Thus the cycle is renewed.

As I said the other time, I do want to write a bit about my studies. This week was the OSCEs. That’s Objective Structured Clinical Examinations. Every profession has its common understandings, and for nursing, this is one. It has its purpose and in common with ugly shoes, brings anxieties. I’ve done a few practical tests over my lifetime. During my first Degree, I had to produce and serve food. I was a disaster, clumsy, incompetent in spite of my best efforts. I was a liability in the midst of the thirty or so others sharing the kitchen slopping stuff over, burning the rest, having forgotten the final egg wash. Promising starts turned into 45% passes. Looking back, I think the lecturers felt sorry for me, ‘There is no culin’ry term for liquid bouncing about in t’ pan.’ said one Yorkshire-woman as she rubbed at a small scald.

I passed the most common of all practicals, the driving test, at second attempt. That time, I fought off my nerves by taking off my coat. The single action, recommended by my fourth caviar-munching driving instructor was enough to put me in control. How he must have missed me. I got 100% in a first aid course the same week the Twin Towers came down. It seemed of similar magnitude to me, I had practised obsessively, unwilling to look a fool in front of my more dexterous junior colleagues. My sling was origami in perfection.

Coming to the OSCEs then, I had a little to draw upon in as much as I was aware that confidence is King. Therein lay the problem. If there’s one thing that the memory of a mental health problem does, it’s to strip away self confidence like a heavy duty steamer through woodchip wallpaper. The mess was daunting. I took my crib sheets to bed every night, reading them while imagining the steps from greeting the pretend patient to scooping the faeces. I imposed on people in labs, too anxious to do more than give everything one good go, trying not to listen to rumours of alternative techniques yet clinging to smarter friends. It was all coming together. The day before, I calculated that barring accident I could comfortably pass whatever came up, even the most difficult. Just so long as I kept my head. I was keeping it too. Someone asked me how and I said that I thought it wasn’t the most difficult thing I’d ever done, or the most final.

I felt too self conscious to tell my fellow students about the cheat that was going to put me up there with the best. It was more sure than notes on the wrist that would have washed off during the Ayliffe Eight Step anyway. It was also, crucially, within the rules. I was pretending to be the boss. In the time when I was the boss who knew nothing, I learned to do it. Act like you’re the expert in whatever it is you’re unsure of. Talk the person you’re trying to impress through what you’re doing step by step as though you’re giving them the benefits of your expertise. Take your time.

I’m not allowed to write about the exam. I signed a confidentiality agreement. Ah well. I'll leave you to enjoy the suspense.

After the OSCE, I wrote an essay. True to form from the first time at uni, and from my A’levels, O’levels, all the way back to spelling and cycling proficiency tests, I was finishing the work begun weeks ago well into the early hours of the due date. I had resolved that it would be different this time, but we don’t change, we just develop a little. My rubbish A’levels had taught me to read some books before boredom bites, and they were all stored up ready for when panic set in 22 hours ahead of the deadline.

In other news (the only news on the TV), it’s snowing. Nina struggled home from Swansea, H is marooned in Manchester. I’m ready for Christmas. When I was a fat, a-rhythmic five year old, I used to dress in a flesh coloured leotard and go for ballet lessons. I overheard my Mum say she ‘thought it would help’. Anyway, the teacher would count down the end of the dance ‘five six seven eight and........rest’. Brilliant advice.

Slight Sensitivity

It was a got-home-late evening so we decided on a takeaway. Driving in the car to our favourite fish and chip shop, Nick and I gossiped about work, and came to an agreement about our forthcoming visit to Cornwall. There was no queue at the fryer. I fumbled in my purse while Nick decided on what he wanted. He went for the daily special and I asked him if he was going to have the chips or the potatoes, then, while he was deliberating, I ordered for the children. ‘Potatoes’, he said and added, ‘unless you wanted to share some chips’.


‘Have what you like’, I said, and ordered my pie. The chip shop man looked up from over his fryer to my husband. ‘At least you had a choice mate.’ Good humoured and yet intended to make me out to be bossy. That was how I took it.

I spent two hours puzzling over why he said it, thinking through what had been said. In the end, I told Nick and Nina what was troubling me. They knew something was up. I had been quiet. They laughed at me, rightly, I’m too sensitive. I joked that I would never go back to Popeye’s again. Nina knew I was faking, Nick wasn’t so sure. He remembers that a waiter at Tumeric Gold offended me five years ago and I haven’t returned. We dropped Nina off, clutching her overnight clothes and a bag of yogurt, Shredded Wheat and biscuits. Treats at a shelter that can only provide one meal in 24 hours, our small donation. The homeless people hanging about outside, waiting for 9pm, looked thinner than usual in their summer clothes. I gave myself a reality check.

Still though not even Jo Brand on the TV late that night could bring things back into perspective. I’m over it now. Almost. Oh, and look, I only wasted a day on it.

Sick

I have been sick. Being sick. Sick for days. Feeling sick too. Every time I move, sick. You know what though? I still prefer it to depression. Even the night I sat up all night beside the bed, head over the waste bin, cold and retching, too giddy to make it downstairs. Even that was better than depression. I told you I was mental, didn't I?

It's been a strange week. I finished the big OU written assignment on time, but didn't get it in. Couldn't find the address, and then got sick. This kind of self-destructive behaviour is typical of me and my spectacular lack of success. I have wrapped one prezzie. I also got Nick to tell the family I shan't make it down before Christmas. There is a bit of snow which might have put me off, but really, I feel weakened. I also feel that no-one is likely to be that bothered. The gifts will have to go down in January. There is some irony there because they are all, innovatively, ready.

It is almost the end of the decade. I've had some of the best and worst times in these years. It hit me tonight that I've wasted the worst and made the best of the best. In the next decade, I would like double glazing, and a house by the sea. I don't think Santa manages stuff like that, so I'll have to do it for myself if its going to happen. As it is, I want more than anything to be looked after. To have someone make a good roast dinner, change the bedding, warm the bed. Small luxuries, yet unattainable. Ah, but as Nick said to me when I told him about the motion sickness, it helps to move around.

I'm thinking of giving up this blog.

Good Day, Bad Day

Friday 20.11.09

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a Facebook status saying that I was having a 'proper good day'. A friend and I got talking about it and on that day, I realised that I was in the middle of a period of feeling a 'normal' degree of all-rightness. Normal in that I was experiencing the all-rightness that I remembered being used to in former times. I wasn't euphoric, or over excited, but was happily productive. It had been stable for a few weeks. It was a good feeling. My friend asked me if I would be blogging about it and although I told her I would, I didn't. There's not much that can be said about a feeling of non-specific contentment, I told myself. To be truthful though, I didn't want to jinx it.

If you ever develop depression, you will almost certainly be told that it is 'reactive'. That is to say that you've reacted to unpleasant stimuli such as loss of a job. Most people recover spontaneously or with a bit of pharmacology in under a year. Mine has gone on with waves of better and worse periods, but I've never fully recovered. It has been over six years now. In fact, I thought I had forgotten what normal feels like. I've developed a new normal for me. Like setting a printer to lowest quality and leaving it there, I've got used to it. Then came 'proper good day'. After 'proper good day' came more good days. By last week, I got to thinking I would take off the sentence on my blog header about my depression. After all, I hadn't written about depression for a month and since the end of August, things had been on the up. I didn't change the header though. Just in case.

If you're depressed enough to get a therapist, you get asked to identify what triggers the depression. It's not megga helpful as the major triggers like relationship problems, job losses, bereavement and physical illness you would have avoided if you could. If you've held on to your depression long after the original trigger is passed, then the mini triggers that make depression worsen (like breaking something, or having a quarrel) tend in my opinion to be symptoms - if you weren't depressed, you would be able to cope, it would make for a bad day but not for err depression.

In the light of noticing my change in depressive fortune, I set about looking to see if I could find the triggers for the improvement. For the record, I've concluded that there weren't any. The 'proper good day' followed a week of good luck and small home-grown success. First off: both Nina and H made some strides in sorting out how they see their future studies going. I was pleased to see them re-energised and proud of their efforts. Secondly, my pension company sent me some free money. I still don't understand it, and don't believe it happened but I ticked a 'please send me free money' box and a cheque turned up. We've been short of money and the cheque meant that H could have the camera that she needed. Thirdly, I got a good score in a college test. All of these things are, of course, enough to give a non-depressed person a boost. I think though, that had I been depressed, they wouldn't have lifted the clouds. I had been feeling better since August, but hadn't noticed.

Then yesterday came. I felt the tingle of badness in the morning, but got myself together to go out. I tried to work through a chapter of college work with no success. My ability to concentrate had gone. The people in the cafe around me were too loud, their emotions too strident to deal with. In the supermarket, I wondered up and down the rows of meat searching for the perfect size pack of diced chicken. when it didn't appear, I couldn't work out what alternative to opt for because I couldn't overcome the crushing disappointment of having to chop the chicken myself. Then it was a rushed evening to pick everyone up in time for parents' evening at school. The traffic felt too much, I got angry and panicky, unable to judge the reactions of other drivers, missing turnings. I slept poorly.

Today was a 'proper bad day'. I painted on a smile for the errands I had to run, but, catching up with a good friend, I was weepy and lost. In depression, the third day pays for all. One or two 'off days' is normal, beyond three you're supposed to seek help. What I'm keen to know is: when tomorrow comes, which normal will I be back to?

Saturday 19.9.09

Mood slumped badly today. Woke up feeling vulnerable and was unsettled by having a new person in the house. The girls were laughing and playing music, I was hiding in bed while the sun came in through the closed curtains.

Nick finally admitted that the new computer (now four months old) is a bad'un. We took it back to the shop, but the man sent Nick away to make extended phonecalls to an intelligent and kind woman in India. She agreed that the hard drive needs to be replaced, but needed the receipt faxed to her. Ha ha ha, we have no fax. Nick will sort it from work on Monday, but it lowered me further. I had the oppressive over-sensitivity to people's body language and tones of voice. Not even plugging my big headphones in and playing on Youtube would relax me.

I made myself worse by offering to watch the film I Am Legend with Nick, forgoing Casualty. I've wanted to watch that Will Smith for ages and up it popped on Sky. It's a suspense film, and I'm the woman who screams in the cinema. I grow more sensitive to horror films every year. I hope it's just a side effect of a developed imagination. It was me in the 1980's watching every Nightmare on Elm Street film that was shown, and I remember the plots not the shivers. Now, even watching the zombies over my stitching, I'm unsettled. I made a cup of tea in the scariest bits too.

Tuesday 8.9.09

You know weeping willow trees. They grow near the waters' edge, trunks on the dry bank. Sitting under them in summer is not very comfortable; grass doesn't grow there, and the small sticks that collect dig into soft human hips and thighs. I sat under some once with someone I was supporting, a long time ago now. Branches grow off the trunk of the weeping willow, and leaves off the branches. The leaves are long and narrow. Most of them catch the sun. The unlucky ones dip into the waters and rot, fouling up both water and tree. You can see this in a dry spell if the water level falls. In spite of the mess, the tree sends out new leaves every year to die. A triumph of hope over experience as the saying is said.

I'm thinking this is a pretty hack metaphor for my life. Another project dawns and, until tonight I've been feeling pretty optimistic about it. That's supposed to be the sane me, the pleasant one who celebrated H's exam result and cooked a good dinner. Now I'm thinking, but I'll fuck it up. just the same as all the other idiot things I've done that showed such promise at the start. They all count for nothing, all rotted into the river that claimed them. Tonight I think it would be better to accept that all of the striving is useless, to give up sprouting every new season? If the water gets too high for too long, the roots give way. Down will come baby, cradle and all.

Sunday 30.8.09

In spite of all my good intentions, I appear to be in a creative funk. Having made no progress with my writing, no sewing, and not even started reading the book I've got lined up (Stewart Lee, The Perfect Fool), not keeping up with this blog is the least of it all. Having said that, I've been active with other things, the house is in reasonably good shape, and the dinners have been healthy. Perhaps worldly achievements are the destroyer of creativity. I'm going for a fresh start with this blog though, and we'll see if I keep it up, otherwise it will be time to knock it on the head. I think it's worthwhile because having re-read it, there are so many things that were good that I would have forgotten. It's that simple, life moves on, and I forget. I hope it will be like photographs. No initial value, in fact rather embarrassing on the taking, but warm and meaningful a few years down the line. 'Preserve your memories, they're all that's left to you', who said that? Oh dear how cheesy.... just as well I haven't been writing then.

Yesterday, Nick was showing me some old photos he had scanned into his Archos portable gizmo. There is just one taken of me in Tunisia, seven years ago. I look happy, relaxed and, well, like I felt at the time competent, approachable and present in the world. There are several of me in America, two years later, after the onset of .....whatever happened. I'm still smiling, although in a strained way, the set of my body is all wrong, as though I've been populated by someone else. I hadn't seen the illness in pictures before, and there it was, projected onto our flat screen 40" HD TV. I have come to the conclusion that the woman from 2002 has gone forever however much I love her, want her and belatedly think that she was pretty. Perhaps she's still there, walking on the bones of the ancient Carthaginians, speaking rudimentary French, eating egg spiced with harissa paste. I think I might have been waiting for her to arrive with her souvenir olive plate. Time perhaps at last to welcome the body's new owner. As Nina says, spend enough time with someone, you get to like them a bit.

As I sit here, half an eye on the truly rubbish film 'Legend of the Seeker' that Nick is watching (I hope the lead actress' breasts get their own credit, they play their role the best in all of the film), I'm trying to think of positives about the new me. I could do with naming her, and in fact, for the first time since I was eighteen, I'm thinking of going back to being Delia. I say that softly though, I still don't like the name enough. This is a distraction from the task of finding the positives. I'm struggling. I think this is known as low self esteem and if I was forced to do this in some therapy group, I would be weeping by now. Say something good about yourself. One good thing. Go on, just one, the tutor will say. She is wearing clothes from Per Una at M&S. Most women in the end go for, 'I think I'm a good Mum', the trainer smiles and everybody applauds. The chosen woman is relieved and the spotlight shifts to the squirming female -we're almost all female - on the next stackable plastic chair. Heaven help her if she's childless, what's she to come up with? Oh but what am I to come up with now, at this moment? I have just sent H out with her girlfriend and £10 for lunch. It is 3.30 in the afternoon. They spent last night and this morning in Nina's double bed. watching horror DVD's and no more than that, I hope, but secretly think otherwise. I don't think I'm a good Mum. OK at best. Ah, I'll say then that I have a good sense of humour. That ought to move the group along. You want evidence? Look at this blog you fools. Oh, and did I mention patience 'cos I'm brill at that too.

I'm still on the chair squirming, soon, I'll be offered tissues, taken outside and kindly asked if I'm Ok to continue. I am Ok to continue as it happens, but still stumped. All that is called to mind is the negatives, worse teeth, glasses, bigger belly, reduced attention span, lower IQ, poor social skills, lack of initiative and drive...and on, and on. If I can look even a little of that in the face and let it go, I can make a genuine offer of; better at managing money. I can support that one, we live on half the money we earned five years ago, and everything is a lot more expensive. I am managing the money and we are keeping afloat. I am economical, prudent, and more grateful for what we have than I ever was. The new me is better in that respect. She's more generous too, giving to charity quite often, consciously giving to a good cause. It brings her pleasure. She used to give quite ostentatiously for the sake of social standing, now she thinks of what she gives to. When she sees someone forlorn and begging, she gives. She used to hold forth on the benefits of giving to charities for the homeless as opposed to giving money to individuals who are likely to use cash to harm themselves further with alcohol or drugs. Now, with the insight of how bad things can get, how someone might need to drink to relieve immediate suffering and that this is as important as the illusory possibility of a bright future. She's more aware of the cold too, and the craving for hot tea. Looking it all in the face, I am more frugal, more generous, and softer. Who would like to have a go next?

Tuesday 4.8.09

Today had two beginnings. I woke up in time to see Nick off to work, but made the fatal decision to go back to bed with my headache. I read quite a few chapters but then fell asleep, waking up to the sound of H with friends in the house. Embarrassingly, it turned out to be 3pm. I had lots to get done, and felt ashamed as it seemed too late and I had let everybody down again. Depression appeared in the form of octopus tentacles crushing the ability to have a coherent thought. I went out of the house without my keys, lucky H was in, then went the wrong direction for the tyre place, and then drove past it.

There was a bit of a moment when the tyre man said that I would need three tyres (I do think he was telling the truth but it wasn't a truth I wanted to hear). He quoted over £200 but he took me at my word when I said that I couldn't afford it and shipped in some cheaper ones for me. I subsequently see he has charged me £15 for a guarantee I didn't ask for or even know about. Since there's no explanation of what this guarantee is, I can't think how I'll ever avail myself to it. What are they guaranteeing? that the tyres will stay black? or round? or rubbery? Why would I want a guarantee when the Sale Of Goods Act protects me for up to four years? I think it guarantees they get £15 out of me for a cost to them of one line of computer print. I considered complaining, but it feels like too much hassle. I hate to be had, so maybe tomorrow though.

I started to feel better and did a supermarket run, got home feeling upbeat and made a family dinner. Everybody is in better spirits today, so the benefits of the holiday are still with us. We had a good chat and a laugh.

I watched Derren Brown's The Heist on 4OD. A group of successful middle managers are persuaded into holding up a security van using a toy gun. I was reminded of my former self, suited and articulate, attending motivational seminars and lapping it up. The oddest bit was where he persuaded them that they should each steal sweets from a shop. Out of the large group, only one had the sense to say that he had a teenage daughter and there was no way, even for fun that he was ever going to shoplift. Well done him. I'd like to think I'd have done the same, but I'm conscious that at the time, I would have been buoyed up by over confidence, and competitiveness and would have gone with it. Funny enough, now, because there's nothing to loose by being myself, I would be more likely to refuse. Anyway, the important thing is that I had a good laugh at the expense of the suited ones.

Tuesday 14.7.09

Given yesterday's fall into the shaft of despair, I awarded myself a very, very slow day today. Got up at 11am, had a leisurely shower and ate cereal for breakfast. I don't usually like cereal but like the name 'Trim Flakes', it should be the name of a suave American TV doctor or detective, I think. The name did nothing to impart flavour to the cereal, but I felt smug that I had eaten a more healthy breakfast than half a box of French Fancies or a bowl of home fried chips.

I retreated to the sofa, browsing the tv and internet simultaneously, and soothed myself with a liberal dose of QVC, which I haven't done since my darkest days of depression years ago. Dawn Bibby is still there with her mumsy persona flogging bits of coloured paper for 'crafting' as opposed to 'paper craft'. There was an hour of L'occitan bubble baths and stuff. They have a lovely shop in Solihul, populated by the affluent and fashionable (I bought something from there once, a long time ago), it seemed incongruous that these £20 body lotions were being flogged to the QVC audience of pensioners and agoraphobics. Worst of all is the QVC fashion, deeply unflattering even on the size 8 models, and hideously overpriced. "This is trendy", said the presenter, gulping on her deceitful tongue "Loving the pink".

It did the job though, so that by the time Nina got home from her half day at work, I was relaxed enough to hear about her having been approached by a stranger who pestered her and then offered her £200 to go to his house. A passing Police car pulled up, so no harm done, and maybe none intended. Scary though. I wish we didn't live in a city. We do though, and either way, life is full of risks, real and imagined. Holly also had a story today. she had been chauffeured in the Mayors car. Nick was amusingly jealous. The tales made for a happy family teatime, but I was distant and crotchety having tried to get some housework done. It sapped all of my energy within half an hour, and by the time I served up tea, my head was swimming. Nick learned his lesson from yesterday and didn't dare ask for bread or make comment on the quorn burgers (which were virtually indistinguishable from chicken in my opinion).

I had been snappish with Nick and felt bad about it. When I came to bed, I tried to explain, but he was in the mood to make jokes and try to make me laugh. I said that I thought we were falling apart as a couple, which I have felt for a little while. His perspective, as it turns out is very far from my own, so I've been reading things into his behaviour which aren't there. I'm a fool, and he's such a good man. I let him sleep while I stayed up for a while, mourning the loss of the years when we would kiss each other goodbye every morning, and the times when I would bring him elaborately constructed sandwiches at lunchtime for no reason other than we loved and missed each other even during ordinary working days. Selfishly, I suppose I feel insecure and want a little romance. I don't know what Nick wants from me as he talks almost exclusively about work. He has never been demanding though, so perhaps he is content, or would be if I fed him on bread and butter and meat.

Monday 13.7.09

As I wrote today's date, I couldn't remember what happened yesterday. It has all come back to me of course. We went to the Dogs' Trust open day. H was late home, I was in a bad mood and then ended up in the sun without a hat. I capped that by being rude to Nina who didn't deserve it. In the evening, I put a picture of Richard Herring up as my screensaver. I never even did that at the height of my Billy Bragg obsession last year. So, that's me fully regressed to my teenage self.

Today, I tried to tidy up and get shopping. I was very low on energy and nearly fainted in the supermarket queue. It took three attempts to put the shopping away. I couldn't eat my tea, was feeling sick. Maybe I'm coming down with something.

Certainly, I'm a bit down, and not good to be around. Can't say anything right. I'm conscious that Nick wants me to get a job. Trouble is, I'm in no state. Confidence once again low. Deeply tired and unfit. I just don't know a way out of this.

The mostly veggie diet with slimming attempt continues. It is making me deeply unpopular with Nick who is at the point of wanting to sabotage it, asking for a full English breakfast for tea. I cooked him bacon, poached eggs, oven chips and beans for tea. He got cross when I asked him not to have bread with it (he had eaten two slices of toast when he came home). I haven't seen him all evening, he's been in the room next door working. How strange that we fall out over such small things, making them far greater points of conflict than they should be. I think that because I'm low, I'm seeing cracks where there are none. I hope it's not that I'm low because the cracks are real. Either way, I need somehow to do better. This would be reversing a six year trend though, so I don't see any possibility of fixing myself.

In summary: my life is fucked.

Thursday 21.5.09

It seems as though the depression of yesterday was a blip. I woke up feeling good this morning, and cracked on with some proper writing, 2000 words by the end of the day. It is helping that S has asked to read some as it is making me get on and write it up properly as opposed to its being half in my head and half in very scratchy notes. I was listening to Morrissey's back catalogue while I was writing, and thinking of my old college friend Julie. How we loved Morrissey's first solo effort Viva Hate. I still can't decide what I think he meant by the lyrics of Bengali in Platforms.

I was outraged that the local free paper delivered the BNP's pre-election mail shot. I would boycott the paper, but don't see how I can as I don't actually buy it. The fringe parties seem to be getting a lot of publicity this year. There is a right wing Christian fundamentalist group, and a pro-car lobby as well as UKIP and the Liberals. They all scent the blood of the much knocked about Labour party. I can't wait until it's over. There's no good result to hope for this year. This is only the European elections anyway, and because I've made no effort, I've no clear idea of what the person representing me might have to decide on. I expect there's expenses though.

I ate a whole family sized Dairy Milk Caramel bar this evening and I feel horribly sick. I'd better not make it a habit. I had pie for tea as well, so that's enough calories for the week. If I carry on, I might start a pro-fat lobby for the next elections. French Fancies could be my sponsor, I could declare them as income and expenses in one.

Wednesday 20.5.09

After a few good weeks, I found myself in a low mood from the minute I woke up. I have no idea where it came from, and could not have predicted it. I remember getting some advise centred around looking for early warning signs and taking positive action to 'head it off at the pass', but I don't see how I could have done that today. I had slept in, but only an hour longer than usual. The sun was up, but before I was aware of being awake, I had the prickly feeling across the temples that things weren't right.

My usual grumpy morning self medications of sweet food, two cups of tea and a shower failed to cheer me up. I sat pressed to the chair most of the day, with nagging feelings that the house needed cleaning and that must be pleasant things to do, but I was still unable to get moving. Late afternoon I made a half hearted stab at cleaning up the kitchen and bathroom. This made me feel even worse, and I got tearful, unable to tackle it with any logic or efficacy. After the tears, I got a rush of unjustified anger that the family had left the mess, feeling they had done it deliberately. I split the kitchen bin bag and had an urge to spread the rubbish over the floor and walk away. the world ended when I took the bag to the wheely bin to find that it hadn't been put out for today's collection. I left the half-made dinner to burn, and went and sat down again. I wanted to feel looked after, but nobody was about, and once the family drifted in, they took a look at me and migrated to the far ends of the house. I can't say I blame them.

The bad feeling started to lift at around 7.30, so I took probably the best advice about depression that I ever received and got out for a walk. It was warm, with the sun low in the sky so that deep yellow tones came through the trees. I was thinking about how much the Memorial Park has figured in my trying to fix my depression. At my very worst, most days I used to refuse to go out in the daytime, so Nick would take me for walks in the dark and the rain every night. I'm not sure how long that phase lasted, it was a period of several months. One time at this park, I got tripped out visions where I saw the grass not as green, but in its constituent colours of purple, silver, brown, navy and yellow. I had been advised by a nurse not to read up on the depression 'you'll frighten yourself', so I didn't know that for some, the condition heightens the senses to an overwhelming degree (there is a medical term, but I've forgotten it). Some people can use their depression creatively because of this. Now, I wonder if impressionism was developed after a depressive episode, the grass looked a bit like an impressionistic painting that day, but with strong colours, not wishy-washy pastels. I didn't tell anybody about it at the time. Even as I saw those colours, I knew it was madness.

The weirdest Memorial Park event was when I hexed someone's face off. I felt (and still feel) that myself and many of my friends were deeply wronged by a former colleague. I had no way of confronting him or defending myself from his actions. At the time, if I wasn't weeping I was blank, immobile and mostly emotionless. Depression is not really the same as feeling sad. My doctor said that I seemed to be suppressing my anger and that I should try to let it out. She advised that I went for a long, brisk walk and focused the anger on every breath out. It was worth a go. At that time, I took every bit of advice and treatment that I could. A nurse once came to offer me assertiveness classes, would I accept them? I told her deadpan that if she told me to walk around the ring road naked I would do it if she told me clockwise or anti-clockwise. Anyway, I left that doctors appointment at 8.30 and walked all day. Round and round the park, talking to myself and pouring all of my hatred for this one man out on to his smug face which seemed to float in front of me. I stamped on his face, stabbed it, punched it, it was eaten by maggots and chewed on by dogs. I got home at 3pm to the sound of the phone ringing. It was a friend calling to say that this man had been involved in a freak accident. He had been building a pond when he slipped on mud and fell into a wall. He had de-gloved his face, lost his nose, several teeth and broke his jaw. He was in intensive care.

That story is 100% true (everything in every blog is true actually, but when I tell this particular story not everyone believes it). for a long time after, I genuinely believed that I had harmed him. I'm normally on the side of rationality, and whilst I mostly think it was just a coincidence, there is a part of me that feels that some sort of cosmic justice had been served that day.

At the park, the rhododendrons were in bloom. You don't see too many of them in the Midlands, but they are very popular in Cornwall, they do well in the acidic soil. I like them because I used to see fairies in the rhododendron bush at the bottom of the garden. That wasn't because I was ill though. That was because I was four years old and had an active imagination. I didn't see any fairies today, and the grass was just green. I'm fine now. Thanks for asking.

Sunday 19.4.09

I'm not sure how long the Tin Angel in Coventry has been open, a few years for sure. Its a bit of a hippie place, coffeeshop, come bar come cafe come rehearsal space come record shop come live music venue, and its just down the road from us. Until recently, I haven't been in the habit of going in there though, which is strange because it is the sort of place I like. Anyways, this lack of attendance is being well put to rights, mostly because Nick has got into going there, so we're beginning to become regulars. I'll speak this softly, but I think Nina may be a little miffed because she introduced us to the place and we may have uncooled it for her what with going in on our own.

The Tin runs several live music evenings, mostly of the open mic variety, so off we went as a foursome with Nick's colleague and her husband. I had spent a lot of the day in a proper low, and wasn't sure if I could make it. I was weepy in the afternoon, which I haven't been for a while. I perked myself up with lots of different music, thanks to Spotify, which I'm using more and more. By teatime, I was able to get myself into my new jeans and pink top. Nick paid me a compliment and I was all set. I don't think I was too quiet, and I didn't over compensate and make a tit of myself either. A glimmer of progress perhaps. The pressure is on to be well at this time of year, because if not, then the pills will be popping when the leaves get around to dropping come autumn.

The open mic was full of characters, a really enjoyable watch from the corner. The compere had the air of a man who loves his kit, was getting the sound system just so, and standing in various places around the room to test the acoustics as though he was setting up for a gig at Wembley. The Tin is about twice the size of the average front room. I admired the cool dedication, and the way in which he was supportive to the acts, some of whom were suffering badly from nerves. The atmosphere was friendly though, if a little competitive at times. A lot of the regulars knew each other, and the lively groups spilled out onto the road outside. The music was, as you would expect, a mixed bag. some of it a bit too much on the side of jazzy easy listening for my liking. Nick and I joked that they needed the jazz host from the Fast Show to complete the picture 'Nice'.

There was a young teenage boy who did some spoken word poetry that was as good as some of the stuff I saw at Camp Bestival last year. The crowd gradually hushed to hear him and it was quite beautiful in one way, although also sad, because of the topics he chose (cystic fibrosis, war, racist policing). A variety of guitar acts came on to do a turn, and there was a range of musical ability and performance skills. It has often been mooted that everyone does Bob Dylan better that Bod Dylan these days, and I've been known to agree. That theory went up in smoke when one man attempted to sing Blowing in the Wind. I could stand that, but he then went on to trash James Taylor's Fire and Rain, which is an old favorite of mine. One act, the last one we stayed for, really was good, and I would have been happy to hear more. The price for all this entertainment £2 plus the drinks. We had change from £20.

Sunday 5.4.09

The energy rush brought on by the arrival of Spring was too good to be true. I'm back to listless dissociation. Today, I spent in bed, refusing to go to the Dr Who exhibition at Coventry Transport Museum with the rest of the family. I feel bad about it as it had been planned for some time. Like many families with teenagers, we don't do things enough things together so, even as a lay in bed in my empty house, strips of sunshine traversing the duvet, I felt guilty.

I feel I also let down my inner child, as between the ages of 5 and 12 I longed to see the Dr Who exhibition. Defying the gender stereotype, I was a regular viewer from the mid -Pertwee period, through vintage Baker, and to the end of Davidson. The Dr Who exhibition used to be at Longleat House with the lions. It was advertised on the TV, and was shown on Blue Peter. I don't know what far off places other kids dreamed of. I remember a very earnest school friend informing me that she and her family were, "just doing Butlins this year because we have to save up to go abroad every other year." This seemed unbelievably sophisticated to me. We never went on holiday, or even on day trips to semi-educational tourist attractions.

We lived in Cornwall, a county that isn't short of opportunities for slightly tacky family days out, but we never went. Flambards had the Poldark exhibition, featuring the history of Cornish the smuggling industry. I never saw it. Lands End had, well, rocks and a tea-shop (they've 'improved it since'). I have never seen it to this day. Dairyland had cows, Bird Paradise had birds, the Seal Sanctuary had seals, and I never went to any of them. I didn't mind any of that. My idea of a good day out was a trip to Redruth to go to John Oliver's which was a sort of independent WHSmith, where I might be allowed to choose a book or a random item of stationary (ah, but not the pop-a-point pencil which I really, really needed).

I longed and longed to be taken to Longleat House, but as much as I craved it and asked Jim'll Fix It for it, I knew it would never happen. Cornwall was a long way from Warminster. It has got closer as the roads have improved, but its still 174 miles each way, 3 hours 34 minutes according to the AA. People travelled less in the 70's anyway. There was less money around, cars were less comfortable, and expectations were lower. That was why my schoolfriend's holidays were such a big deal. Another friend once had a week in Ilfracombe, with no irony intended, wow it was amazing to think of.

The consequence of all of this is that I've never seen a real live Cyberman. I have seen a Dalek, because there is a tame one in Waterstones in the Coventry precinct branch. I've never seen it exterminate anyone though, it's worth regular visit, just in case it happens one day. Sadly for the younger me, I suppose I never will meet K9. I will do most things on my own, but when my mood picks up, I don't imagine that I'll want to walk around the exhibition on my own. It will be too scary for me.

Wednesday 1.4.09

Pinch punch first of the month, no returns for 100 years (or until next year whichever is the sooner). I was April fooled by Nina's boyfriend P today, and I fear my attempts to get him back were not successful. He posted on Facebook P, "feels that being a father could be hard work, but he is up for the challenge!" Nina got several phone calls at work, P's sisters rang him, contacts messaged him and I thought, well, its unlikely but possible, what now? Pete then emailed to remind me it was 1st April. I pretended to be cross. Secretly, I like him for making a good job of it, and I had fun looking up various diseases of the testicle that I then told his friends he had.

Went with Nina and Holly to see Ross Noble, Things at the Alban Arena. Laughed until my ribs hurt, and then some more. Will write about it tomorrow as very tired, although can't sleep.

Richard Herring's blog appeared, with him describing a rough performance night and what look like the symptoms of depression. Reading it at 1am I had the urge to help him, which is complete lunacy as we don't know each other and he is in a hotel in Cheltenam. Look at this though, "Hopefully the relatively short drives from now on will mean I can make some progress with work, but this excessive weariness is dragging me down. It's not surprising perhaps. I am under a lot of strain and have a lot on and I am old. I feel like the real me is submerged somewhere deep within my body, whilst this zombie me carries ever onwards, destroying my body by eating and drinking too much and breaking all my moral and ethical codes and not doing any fucking work on the book......Just occasionally I have some moments of clarity, but I am trudging onwards like a mindless comedy drone, managing to navigate my car round the country whilst semi-comatose and then getting on stage and lip syncing my way through a show, which luckily is being played on a tape via my mouth so it really sounds like I am in control. " He reminds me of worse times. I don't see any comedy here.

Tuesday 24.3.09

Woke up to the sunshine, feeling energetic today. Isn't that an ordinary thing? The last time I fully experienced this feeling - including waking up and wanting to get out of bed - was, I think late August last year. I've got used to the sluggishness to the extent that I've incorporated it into my life as being normal, just me being me, and today that seemed absurd. At around 2pm, I recognised that the ability and motivation to sort out some bags of junk, finish the laundry, listen to the whole of a podcast and recall it, is a normal state of mind. I hope I'm able to sustain it as it feels good, and I've got loads done.

I sorted out the three bags of stuff that Nick cleared out of the car a couple of months ago. It was all stuff that I had accumulated there while I was in Cornwall last year. As I didn't want some of it but thought it could be used, I put it out on the front wall, hoping someone would take it. There were the packets of vegetable seeds that never got planted, and some books that I had got from the Lions Club sale on the beach. I was pleased that a couple of hours later, the books had gone. It had rained by this time so I had to throw away the seeds. With all the rest of the tidying, I threw out four bin bags, ready for the lorry tomorrow.

I cooked a good dinner and while it was cooking, took Darcy for a walk. Get me, doing two things at once! He is a bit miserable, having been wormed. The gaudy flower beds have been planted up. From one angle, the park looked like the guardians of civic life in the 50's might have imagined with the formal flower beds, the pavilion, and tennis courts, and the grand deco memorial in the background. It says something that today I even managed to appreciate something of Coventry. Surely this can't last.

In the evening, Nina and I went to the supermarket and amongst other things, bought me a giant pink French Fancie Birthday Cake. Deep, deep joy. The young man who served us at the checkout said that I would enjoy it as he had had one for his birthday. I told him I would think of him tomorrow, and I will.

In a final burst of positive Dee, I have partially completed my college application. It'll all end in tears.

Monday 23.3.09

Got up early to drop Nick off to a meeting. I'm glad I did manage to get up, its too long since I've had to. I waited for him in McDonalds, reading about Jade Goodie who died yesterday. The papers were filled with tributes and pictures. I found my eyes tearing, thinking of what would have happened if our family member S has died of her cancer, glad that she has gone on to live another seventeen years and that statistically she is cured. Thinking of all those who live and die with cancer.

Opinion on Jade is so divided among the public. Some people have written truly horrid stuff along the lines that Jade deserved to die, while some are mourning her loss as they would one of their own. I found myself comforting a friend on Facebook, she was upset at the hate messages directed at Jade. The more I surfed, the more it became apparent that the division seems to be class based with the liberal intelligentsia adopting the negative approach, and the shop workers offering the compassionate - and I might say polite - response. I don't think I say this because I admired Jade who was blessed with no excessive intelligence, beauty, or talent and who lacked the benefits of a good education and upbringing, yet made the most of every opportunity life afforded. She was a success on her own terms, earning a good living, taking care of her family, finding love and friendship. Above all that, she was able to publicly own her failings and errors when she could have turned and hid away.

To contradict myself a little, the comment I value the most was from Stephen Fry's Twitter,

" stephenfryPoor, dear Jade. She was a fellow guest on @wossy a year or so back & I warmed to her immensely. All impulsive spirit & smiles. What a life Jade lived life under a magnifying (sic)glass. Magnifying glasses magnify (obviously) but they distort and they burn. "

I should have learned from Jade, but naturally, I didn't make the most of the day. My mood went from manic humour, chattering to Facebook mates (and to Rich about Edinburgh plans), then down into a bleary low which I tried to walk off with a supermarket dash. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I feel depression damns me.

Saturday 7.3.09

I woke up feeling truly miserable and the feeling didn't lift all day, although I've tried to keep a lid on it. Nick has been kind and attentive. He thinks its his fault, but it isn't, not at all. Thankfully the kids have been out with their friends all day and again in the evening so they haven't been affected.

A comedy show is supposed to be funny isn't it? Ok, sometimes comedy can make you think, be a bit subversive, they call it edgy these days I believe. I wasn't expecting last night's comedy to make me miserable today, and I'm sure its not the impact that Richard Herring had in mind when he wrote his routine. Its not the paedophile section that's upset me either, not one bit, even if some of the audience did walk out. Right at the end, in a no jokes way, Richard talks about meeting his ex-girlfriend after a twenty year gap. He concludes that if, as a young man he had been asked to choose between pursuing his dream of being a comic, and marrying his first love, he would have chosen comedy, which, inevitably he did.

In my sleep, I must have been mulling it over. I took the opposite approach to Richard, stayed with my first love, had children, the whole domestic thing. I put that before other ambitions to some extent although I pursued some of them for a while. Now, I love Nick hugely, deeply, amazingly, with passion and tenderness. I am loved. The 'but' is that (if I exclude the house and children, a big 'if', I accept), we have nothing in common. Less and less each year. We don't like the same music, TV, films, comedy, hobbies.... We vaguely cross over on politics, neither of us like sport, we love our pets. It feels like that's all. We've become two people who can sit and eat together while reading the paper. That's our joint activity. It was brought home to me when, last night I told Nick I was sorry that he hadn't liked the show and he said he had a lovely evening because the curry was nice. Selfish of me, certainly, but that just didn't feel enough.

When I had the depression badly, one of the less useless things I was told by the medical establishment to do was to imagine what a good friend would say to me. So, in this case, my good friend says to share some of the things he likes. The thing is, he doesn't do much. Its just impossible to get into reading something just because someone else likes it. I'm never going to be able to appreciate the aeroplanes of the second world war. I need to write this, but write it small What if I had finished with him when I went to college? Did we stick together because neither of us had the courage to be alone? Because we were both nerdy fat kids? I blame you, Richard Herring.

The weather was nice today. Proper spring. Nick and I walked Darcy around the memorial park, went for lunch in the supermarket. I spent the afternoon watching Dave Gorman on Youtube. Nick went to the office party alone, as planned. I left him to prepare his culinary contribution alone and refused to give him a lift. He solved both problems himself. The episode of Casualty was a good one this evening, and finally I am relaxed.

Nick, if you read this, you need to know that this is the truth: I love you forever, no doubt, and no (significant) regrets. I love you. My dreams were never that good anyway.

Tuesday 24.2.09

If it was such a good weekend, why have I spent the day in a pit of self criticism? The thing is, I did reasonably well in all the social interaction, even the party photos look OK, and yet the things people said are echoing in like I'm sitting at the bottom of Gwennap Pit. In particular, Rich's lawyer friend has got to me. She was indulging in the character assassination of mutual friends the first had depression and then the second 'went strange, maybe its catching?'. Now I'm thinking, that may well be, look what to HH, then me. But, did I start it off all unknowing in a minor form, like it was a tickly throat, and she got the full on flu. I lied to Rich's friend anyway, and said I was working. In fact, I told that lie to four or five people at the party as well. It was easier than saying I'm what? Not working because I'm frightened that if I do, the black dog will return, rendering me useless again. Or tearing me limb from limb. Anyway, I couldn't get off the sofa today, not even to make dinner, and I've no idea if I can make it to the Spinto Band gig on Thursday even though I've promised Nina.

During sofa time, I had a go on Spotify, the next big thing according to a lot of blogs. It doesn't seem that different to anything else out there as far as I can tell, although I did listen to the whole of Morrissey's Years of Refusal, this convinced me not to buy it. Not a great marketing tool then...

Watched Horizon, on the them of body clocks. The experts say that the human mind is at a mental peak between 10 -12. Nick pointed out that I reach that peak at 10 pm as opposed to am like the rest of the human race. I saw the funny side.

I just commiserated with the comic, Richard Herring via Twitter, re his failure to win the Chortle award. I must be soft in the head, I don't know the man, he doesn't know me and never will. What possible comfort can I be to him, and how much do I care anyway? Its an attack of false empathy based on his three tweets. Anyway, it did prompt me to check the Chortle website and find that Dave Gorman is touring stand up later in the year. Nina will be thrilled.