“It’ll all be worth it in the end”

I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those women who blogged about this stuff but I guess I’m a God damn liar. So here goes.

For those who weren’t already aware I am not a little bit pregnant, but rather a lot pregnant.

And it’s been a rough few months.

This is where I should be writing cutesie shit about how being pregnant is *magical* and that I am now officially an Earth Mother capable of bending the space-time continuum.

But sadly, nope.

Instead this is a post about how shit it is being pregnant, and how hard it is to vomit in public toilets.

Now, I have vomited many times in my life, I’m a vomiter. I throw up when I’m drunk, when I’m hungover, when I get a headache, when food doesn’t agree with me. It’s just something I am used to. Then I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum and welcomed into a whole new world of hurt.

From 5 1/2 weeks I have been so unwell sometimes I could barely stand. For the first 3 months I was so sick I couldn’t read or watch TV or even get comfortable lying in bed because everything hurt and I felt like I was swimming around in a pool of death and bile.

Imagine the worst handover you’ve ever had. Not just a garden variety hangover but one where you woke up feeling like your whole body was toxic and every movement, every breath felt like your insides were caving in on themselves like a million suns imploding in your abdomen/brain/chest/ribs/everywhere. That’s what HG is like, but with no let up. 3 months, all day, every day. Multiple vomitings in the most inappropriate places. And the vomiting isn’t even the worst bit, the extreme nausea is the worst. Once you vomit, there is no respite. It’s not like having a bug where you throw up a bunch then feel a bit better. It’s constant, then surprise it’s 2am and you’re slumped on the floor or your shower vomiting for the 15th time and the only thing left is bile, which your body seems to make in excessive amounts now. That’s when your very sweet husband wakes up and says “Hmm you look bad” and takes you to A&E because you have nothing left in your body, and you have a migraine the size of Poland because you’re so dehydrated.

Somehow in-spite of all this, people still seem to expect me to be happy and positive and excited about my current situation. They look so crestfallen when they say again and again “Oh it’s such a magical time!” To which I reply “Not for me”. Or “That’s just being pregnant!”. Again nope. If every pregnant lady felt this way the birth rates would be at nil in no time. Because as Amy Schumer said, hyperemisis is the same as morning sickness like a paper cut is the same as an arrow in the head.

Here are some very approximate figures on morning sickness and HG; 70% of women experience some morning sickness, most of which goes away after the first trimester. 10% of women have what they call “severe nausea and vomiting” which is what they class you as when you’re dying but haven’t been hospitalised yet. 5% of women have HG badly enough to need IV’s and hospital stays and lots of strong anti-nausea medication to get through the day (this is me). The worst 2% are those poor miserable creatures who have no let up, little or no help from meds and just have to manage their way through 9 1/2 months of extreme misery.

About now I feel like I should justify a few things for anyone who thinks I’m just a moaning arsehole, or who thinks perhaps I got knocked up by accident and now regret my choice. I am not sad that I am pregnant, it is something we wanted for a while now and had to try for over a year to get here. I’m not sad that I will have a baby soon. Terrified yes, and overwhelmed with the massive responsibility of bringing another human into the flaming shitball that is our current society. But not regretful at all. I am no pussy when it comes to pain. I have three chronic conditions that cause me much pain and misery on a day to day basis, but this is a whole new variety of illness. My final addendum is that, however poorly I feel, I know I have the diet coke of HG. I have been on message boards where women talk of vomiting 50-60 times a day. Of being unable to keep down water or a piece of toast. Women who are pregnant with very much desired and loved babies but consider terminating because the pain and misery of this condition is so great that they literally can’t go on another day feeling this unwell.

Over the last few months I have thrown up in many places, mostly at home but also at work (really weird and inappropriate when you can’t even tell your team mates you’re pregnant yet) in carparks, in a bucket in my car, and in public toilets. Any toilet that isn’t your own is a gross place to vomit. Public toilets are the worst. You can’t kneel like a normal human because the floor is wet and gross and covered with who knows how many people’s piss. You can bend at the middle and try to aim but you’re always a bit too high and fear getting your sick everywhere, and you don’t want your head or face to be too close to any public bowl because the bacteria may jump the intervening 10cm and infect your face with someone else’s arse-germs. If people are in the adjoining stalls it’s really awkward because having people hear you retch is never fun, so you dampen it down so people don’t think you have Ebola and are about to pass out in the toilet stall covered in blood vom. I was vomiting at a motorway services a few weeks ago and heard a child burst in to tears. It may not have been because of me but I felt terrible for freaking strangers out and possibly ruining a child’s holiday pee.

People, on the whole have been very kind. My managers at work have been exemplary, Josh has taken care of me like no husband has taken care of his sick wife before, and my friends have been so fucking patient with all my moaning. But after a few months of sickness my very short naturally pessimistic rope is getting shorter by the minute and I’m coming close to a major emotional breakdown when the next person tries to make light of my situation. So here are a few  well meaning tips for talking to pregnant ladies rather than just gushing about how wonderful it all is and how happy you are for them.

1. Maybe you had a good pregnancy and you felt empowered and brave and amazing throughout, good for you. But don’t assume someone else  is having the same experience (particularly if that person has a noticeable green/grey tinge to their face). Please avoid trying to ‘perk’ them up with trite aphorisms such as “Oh it’ll all be worth it in the end”. This makes me feel worse and makes me want to cry/scream until I vomit.
2. If someone tells you they are struggling try to avoid saying things like “That’s just what pregnancy is like!”. This is similar to people telling me that “everyone has a bit of anxiety” when I told them I had an anxiety disorder. It’s not the same thing. Don’t get mad/sad when I tell you that it’s not the same thing  and you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.
3. Don’t ask me if I’m excited and when I say “I’m too sick to be excited” Smile knowingly in a patronising fashion.
4. Don’t tell me about the time you had a bad flu, unless you plan to end it with “I don’t know how the fuck you are coping after all these months”. A flu is for a few weeks, this is for nearly a year and I am only just past the half way mark.
5. Don’t tell me that it’ll all go away in the second trimester. Nope. Most of the time HG doesn’t go away and just sticks around like a bad smell until you give birth. Just because someone told you that was a fact that one time doesn’t make you an expert and doesn’t make it the case for every pregnancy ever.
6. Don’t offer advice that even a basic Google search could have provided. Yes I have tried every form of ginger foodstuff there is. I have tried eating dry crackers in bed in the morning. I have tried acupressure and meditating and praying to every deity I don’t believe in. If you think I have been this sick for this long without trying every fucking option then you’re insulting my intelligence and my ability to type “pregnancy nausea” into Google.
7. Try not too be too upset when I answer the question “Are you feeling better today?” with “What part of til the end of my pregnancy do you not understand?” It doesn’t get better, I have good hours and bad hours. The only cure is giving birth. I have lots of anti-nausea meds from my doctors and they manage to keep me functioning on the most basic possible level but nothing more.
8. Try not to get sad when I can’t muster any joy or positivity, or even a smile when you go on about how having kids is the greatest joy in life and how much I will love it. Your attempts to make me feel positive and life affirmed just make me fell worse. Like telling a cancer patient they should just use positive thoughts to get well again. Nope. That’s bullshit.

There are many many more but this rant has gone on long enough.

For all the ladies who have had shit pregnancies and feel constant social pressure to be the embodiment of glowing maternal beauty despite feeling like death, I see you. For anyone who didn’t have HG but just really hated being pregnant for their own totally valid reasons but felt like they couldn’t say anything because of above stated social conventions on motherhood, I see you too.

I’m writing this to get it off my chest, to vent and complain in one place to get it out of my head, but also because I don’t think we talk about how hard this shit is in our society enough. Because women “should just be brave” because pregnancy and child birth are just a part of being a lady, and apparently the belief that original sin is a valid reason for the pain of pregnancy still hasn’t been stoned to death. Just because as women we are tough as fuck, it doesn’t mean that we have to cope in silence.

The Vauxhall tree debacle

I haven’t written anything in ages and that makes me sad. Unfortunately, the lofty ideas I had about moving back to London and spending my down time writing up a storm for a variety of cool and historied publications have not come to fruition.

London has been hard on me, but in more subtle ways than I ever expected. It’s made me question my own drive and ability and left me feeling as though it’s not the city’s fault, but my own. London has been my mentally abusive on-off boyfriend for the past year. Like if I just tried harder, pushed a little more or loved what I do enough then I would achieve ALL my goals. It seems I have had to re-learn something I have understood in terms of my personal relationships for years, but have only just realised counts for my relationship with myself and my surroundings in the past few months. Self care can be walking away or changing your mind/plan if that’s what you need to do, physically or mentally.

Accepting our plan to leave London initially made me feel like a failure. I felt as thought I had not achieved even one of the things I had planned to when I set out on this trip. But, as I have to learn to accept my in ability to achieve grammatical accuracy in all things, I too have to accept the limitations of my physical and mental health.

My body is rapidly going down hill. I am suffering from regular migraines, terrible IBS guts which make me both rush to the loo at a moments notice and want to vomit in the most bizarre places and at inopportune times of the day. My general anxiety and panic attacks have reoccured on a  semi regular basis, and though I can pin point their resurgence to the stress I experience daily due to an inflexible and unsupportive work situation, I have to admit that a pattern of physical and psychological infirmity has become clear. I get stressed by personal relationships or a big life changes such as; not getting a job I wanted and thus feeling harshly cast aside by a colleague, planning a move across the world and being separated from my husband for 3+ months or now when I’m in an unpleasant work situation and exhausted both physically and mentally.

But, I’m side tracking wildly.

The point of this post is to talk about a tree.

Well, technically a pair of trees. Near our flat in Vauxhall there are two newly planted trees, the life of which I feel clearly represent the struggle of living in London, of the atmosphere of London it’s self in this current social-political climate. London has so many amazing positives; the architecture, the restaurants, the history and opportunity. But London, or England in general has a legacy issue and a legacy of issues.

The main road where these trees are now planted runs along the front end of Vauxhall park. The footpath is wide and frequently strewn with dog shit and vomit, but on the whole the area is quite nice. Some time in October-ish last year I walked past the park and two patches of concrete had been cordoned off for works. By the end of the week the result was two, 1 1/2 meter square holes set against the park fence with round wooden poles set in the centre. Just big ol’ holes with dirt and poles.

Within 24 hours one of the wooden posts had been nicked, the second lasted about a week. But the holes remained empty. Big muddy impediments on the side of a busy road. The winter months didn’t help and the holes turned to churned mud bogs causing annoyance to foot traffic and danger in bike vs pedestrian altercations.It took over three months for something to come of those holes.

In New Zealand that would be unthinkable. The concrete would have been lifted, the dirt prepared and the trees planted all in one morning. But that isn’t how London works. Nothing is ever that simple here.

Understanding the legacy of these issues means understand how London bureaucracy functions. The men (because invariably they would have been men, probably hard working Eastern Europeans. The same people Mrs May and her gross Brexit cronies are trying to rid the country of so our services will become even less effective. Thanks Thatcher!) who lifted the concrete would have been from one company, independently commissioned by some low-tier section of the government works department, for a day when the cheapest bid for the job was proposed. The fact that that date would in no way line up with the seasons or the other departments who were involved never seems to bother anyone over here. The date the holes were prepared happened to be at the start of winter, a time not hugely compatible with the planting of new saplings. Another unrelated company would have won a bit to supply and plant the trees, perhaps preparing the soil a little first with proper drainage and compost. This company didn’t complete their work until February this year.

London is a city of people, companies, entities who don’t communicate with one and other. The lack of communication doesn’t seem to ever bother anyone, they have come to expect it.

When the Head of my department had his kitchen re-done last year, it seemed to take literally months to complete. He had to live in a  house without a functional kitchen for 4+ months because none of the companies who undertook the work could come at the same time or in close proximity to the other companies. There were weeks of dead time waiting for one errant plumber or a back order for the correct number of tiles. At home, if you were lucky and organised, you might be able to get your kitchen in and out over a weekend. I think when my parents did theirs back in the 90’s it took a week at most, back before the internet made scheduling a piece of piss. Not only did the builders working on my HoD’s kitchen take forever to finish the work, they left his house in a state of such dusty disrepair, that he had to take off a day to clean all the builder grime off everything before they could even move back into their own scullery. If that happened at home you would get such a shit reputation for your sloppy workmanship that you’d struggle to find more work. But, in England everyone is a jobsworth (as in “it’s more than my job is worth” to go above and beyond or just do the basic level of work that is expected of me) and doing the bare minimum is what is expected if you can possibly get away with it (read: come up with an excuse for why you’ve piked out on doing the whole job, i.e lie through your teeth).

So the mud pits stayed open and awkward for 3+ months until the spring came around. Why didn’t they just wait for the spring and do the whole job you ask? Well exactly.

Because England, because legacy, because lazy cunts.

This is one of many reasons why I’m coming home where opening a bank account doesn’t take a month and involve so many hoops to jump through that you’re tempted to request your work pay you in coins cash as it might be easier and less of a fuss.

 

On the Seventh day of Christmas I popped into The Swan

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love seemed to lose the plot a little gift wise. He began weighing rather heavily on poultry as a means to express his love and adoration. I don’t pretend to be a relationship genius, but when a man hands you unsolicited live birds as part of your Christmas surprise, you might need some couples counselling or to start seeing other people.

So, rather than focusing on the seven swans now living in my closet sized, inner city bathroom, I’ll rate a pub toilet instead.

On moving to London, you will soon realise that there is a traditional style pub approximately every block. When living in London and suffering with agoraphobia, you will soon realise that these pubs may very well save your life (or sanity).

The traditional British pub is a lighthouse on a stormy sea. The saviour of so many ill fated country ramblers who would otherwise be stuck on a hill somewhere, wondering why they decided to spend their Sunday afternoon trudging through a muddy field in increasingly damp socks and wind chapped cheeks.  The number of times I have popped into a pub to use the loo is beyond count. These stalwarts of the high street have saved me from social oblivion many times, and today I will thank them. Yeah, cheers guys.

The Swan, just off Russell Square, is not in any way a special pub or even a particularly remarkable one. Other than the name fulfilling my needs for today’s Christmas toilet, it had no identifiable standout qualities.

As with many pubs of the same age and style, the physical space is limited and what is available has been used poorly and in odd configuration. During our 5 minute whistle stop tour of the facilities, I spied the women’s bathroom at the end of the main bar. The first door opens into a tiny, pointless lobby, then a second door into a set of sinks then the lone toilet hidden away at the back. I am a fan of privacy and a toilet that is set away from the general thoroughfare but three full floor to ceiling doors is a little extreme.

The bathroom was so small that it was genuinely difficult to get a decent photograph showing it’s minute proportions. 

The flowers were fake so at least these vibrant peonies will dust before they wilt.

Rating!

Cleanliness : 7/10  Seemed clean enough.

Interior : 6/10  One toilet isn’t my preference because there is always the fear that some one else will be waiting to use the loo. But in spite of the diminutive size, this loo was by far preferable to the nasty toilet I used a few hours later at Starbucks near Tottenham Court Road; 4-5 people waiting at all times, dirty and no toilet paper.

Exterior : 8/10  We came across the The Swan when I was walking near Russell Square with my very jet-lagged friends. On seeing the sign, my friend screamed SWAN! rather than just pointing or motion towards the pub. Severe jet-lag is a little bit like you’re sobering up after a very hard night out and you don’t really understand how your brain and body are connected anymore. It’s genuinely hilarious to watch from the outside.

Safety : 6/10  The pub is in the center of the city so it’s quite safe, but you never know when some football team will lose and you might get glassed in the face Begby style for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Snugglitude : 8/10  I guess snugglitude-wise I’m not really rating the toilet it’s self but my overall feeling of enjoyment at seeing people I love and having them encourage or even put up with my weird hobby of photographing toilets.

Total : 35/50 

More than Nine ladies dancing at the World Burlesque Games

Finally on the ninth day of Christmas things got interesting gift wise and my true love started to get it right with nine ladies a’dancing.

Burlesque!!!

Now, if you think I was talented and capable enough to snap off a variety of detailed, colourful pics of lovely ladies gyrating with only a handful of diamante to cover their modesty, well then you don’t really understand the point of this blog.

To fulfill my dancing ladies night, and because I happen to love seeing gorgeous ladies (and one man in this case) take off their clothing in clever ways, I booked my boy and I tickets to watch the World Burlesque Games in Holborn. Tits jiggled and the pasties spun in a competition to be crowned Miss Alternative or Miss International. The quality of the women watching the show was pretty fucking impressive but I have to say the men rather let down the side, most looking similar if not the same as the long haired bogans I had seen the weekend previous at The Black Heart.

Unfortunately for my part, my excitement at seeing a show and having the opportunity to get all gussied-up before hand, didn’t stop my anxiety having a spaz in the hours prior to curtain call. As soon as I was there with the lights down and watching the rhinestones fly, I was just fine, but since anticipatory anxiety is my super power I managed to be a twitchy mess in the hours leading up our arrival. It was, as ever, a drag.

Due to my brain melting to the approximate consistency of moist candyfloss,  I was not on best form when we arrived at the hall. I should have taken myself straight into the bathrooms, had a nose about and taken a bunch of pictures while things were still quite. I should have set myself up to get a few shots during the show but again I did not. What I did do was tried to review the bathrooms during the intermission. Big mistake.

The line was perhaps 20 women long by the time I got to it. Thank God I had a beer to keep me company while I waited.

The bathrooms themselves were a great 1980’s combo of pink and grey in wonderful lifeless Formica.

You’d think that after 3 years of toilet blogging I would feel less anxious about photographing loos when people are around, but I don’t. I still think that someone will say ‘what are you doing taking pictures in a toilet?’ with that look on their face like the bullies in every John Hughes movie when they see what the protagonist is doing/wearing at what ever quintessential teen social event they happen to be attending.

There were so many women everywhere while I was trying to snap off a few not too obvious pictures that I managed to get the most crappy shots of my life.

Once the show ended I tried a second time to take some reference pictures but alas, one loo was filled with a young lady being sick or having been sick and sitting on the toilet floor with her friend (we’ve all been there love) and the rest of the bathroom had been left somewhat of a bomb site.

One of the sinks was out of order to begin with which they managed to subtly disguise.

The evening overall was wonderful, the performances were so much fun my face hurt from laughing and the dilettante nature of show’s organisation made me feel much more at home than I would have had it been a slick and professional show (which would have made my anxiety worse). Sadly, the quality of our experience is in no way mirrored in the quality of the facilities onsite or the quality of my reference pictures and for that I appologise.

Rating

Cleanliness :  6/10  It wasn’t cleaned during the performance but since the show was held in a local hall I doubt there were any onsite staff to clean up. The toilets took a battering over the evening but they had started clean enough to begin with.

Interior :  6/10  There were 7-8 stalls but only one set of loos that I could see. This caused a pretty lengthy traffic jam which had I been agoraphobic panicking rather than just generally anxious, may have posed a bit of an issue for me emotionally.

Exterior :  7/10  The hall looked slightly art deco in places but cheaply constructed compared to some of the examples of deco architecture around London. Unfortunately a bunch of refurbishment work over the years had caused the dreaded 60-80’s to sneak in and take away many of the redeeming features of the facilities on offer.

Safety : 9/10  Holborn is a busy semi-tourist-full area of the central city. Honestly if you’re going to be safe with any group of people the alternative/retro crowd is the way too go; the people are sweet, accepting, and offer a variety of amazing hair, make-up and styling tips that you just couldn’t get in any other group.

Snugglitude :  7/10  All points given for my enjoyment of the evening and not really so much for the toilet which was just ok under the circumstances. My comfort compared to the gorgeous young lady pouring hot candle wax on her lips and down her knickers remains to be seen.

Total : 35/50

One blurry little picture of a fully dressed performer is the best I can do. For better views of the ladies of the burlesque games, you’ll just have to go to a show yourself.

Auckland Zoo, good for scared people like me.

Generally, the Zoo wouldn’t be my first choice for a weekend destination. Sad animals, too much sun and a million hyperactive, sugar-crazed screaming children are some of my least favourite things in this world, but a few months ago I did go and to my surprise discovered some genuine positives about our local animal jail.

Firstly, I know it isn’t actually an animal jail. Zoo’s do some amazing conservation work, research and data collection which supports those working with our most endangered species. Secondly there is very little about Auckland Zoo that makes me feel sorry for the animals; they are in pleasant open enclosures with plenty of greenness, space and the ability to hide from the penetrating eyes of Joe public should they be having a bad furr day. There are some terrible, despicable zoos in the world but our local is really rather welcoming.

On arrival I was told the gift bag I was carrying with an array of billowing pink balloons would not be allowed inside the zoo proper. If a balloon were to pop it might upset the animals. While embarrassed by my lack of fore-thought I rather liked that this was they policy. It showed their genuine stance of putting the welfare of the animals before we stupid humans. See balloons here before I handed them over.

This is the first toilet I encountered and a very positive start for my agoraphobic self. It was a busy as fuck Saturday afternoon so I had to park my car a long way up the road. By the time I started walking, the panic was already rising in my throat. I spent the whole walk muttering “I’m fine, I’m fine I’m fine” like some crazed, street balloon vendor. When I finally got to the Zoo and through the front entrance I was pleased to see the set up allowed me to go to the loo, calm down and collect myself before I had to wait in a line for tickets. Now that is what I call good anxiety planning! A loo BEFORE the line? Yes.

The first bathroom was behind the offices and shop, in a row of the same. They had decorated exteriors but plain inside, a convension followed throughout the park.

It wasn’t the tidiest bathroom I had ever come across and I wasn’t impressed with the parent/guardian who left a dirty nappy on the sink rather than putting it in the kindly provided bin, but hey any port in a panic storm!

Wonder how many conservative Christian groups have complained about the rampant Darwinism displayed in these signs?

The following is a terrible fuzzy image but I had to include it because of the wheel chairs, BEST disabled accessable toilet sign ever.

The main take-away from this day, the TLDR of it all, was that the Zoo has LOTS of toilets, which is grand. There are many places to hide if it all gets a bit much, and enough stuff going on that other people would likely not be watching you while you were doing it. Some are all decorated up and cool looking though only on the outside.

Over all this wasn’t the most exciting toilet post and honestly I’ve been putting off writing it but I think I have finished it anyway because my major take home was that the zoo is a good place to go if you happen to have agoraphobia and require bathrooms/hiding places/fresh air and autonomy. There are so few places we can go and feel safe so having one more secure venue  identified might help someone with a group of teens who needs to organise a party (a balloonless party I might add) but knows that the obvious places are out due to the likelihood of having a panic attack and running away screaming and projectile vomiting.

I know how you feel, I’ve got your back.

If that party also happens to include a few people whom you hate but know HAVE to be there then mores the better because you might casually feed them to the tigers when no one is looking.

Rating!

Cleanliness : 7/10  Pretty good for such a busy place. They weren’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination but you wouldn’t expect them to be would you? That is why roller-coasters have vinyl seats; for ease of puke-wiping.

Interior : 5/10  They were fine, had the basics and plenty of options but they were a bit boring inside over all. I would have liked to see the cool exterior themes carried over a bit. It was a bit like stepping inside the wardrobe, expecting to exit in Narnia but finding yourself in a poorly stocked Tesco’s minimart.

Exterior : 9/10  Lots of loos, cool decoration and really great cute signs. Parking was a bit of a bitch but that’s Auckland isn’t it.

Safety : 8/10  I like an entrance fee for lessening my chance of random stabbing or bother. It worked for me at the Colosseum in Rome to get away from the harmless but highly irritating hawkers, and it works in a place like this. Less people are going to pay the fee to come in and rob you than just wait in the park outside. On the whole it is a pretty safe place unless you have an issue with Big Brother watching over you.

Snugglitude : 7/10  I missed out on getting my face painted which was shitty but the Lemurs and Otters were pretty fucking cool.

Total : 36/50

 

My car, my saviour

For me, travelling to work each morning can be a major agoraphobic trigger. Be it a 10 minute walk, a 1 1/2 drive in rush hour traffic or a misery soaked tube train filled with stinky people and screaming babies, sometimes it’s fine and other times it’s extremely not fine. From time to time, for no reason, panic will just well up and take hold causing the trip to be long, drawn-out, boring and painful. I didn’t complete my drivers licence (in reality it still isn’t complete as the final test scares seven shades of shit out of me) and purchase my first car until I was 27. Up to that point I had struggled with public transport each day.

The change from ‘public transport nightmare’ to ‘happily alone in my little car surrounded by my safety supplies’ has lessened the number and severity of attacks to a more manageable level. I still go through phases when things are hard, but generally I can get to work in the mornings without a tear streaked, mascara covered face, relatively on time and having not stopped at every petrol station, McDonald’s and public toilet between west Auckland and the Domain. I guess I’ll post about the badness of my work day tube struggles in the future but right now I’m blabbering about one of the times driving to work didn’t go so well. When I didn’t manage to catch my panic before it totally took over.

Fucking with the schedule doesn’t go down well when you have agoraphobia. It was last Christmas and I’d left home early to get to our work Christmas breakfast. I started to feel twitchy and sore on the lead up to the on-ramp but hoped it would ease. Much self talk, rearrangement, silence and medication attempted. I made it on to the motorway proper but one exit along it all went wrong. To leave the packed-out road I manoeuvred all manner of questionable lane changes and nipping behind tricks so I could get off the travelator-like highway and find a toilet and safety. I got to a petrol station bathroom where I spent as long as possible trying to calm myself. When the level of anxiety about how long I had been in the bathroom got as high as the anxiety about not being in there (just over 10 minutes is about as long as I think it will take for someone to notice I’m still in there and think I’m dead or doing drugs or both) I left the loo and sat in my car, waiting. Waiting and crying.

The panic didn’t go down for 45 minutes or more (with a number of additional trips to the loo in-between, to be sure my body wasn’t still going crazy, and a lot of medication to stop the cramping/swirling/nausea) by which time I had missed the breakfast by a long way and all the fun of the Secret Santa which I had organised.

Rather than enjoying a nice morning, chatting with my work friends over a bacon and avocado bagel accompanied by fresh coffee, I ended up sobbing in my car on the phone to my boyfriend who was helping to make me feel calm and brave. Follow that with the guilt of being late and missing a work do and a $15 cold slightly soggy bagel which had lost it’s charm an hour before.

Having a little car all of my own to transport me safely to and from work has not been the blessed end of my phobias. No management technique works 100% of the time. The level of frustration and sadness I feel knowing however hard I fight to build a safe environment, to challenge my anxiety and to stay as brave as possible in the face of it, everything could turn to shit in 5 minutes flat, is extreme. Some days none of it will work, you might be left crying in a public toilet, bored, fed-up and angry at your mind for making such a fuss over what seems logically so easy. Not letting the utter hopelessness of that fact slaughter all the good ‘building up’ work you do is pretty vital to getting your agoraphobia somewhat under controlled. Because no situation can be controlled 100%, you have to expect fuck-ups, changes and reorganisation as par for the course.

The disgusting experinece that is Mobil K’rd

Do you need to find a place to smoke some crack?

Or perhaps you are still really very drunk from the night before and want to vomit, but since you are a classy chap/chapette you would prefer to do it in a toilet rather than in the gutter?

Ever felt the need to relive the quintessential toilet scene from Trainspotting?

Do not fear because I have found just the grungy shit hole for you! The bathroom at the Mobil ‘On the run[s]’station on the corner of Ponsonby, Great North and K Roads may have never been cleaned. Perhaps it was conceived with a thin layer of dirt, dust and semen to make the clientèle feel more at home. Just imagine what you’d discover if you took a CSI style black light in one of their hallowed cubicles.  Perhaps there would be some much human excretion that you’d be blinded instantly by the iridescent glowing stains.

Unfortunately I have used this loo more times that I’d like to remember. Due to it’s location just off the North Western motorway which I use on route to work every day and because it always has available parking, it is often the best of a bad lot when my guts are angry, I’m feeling sick or trying to calm a panic attack. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a place I would want to hang out unless I REALLY needed to. I would honestly prefer to shit behind a tree in the woods, but as very few secluded woodland trails exist in that part of town (please don’t say ‘what about Western Park?’ because honestly even during the day I feel like I might get raped walking through there) I frequently settle for this place.

Other than location and parking this bathroom fails on every front. It lacks any and every requirement of a positive bathroom experience. Every time I use it I feel I am degrading myself, even in a state of intoxication.

The bathroom cubicles are always dirty. I often thought that was just due to their being abused by drunks each night but these pictures were taken at 9.30am on a week day. The idea of a proper deep clean seems to have missed the caretakers of this loo on every level.

Even the toilet bowl was not exempt. Someone had given it a cursory brush but no real attempt to clean it had been made.

The rubbish had been recently emptied so someone had been in with the intention of cleaning but my guess is that they just sat down on the loo to text a litany of drug clients rather than clean the bathroom at all. Notice the latex glove in the bin? I did, and it made me feel worse. Somehow even dirtier.

Most of the appliances are broken at one time or appear to have never been fixed properly. Even the door speaks of the stations belief that the bathroom will not make it through the day un-aided.

Add to all this the following experience; a few years ago during a drunken stumble home I purchased and consumed a butter chicken pie from this multitudinal emporium only to have it come back to haunt my bowels a handful of hours later. Death pie made me very sad in my food-poisoning gland.

Rating!!!

Cleanliness : 1/10  There was no physical shit on the walls, for that at least that I can be grateful.

Interior :  3/10 It offers the general mod-cons but beyond that nothing. The lock was working this time so I was glad of it.

Exterior :  8/10  The only time this loo wins points. The parking, the disinterested staff and the location near the off ramp and many places I may need to go.

Safety :  5/10  At night this is your safest option for peeing on the long stumble home but many point removed for death pie causing internal misery and the likelihood that you could, would or are likely to catch Hep A or B from touching the surfaces in there.

Snugglitude :  1/10 Nope. Just nope.

Total :  18/50

 

Cheer me up, buttercup?

I’ve been feeling a bit shitty and down the last two afternoons. All the procrastination and anxiety in my brain have avalanched over my soul with little prompting from real world experience. So, to counteract feeling down in my own dumps (not literally, that would be gross and unhygienic) I thought I would put together a little list of things that make me feel brave and inspired when I am filled to the brim with anxiety and self doubt.

This is my brave list.

Books obviously come first because they are awesome and I’m a librarian. The written word gives me a semi when crafted correctly and a full on lady-boner when done with humour, style and chin-up, hands-on-your-hips fortitude. In the face of personal doubts, crippling career doldrums and general feelings of smallness I read or reread the following:

Caitlin Moran ; How to be a woman.

Discovered by me only 18 odd months ago but the amount of times she makes a total twat of herself but still retains her self belief and could not give less fucks about being embarrassed works well for me when I need my anxiety to shut the fuck up and let me get something done. Added to the fact that she became an award winning writer just by writing, working hard and telling people she was fucking fantastic gives me hope for my future as Glorious Leader of the Self Help literary world.

Heather Havrilesky ; Ask Polly on The Cut

Not a book per say but a series of piece I go back to for balls, bravery and a laugh every few weeks. Heather’s relatively recent move from The Awl to New York Magazine’s The Cut hasn’t blunted her acetic wit or her genuinely great advice for everyday issues. I know ‘everyday issues’ makes it sound like something from New Idea or the Women’s Weekly but you won’t find any “Why does my Grandson like that nasty death metal music?” in Heather’s column. You will however be told to get fucked if you ask a stupid question. Love.

Kelly Oxford ; Everything is perfect when you’re a liar

A relatively recent discovery but she had me at ‘pissed her pants in the petrol station trying to buy cigarettes, then lied about having a life-threatening condition causing her to piss her pants.’ Her general attitude of ‘get on with shit and it’ll be ok eventually’ makes me feel brave and helps me on the days when rolling up into the black cave in my brain created by my anxiety seems the only answer. I force myself to recall the story about how she was ignored by 15 model scouts only to hassled them with inconceivable positivity until they took her on anyway.

Blogs are something I like but weirdly something I don’t spend nearly enough time searching for. As a blogger I need to and should spend more time reading other people’s work and building a community but as a super socially anxious person, I’m not the best at that. There are however a couple of places I go when I’m feeling uninspired and a bit blah about how things in my world look. These collections of eye-sexing beauty cheer me up on a cold grey shitty work day with colour, clever design and animals.

The Dainty Squid 

Kaylah’s hair colour cheers me up on the shittiest grey day. Add to that a collection of her favourites from around the web and a massive shared interest in all things anatomy/medical and I get an instant pick me up, like a lightening bolt of happy kittens right in your face holes.

Scathingly Brilliant 

Kate has returned to the world of blogging, thank god. I was so happy when I saw this post pop up on my facebook page, new hair, new outfits but the same gorgeous design and amazing pastel existence. It’s like climbing inside a macaroon and creating a comfy little home to binge watch net flicks with your cats.

There are usually things coming and going in my life that help me feel brave. I’m watching Deadwood at the moment which I missed when it came out however many years ago. Al Swearengen may be a total bag of dicks but over the last few episodes he has shown a glimmer of humanity and kindness albeit from the dark pits of his whore-mongering heart. How can I not like a man who calls that many people cocksucker?

It’s shitty quality but this scene really got me yesterday, it spoke directly to my anxiety monster with a semi-sharp knife in the guts.

Rewatching 30 Rock makes me happy any time of the day or night. Liz Lemon’s night cheese, Jack Donaghey’s amazingly crafted but somehow lovable psychopathic tendencies, or any Tracey moment of defiance shakes away the cares from my day and makes me want to drink whiskey while staring ponderously out a window.

If all else fails, go home, put on your pj’s, eat a fuck ton of cheese and drink a bottle of wine. The world will be a better place in no time.

Liebster Awards 2015

2015 has been dubbed the officially unofficial year of “Lucy, time to be more serious about writing stuff”. Thus far I have; ceased digitizing/librarianing at the museum on Fridays to focus on my writing (though historically I spend a regrettable amount of this time sleeping-in, taking naps, siestas and kips) I have written pieces and approached magazines/websites to publish them (but have heard little back) and I my plan for world domination is finally taking full coherent and strategic form (I made a black board for our office then wrote stuff on it).

Now, you may view these life facts as a list of my failures but in that you would be somewhat mistaken. No creative odyssey goes from woe to go in a steady trajectory. I am well aware of the need to pay my dues and be unknown for a long while before I find fortune and fame as the world’s number one authority on self-guided mental health management and toilet reviewing wunderkind. To me, this is karmic reality but along the way it is always heart warming to feel the firm supportive hand of a friend or peer on my overtly bounteous behind, helping me clamber from the dingy basement of obscurity, dragging as many talented writers, artists and thinkers as humanly possible along with me.

I am ALWAYS endlessly grateful for every view, comment and supportive word I get from viewers, fellow bloggers and friends. The Liebster Awards are a lovely facet of the blogging community which works to give a little sunshine and hope in the face of sometimes seeming insurmountable goals.

This is all a fruity way of saying thanks to Jay for taking the time to read my ramblings and for thinking them good enough to bestow upon them such an honour.

Consequently I shall answer Jay’s questions for me:-

1. Do you like piña coladas? And getting caught in the rain?

I enjoy alcoholic beverages and listening to the rain on the roof while I’m dry and warm indoors. Being caught in it, ermm perhaps if I were on my way home and it wasn’t too cold? Now, if I had been caught in the rain I would very much like a hot shower, coz that shit there is one of the best things in life.
2. Who is your favourite fictional character?

It changes from year to year but on the short list; Rhett Butler, from Gone with the Wind, always, Charlie Kelly from It’s Always Sunny in Philly & Pam Poovey from Archer because she’s strong, kicks ass and doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks which I wish I could emulate.
3. What do you do in your free time?

Sleep, lots of sleep because I’m not very well at the moment but we don’t know why yet 😦               I bake a lot because it makes me feel calm and contented and I love giving people something I have made. It is one of the ways I show affection and thanks.
4. Are you an early bird, or a night owl?

Naturally an owl but over the last few years of being quite poorly so I really do late evening or early morning because I’m exhausted pretty much most of the time.
5. What is your dream job?

Cheese eater and professional hugger but only to nice smelling people, or a writer if I’m being realistic.
6. What was the last thing you ate?

Carrot cake in the staff room. Can’t say no to free cake even at 10am.
7. Do you consider yourself to be an introvert or extrovert?

Whenever I do a Meyers Briggs style test I come out as extroverted and I totally can see why but when I consider the meaning of extrovert vs. introvert (the notion of how one finds or maintains their energy) I would say I’m an introvert. I consider myself an anti social extrovert if I’m being pernickity, which I almost always am.
8. Can you solve a Rubik’s cube?

Nope. My patience is not good at such things.
9. What is your favourite animal at the zoo?

The 100 year old mega tortoise who do pretty much nothing but sit there, eat and look like a dinosaur.
10. What was your first job?

Crack dealer? Or perhaps working in a gift shop, potato/potaato.
11. Do you swear/use curse words a lot?

Fucking constantly.

 

Medication change, still with the nausea?

Monday 4th May – 5.45pm ish

I was really hoping that I had crested the peak of the side effects to my drug change over but I am still weighed down by intermittent bouts of nausea. I tried and failed to travel to my job on Thursday. Not because I didn’t want to come in, not because something terrible had befallen me but simply because I couldn’t manage, after an hour or so of trying, to get my morning nausea to abate even with all the skills, meds and tricks up my sleeve. I finally gave in and spent the day sleeping (literally all day) on my sofa, waking to sip lemonade, feel sick and go back to sleep so I didn’t have to feel so sick. I think I slept for 7 hours at least during the day but had no problem turning in at the normal time of 10ish and sleeping through the night. So much sleep, but no real relief from being exhausted.

This morning I was just getting ready to leave the house and drive to work when the same wave of nausea came on again. It got me wondering if the gelatin casing around my new pills is to blame. In the past gel capsules have given me pretty nasty indigestion sometimes when I take them on an empty stomach. After an hour of wandering around in a frustrated fashion (my lovely boyfriend decided to help by hugging me while swaying and jiggling which didn’t help the general feeling of sea sickness, he thinks he is really funny sometimes) I decided that tomorrow I will take my meds out of their packets and take them in pure form. Obviously this is going to taste fucking terrible so I was hoping to mix them into a spoon of maple syrup or gold syrup. It might work or it might just add to the morning sickness pattern. I guess I will just have to see.