Seinfeld

Sometimes you read a book, watch a movie or program and think “That’s exactly the idea I had!” Most of the time it is benign circumstance, only rarely is it because someone has drugged, kidnapped and wired you up to a machine which reads and processes your thoughts, stealing the very essence of your obvious genius right from the source. This post is more about the former. As far as I am aware no one has been drilling in my brain trying to get at it’s sweet sweet juices and suck away all my cleverest plans. Though that might explain my occasional inability to put on knickers without practically knocking myself out falling towards our precariously solid bed frame.

When  I told a friend I wanted to write a blog, a way to practice writing until someone thought me good enough to publish, she asked what it would be about. “Toilets!” I said.

“I always know the best place to find a bathroom when I am in need. Mainly because my anxiety causes said need all too often.”

“So just like George Costanza in that episode of Seinfeld? Remember that one?” She sent me a link, see below.

I have always felt a strong bond with George; his NYC intellectual neuroses spoke to my own over-read, over-stimulated mind but now we had a real connection.

Magnificent Facilities.

Let the Friday of awesome writing times begin!

As we all know, by day I work as an ass-kicking library technician digitising heritage photographs but while I love the collections and the amount of time I get to spend drinking coffee and talking nonsense (“networking”) with my colleagues I have recently felt the need deep in my loins to shuffle my life hours and take on more of what grown-up life has to offer (naps, but not only naps).

Ergo, I have elected to forgo some small luxuries for the next few months, cut down my paid working hours and spend Fridays in our home office (i.e. a small rather messy room where the extra books live but has a table) being a writer and trying to write and good shit like that.

A decent part of this newly found time will be focused on improving this blog; write more posts, find more followers/viewers/readership/collaborators/sympathisers/co-accused. In addition to my plans for anxiety blog world domination, I also I want to branch out, submit pieces to a bunch of other blogs, online mags and real life publications. To see if I can make a bit more of a go of this whole writing about anxiety, trying to help people understand life with mental health issues thing, while maintaining the make-them-laugh-at-me-because-I-spend-heaps-of-time-in-toilets dealy I have going on.

So, how are things going to change around here?

• I will start by dedicating myself to posting one toilet blog every Friday so there will always be new bathroom content to ease you lovingly into the pillowy bosom of the weekend.
• I plan to spend more time on my blog, write more posts, do more research perhaps set up a few serial posts such as the work anxiety idea I had all those months ago.
• I hope to write more about anxiety specifically now I have the time and emotional space to really get my ideas and techniques down in a way I feel is authentic and unsmarmy.
• I will submit pieces of writing to a bevy of places; websites , magazines, blogs etc. which I currently love to reading and believe I could contribute something worthwhile to their readers.
• I will take naps and get some exercise. Yes, basic life things but I will treat my body better than I do now. I will take better care of it and do all the boring crap doctors say you need to do like getting enough vitamins and sunlight and all the things that stop you getting scurvy and being arrested for biting someone ankles on the street during a rabid outburst. (To be clear I am well aware of the differences between scurvy and rabies.)
• And most important to you my darling well-endowed reader, I will bake cookies for my facebook friends who are kind enough to repost my blogs (Sadly this can only include people who live within driving distance, so Auckland basically but if you live too far away I will happily take a photo of some cookies and send it to you as a post card.) Yes I will start trying to market myself and my writing. Marketing with cookies!

I hope you will continue to join me via the wonderful world of the interwebs while I sit in a small room, getting distracted by my cat and try to make me brain do a thing it may or may not want to do one gorgeous day a week.

Bloglovin

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

I have joined up with many wonderful people to the wonder and magic of Bloglovin,

*Woop woop*

Twiitering

I have a tweeter account so I can post even more pictures of toilets and so I can tell more people things they may not want to know about anxiety. You should follow me for hilarity and good (toilet) times.
Magnificent loos(y)

Liebster Award

It may have taken an age but I am finally completing my piece for the Liebster Award. Not so much an award as a group pat on the back at the bloggers round table. From what I can garner it is a nice form of chain mail to support and bring attention to more blogs. Made me feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside and I love the community feel so here goes with my rando post (note: There seems to be more swearing in this than usual, sorry if that is upsetting to anyone)

I was nominated by missnervousnellie who writes a blog about anxiety JUST LIKE ME!

I realised once I had read her post though that I have up until now failed in my blog community spirit and have not been looking out new blogs to read and support. So rather than choosing my favourite blogs, I went out and found a bunch that I like so I could give out a couple awards of my own.

So my questions from missnervousnellie were:

Do you have any regrets in your life?  If so, what is the biggest one?

I try very hard not to regret things as I think that what happens happens. Shit, as it were, does actually happen. Regret makes anxiety worse and will rot my brain like cane sugar crack cocaine and TV. I have stupid thoughts all the time about something I said or I regret a dance move or a strange noise I made in public or the regret of placing affection in the wrong hands but over all I want to think that some kind of huge bearded fate-being (possibly in the form or a man, sloth or a capybara, who am I to question?) is there pushing the Tonka truck of my life in pretty much the right direction. The idea of fate and ‘it all happens for a reason’ are two of my most powerful anti anxiety thoughts when I feel like a massive retard.

You can travel anywhere but it’s a one-way trip: where do you go?

Home, obviously.

What is your favourite movie and why?

I have less out and out favourites and more favourite genres or directors. I know that sounds wank but hey I paid for my 5 years of art wank at uni so I plan to use it. Coen Brothers, Wes Anderson, vintage black and white or techno colour films, cheesy Christmas movies, Asian ultra horror it is oh so deep, meaningful and varied. Gun to my head I suppose I will go for O’ Brother Where Art Thou, mainly for the sepia and the sound track.

What do you hate the most?

Again too many things to list. I’m a total pessimist, arsehole, grump. I hate it when people are mean, cruel and stupid. I hate people who don’t indicate when they drive and people who lie and cheat. I hate all kinds of melon, cockles/clams and the idea of eating tripe. I hate feeling guilty and stubbing my toe. I hate people who hurt animals and people who spit on the street.

What do you love the most?

My cat Sweet Dee, my boyfriend Josh, my Mum, my friends, my blanket, baking, cheese on anything, bacon and napping.

Who would you like to be trapped on an island with and why?

Caitlyn Moran and or Stephen Fry, smart and funny and I would learn heaps of cool shit.

What self-made goals have you recently accomplished?  If you don’t have any goals, why not?

Not stabbing anyone on a recent holiday with my family, publicness scares me. Sculpting bacon into a bouquet of flowers for my boyfriend.

What are you most proud of in your life?

Naff I know but living with anxiety and not having it fuck everything up for me. It is hard and mean and nasty and boring and tiring but I would hope that it makes me a better person. I work damn hard to live with it in a healthy way and not have it affect other people negatively, when possible. I worry sometimes that if I didn’t have anxiety I would be a psychopath.

Do you have tattoos and if so, what?  If you don’t have tattoos, would you get one and what would it be, or why have you chosen not to get one ?

Yes, quite a few. A sacred heart on my back, some swallows which say mum (got them years ago before it was ‘cool’) roses on my tummy and a big Mexican sugar skull on my ribs which is a tribute to my brother who died. Oh and a bone thing on my arm which really needs touching up but I’ve been too lazy to do it.

Cats or dogs?  Why?

BOTH ALL THE TIME!!! Animals just in general. I have one cat now but I would love a couple more and a dog or two. Alas Dee hates other cats so she will remain an only Princess until she is old or blind. One day when I have space I plan to get a Basset Hound and/or a Munchkin cat. I LOVE all the animals with the little legs. I would never be sad again if I could watch them running up to me every morning.

Questions for the blogs I have found to nominate………..

1. What animal would best describe you?
2. Black jelly beans, yay or nay?
3. Interior design style?
4. Could you be a step-parent?
5. Worst celebrity child name? Why does it bother you?
6. Is there someone you haven’t told you love but you should?
7. If a train was leaving Berlin going at 103km/hour and another train was leaving Paris going 99km/hour and the first train had a team of champion food eaters and the second had a carriage filled with teen models, which world leader would win in a fist fight; Putin vs Merkel and David Cameron vs Barrack Obama?
8. Did you wear MC Hammer style trousers in the early 90’s?
9. Favourite historical hair-do?
10. Love at first sight yay or nay?

And the blogs I have found over the last few weeks/months (forgive my non adherence to the rules but I’m a rebel yeah!)

Oh Rocky

Scathingly Brilliant

The Dainty Squid

Thyme and Honey

New York Cliché

The Frosted Petticoat

I’m sure I will find more I like as I get to grips with the whole blogging world!

Some days are just going to be shit and there is nothing much you can do about it. For me those days are frequently Tuesdays. My best theory is that I build up my ability on Sunday to face another week of work (i.e. interaction with people, dealing with my emotions and generally looking like a professional when inside I am cry like a baby being slobber mauled by a gummy hyperactive Labrador puppy) and by Monday evening all my reserves are used up, Tuesday comes around and I have little to offer. It’s still the beginning of the week and I still have three more days to get through but I’m already tired from Monday. By Wednesday I am at the hump and can at least find solace in the fact that it’s half way through the week. Thursdays and Fridays are hard and tired but there is a light at the end of the tunnel in the form of a decent sleep in Saturday morning and having full control over who I see and what I do for two whole days. On the weekends I can do as I please. It is my choice;  interactions or hermit? Stay home and watch dvds, eat uncooked baking dough and build up some resource for the following week? YAY!

From this melancholy grey Tuesday morning (lunch time I guess is more accurate) I am willing myself to find ways to manage my anxiety, my lethargy and my dysthymia.

Ergo I will share one of my swanky management techniques which often works when nothing else seems to. I have been told on and on to be kind to myself and to try to just get through the day but no one tells you how to actually do it. I concocted this technique when I was in the depths of my grief after a couple of close to home family deaths. Nothing was really making me feel better and I didn’t expect anything much to so I would try to suck as much joy as possible from the smallest things. I wrote a list of 5-6 small things that I could always depend on to cheer me up, even just the tiniest bit. These where not big life plans or exciting changes, these were about slowing down my grief and misery and just trying to focus for a few minutes on the little things in my life that still gave me joy.

I like to think about when I was a child when little things would make me so giddy and happy that I would dance around the house like I’d won a life time supply of My Little Ponies. My mother letting me buy some weird treat at the supermarket during our weekly shop (I believe it was one of those pokie things with the chocolate sauce that you dipped cracker sticks into?) Or finding something on a field or in the garden, relics of inhabitants past. Or having my Dad cook my favourite meal and knowing there was pudding to come after it, my joy for roast pork has never died.

So I will share my list of little life happies which I try hard to use as battery on the front-line of the  Bruce/Anxiety war for my soul:-

Cuddles. Yep a basic thing but human contact with someone you like can make all the difference. Most of the time these days my boyfriend supplies these but I have friends and a Mother who are pretty damn good at such things as well.

Kitty cuddles. My cat brings me an unrealistic amount of joy in spite of her terrible temper and tendency to bite me for no reason.

Food. I’m not saying I go home and eat a whole block of chocolate, 3 loves of cheese on toast and a packet of biscuits but when I was very very sad the idea of going home and eating cheese or getting sushi for lunch made me feel just a little better about the world. A sausage roll has been known to do wondrous things to my mood.

Baking. I love to cook and I often rage bake when things really piss me off. Baking is a full body exercise and allows me to focus on something other than myself for an hour or so AND then I get to eat and give away yummy noms to my friends.

Blankets/pillows. No matter how bad it is I can go home and wrap myself in my blanket or a duvet and the comfort will rasp off the bad edges. A comfy bed, a nap and/or just wrapping your body up makes me feel all in utero, calm, safe with the utmost snugglitude.

Catch 22 of anxiety

I want to write. I like writing and I like writing about anxiety. I have lofty intentions of doing a Caitlin Moran, taking something historically lauded as unfun writing fodder, pointing at it and laughing until it becomes a normal part of the social consciousness. She did it with feminism and I want to make anxiety an equally open and honest topic of discussion. I’ve always found laughing in the sweaty face of hard life-things can make them feel less scary, to control the whole world with your own punny jokes.  Unfortunately for me the topic is also the issue.

At least once a day I come up with an idea for something I want to write about anxiety. I think long and hard and sometimes I try my hand at writing it down but it often only gets this far.

You see anxiety and procrastination hide within each other like a set of babushka dolls. Ugly ones that no one wants but you feel like you have to keep because some sickly relative gave them to you and you’ll feel guilty if you throw them away or try to pass them off to someone else. Even if you repaint them all pretty and lovely you’ll never be able to forget that time the relly in question yelled at you for something you didn’t do and that actually she was kind of a bitch anyway. They are pretty much guilt clutter.

When I start to type an idea for a blog post, I plan to be witty and dry and charming. I have plans to woo the general public into seeing that anxiety is hard but that with work and perseverance it can be controlled and the sufferer can live and long and happy life, a bit like a cat with AIDs.  Though with every word I type I feel less witty, less charming. I am not the hilarious blithe creature I want to be. I am a blithering idiot. At this point I will re read what I have written and be shocked at my own inadequacies. The magical writing syrup which should be flowing from my fingers is not as sweet as I have hoped and I will not be feasting off the pancakes of my talent at the Ritz of the internet any time soon.

This is the reason my posts are so infrequent.

So here is a list of the ideas I have had for blogs I intend to write (when I manage to get Bruce into some form of mental homoerotic bondage style restraint and slog through my intended topics log with a free and quiet mind)

• Anxiety at work. How do I have a job when I’m scared of everything?
• How to find a toilet pretty much everywhere, the travel edition.
• Cafes; how to decide if one of friendly for panic/non purchase use.
• 20 odd more best and worst toilets I have photographed.
• Having a relationship. Part 2 of my Greek tragedy.
• Grief. I’ve had it and you’ve had it but it really is Buzzkillington.
• Planes, buses and trains
• Am I disabled? Why can’t I have a parking pass like a one legged man?
• Agoraphobia is about control and autonomy of movement not fear of outside.
• Why being a grown up is dumb. I was scared of insurance as a child.
• Everyone at work hates me.
• Anxiety is like a house fire. You have to suffocate it to win.

And many more platinum hits which may or may not appear on the interwebs at some point in the following year (s).

Being crazy hasn’t made me cool.

I recall times as a teenager when I thought being crazy would be sexy and alluring. I was there at the birth of emo, before emo was an abbreviated social sub group. I refused to join in during PE class or other teenagerly activities which were good for me. I read depressing French existentialism and spent most of my time sulking in the art room drawing Willem de Kooning-esk cows and trying to work out how to be myself in a town that was not created for people like me. It was the farming town, the sport mad, the “she’ll be right” good ol’ kiwi, number 8 wire kind of society, so at odds with the fear and doubts which lived and grew inside me over the years.

The movies I liked glorified the edges of sanity for me, Girl Interrupted, Heavenly Creatures etc. I very much doubt they were made to be looked at with the adoring eyes of my hormone drenched ilk. Perhaps they should have been more of a warning of sad scenarios involving lives I should have been grateful I didn’t have to lead. For me the relaxation which broken sanity seemed to offer was the ultimate freedom. The charming sociopath; the Angelina Jolie figure, attractive, sexy, promiscuous and free, with buckets of sexy drama.

She wasn’t worried.

If I was her I wouldn’t worry either.

I am sure there were  legions of teenage girls who like me looked up to these charming characters. Sadly my reality was never quite  like the fiction. My own brand of crazy (anxiety) has never been cool. It doesn’t make me carefree and nonchalant in the face of danger and authority. It doesn’t make me cry sexy tears in the supermarket fruit section, drawing men to me like moths to an attractive heaving bosomed flame. Men were not left love-struck and forlorn in the wake of my inspiration driven changes of heart. No. I have never been cool and my dramaticness only comes out in the most awkward and uncomfortable ways. I do insanity with as much panash as Prince Phillip does International speaking engagements . I’m as cool as a teetotal fundamentalist Christian at a university orientation party with an open bar.

I would day dream of being hauled away to a mental hospital to be visited by an attractive kindly man. I would weep quietly, while he would  stroked my hair and fed me sips from a juice box (only plastic and cardboard foil allowed. No glass for you crazy lady). The reality; we don’t really have mental hospitals any more and the psych wards I have visited over the years (never as a patient I might add) are scary and musty and filled with fat people shuffling in their socks and track pants. Not an Angelina Jolie in sight.

I thought being crazy would make me cool, or at least I hoped it would. I never thought people understood me. I was determined to know what my problem was and take that label with me as a badge of coolness and of excuse for my sometimes odd behaviour. I recall being more disappointed than ever when I learned that I had a general anxiety disorder and suffered from panic attacks and agoraphobia. I am embarrassed to admit that I was disappointed that I didn’t have a borderline personality disorder or something else dramatic, requiring extreme levels of help. Embarrassed yes, but I am admitting it to make a point about my need to be labelled. I was told that I shouldn’t be labelled, that people were not their mental illness and by taking on my label I would be surrendering my very personness. At the time I thought this was politically correct bullshit. Now I understand that I wanted my label, not to take away from who I was or to claim that my disorder was all I was but because I wanted to be believed.

My anxiety has always been a struggle of people not believing or understanding how much it hurts or how hard it could be. A bit like telling someone you can see a kite duct taped together with knives but no one else can see it. It’s no less real to you. I had been told so many times that I was making up my feelings, my tummy aches, my fears or that I had a “bad attitude” Ha. Ha. Ha.

Having a name for it gave me power. I could pick my anxiety up like a broken doll and show it to people “see this is the bit that makes things hard. I didn’t imagine it, see!” I felt vindicated and in control for once. Over the years I have continued to work on taking control of it by giving it names. By making it a being which lives with me, a real thing I deal with rather like an imaginary friend no one wants around. He isn’t my friend, he is a jerk and I work very hard to keep him in the basement of my mind and soul to the best of my ability.

I have accepted that I will never be cool. I will never be Angelina Jolie and no amount of blood vials or tattoos could make it so (I don’t have any vials of blood and I do have tattoos but they are all well thought out and non tribal tack)

If you’re thinking that the notion of being cool appears a whole lot in my writing, you are right. Being uncool is at the crux of my anxiety.

When I’m free of it I feel my most awesome, funny and attractive but when I am riddled with it like a Dickensian street whore filled with syphilis and T.B, I feel not only uncool but transparent, as thought every person can see right through my body and see the lump of uncool inside me. Anxiety makes me feel like I radiate uncool like a lighthouse, visible for all to see and judge. And not uncool in the so bad it’s good kind of way, not Ugly Betty uncool but more annoying girl who keeps saying the wrong things, can’t stop talking and saying sorry after every sentence uncool.

Therapy toilet