News - September

I owe you guys a news update, but it'll have to be a fairly short one, because I'm hungry and tired and want to go home.

I haven't been well recently, as you may know. I've been in and out of hospital, having all sorts of tests - ultrasounds on various parts of my body, a whole bunch of scans, trace ECGs, six rounds of blood tests in the last two months, blah blah blah...and nobody seems to have a diagnosis yet. Could be anything. Could be nothing. I feel like hell, so maybe it's not nothing, but then sometimes I feel like hell for no apparent reason. Sorry, I'm not being particularly coherent. I'm just so tired. I can't sleep properly at night, and I've had a cold that kept me in bed for ten days - and with the amount of illness I've had in my life, it lost its novelty a long time ago, and these days something has to be REALLY bad to keep me in bed - and now my immune system has gone into overdrive and the ME is three times as bad as it normally is, and half the time I'm screeching (internally) in pain. And my GP's response? To REDUCE my medications.

Mom isn't any better than I am. She screwed up her back a couple months ago, lifting something she shouldn't have been lifting, and now the doctors are telling her that her spinal cord's gone so thin in places that if she continues the way she's been going, it'll snap and she'll be a paraplegic for the rest of her life. So she can't lift anything more than ten pounds, and she can't bend, and for most people this wouldn't be all that much of a problem, because most people aren't as stubborn as my mother. Most people, their doctor tells them this and they listen, and they wait for someone else to do the things that need doing. But my mom, if she wants a big box picked up, or the furniture moved, or the grocery shopping done, she waits for a couple hours or so, and then if you forget, or are busy doing something else, she does it herself against all medical advice. So I have to be completely vigilant, and do whatever she asks me to, WHENever she asks me to, and not wait for the boys to help, or she'll do it anyway. She needs an operation on it, but God knows when that will be. Most likely it'll put next summer's America plans on hold, though.

God, I'm so tired. I'm so tired of being in pain, and tired of lifting heavy things that I shouldn't be lifting, and tired of taking on badly-paid work just to pay all the stupid bills, and tired of being everything, all the time. A person should have some sort of support network, and not rely on one person for everything they need, physically and emotionally.

Not everything in my life right now is a tragedy, but much of it is exhausting. Lauren's younger brother is now living with us - has been for a month or more, I think - as his Mom and stepdad smacked him around and kicked him out of the house. It's nice having him around, and he's a really sweet boy, but there's that constant worry about what's going to happen to him. He can't or won't go home - I think that even if his Mom decides she wants him back, he won't go, because the stepfather has a history of violence with all three of the older kids - and he really doesn't want to go into care. Understandable, because he's in his last year of school, and only has one more year until he's allowed to live on his own. But for this year, it's worrying. Lauren is trying to get legal guardianship of him, but hell, she's only 19, and is barely managing to support herself, let alone her brother. So they've been onto Social Services, who are being long-winded and as yet unhelpful, although we have had a social worker over to the house to see if it's suitable for him to live in. (Yes, I've stopped walking around in my underwear, LOL.)

The main issue, aside from whether they'll allow a 19-year-old to have legal custody of a 15-year-old, is the money. Lauren works at Wilkinson. She doesn't earn a whole lot of money. Her boyfriend Chris seems to live with us more often than not, and he's a mechanic, but he doesn't have a vast amount of money either. The two of them together do not make enough money to support three people. Dad lives in London and keeps telling Lauren to "handle things". Grandma would take Ryan in, but she lives on a pension, in a one-bedroom flat. So unless Social Services are willing to pay Lauren to be his guardian, he'll have to go into care. Dad pays maintenance to Mom, and has now asked the courts to change the order so that the money goes to Lauren, but it all takes time.

I hope he doesn't have to go into care, and I hope that the three of them don't have to move out of the house into a new place. Sometimes Social Services will only pay for housing if they find the place for you, and other times they'll pay for it anywhere. If I had the money, or a better job, or if I didn't have to look after Mom, I'd take him in myself. He's a sweet boy, and he doesn't deserve all the shit he's gone through recently. (Yeah, I know, nobody deserves stuff like that.) But I'm barely staying afloat as it is. Hell, when I'm this sick, I have trouble looking after myself, let alone Mom. There's no way I can take care of a kid as well, and neither can Mom.

If they decide to give Lauren the money for his rent and food, things will be OK. The five of us - Mom, Lauren, Chris, Ryan and me - have somehow, in the last month, turned into a slightly-odd but nonetheless affectionate family. And while it's a bit crowded having five of us in a three-bedroom house, we manage. If Social Services will pay his rent and food - and it's not unreasonable to hope that they will; they would have to pay his foster parents if he went into care - then Lauren can stop working quite as much as she is right now, and maybe start smiling again. I can only hope.

I wish the SBD were here. I miss him. I haven't seen him around. He hasn't been thinking of me recently, either. I can always hear when I'm on his mind. Although next week I'm going to try to get to Batchwood, if I'm not feeling too fat, and perhaps he'll be there.

The last two weeks, I've lost my joie de vivre, and I'm hoping that this week will help get it back. I hardly ever get sick this early in the autumn - usually I'm fine through to November - and I really want to feel a little better before I've missed the autumn for another year. I've already missed the pickling season, which is one of my favourite parts of the year. My last mango chutney turned out terrible - I put way too much vinegar in it - and I haven't had the chance to make another. At the beginning of the autumn I was taking long walks in the evenings, but I haven't managed to do that since mid-September. However, college finally starts tomorrow, and I'm excited about that. As excited as I manage to get about anything at the moment, anyway. Although I'm praying that it doesn't rain - an hour and a half's commute either way, in the rain, will not be fun.

Payday tomorrow as well, and although the bank will eat up most of it (especially since I wasn't able to work for two of the weeks this month) it's always nice to get paid.

So there's still hope. I'm hoping that Social Services will come through for us, and not throw a 15-year-old boy to the wolves. I'm hoping that my doctors will give me the medications I need. I'm hoping that my cold will clear up enough for me to go back to the gym, because exercise is one of the best pain relievers around. I'm hoping that Mom's back clears up enough that I don't have to be on constant alert. I'm hoping that the weather stays clear - aside from today, when it rained, the last two weeks have been gloriously autumnal. I'm hoping that my classes are interesting, and I meet some good people. Who knows, maybe one of them will be a rich businessman who has to travel to Japan for work, and he'll fall in love with me and take me away from all my problems.

Anyone who says money doesn't buy happiness has never tried to live without it.

Hand Analysis

ANALYSIS OF GAS STATION GUY'S HANDS (JUST FOR FUN; BEAR IN MIND THAT I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL PALM READER):


Gas Station Guy has air hands. Air hands (square palms and long fingers) indicate a person who is inventive, innovative, practical and thoughtful. They are extremely intellectual and can become impatient and frustrated if they do not feel challenged mentally. They are conscientious and pay attention to detail, which sometimes shows up as finickiness. They are both logical and intuitive, and are quick to make decisions which they base on a combination of intuition and logic. Air people enjoy expressing themselves. They are naturally inquisitive and live to learn. They are interested in travel, freedom and knowledge, and love to communicate their knowledge to others, although they can become frustrated when other people do not understand what is being said. Air people are generally happy and are the easiest type to get along with.

I don't get to see his palms much, so I can't really comment much on the development of the four quadrants, although I can say from the feel that his Mount of Luna is fairly prominent, indicating creativity and a vivid imagination, as well as a strong empathic bent. His Mount of Venus is likewise well-developed, indicating that he is a sensual, tactile person with strength, stamina, a love of physical activity, and a high sex drive. However, his Mount of Venus is more firm than spongy, so it's likely that, although sensual, he is not a hedonist.

As I do not get to see the palms, I cannot comment on any of his lines.

Although I prefer to use the elemental system of hand classification, D'Arpentigny's system can sometimes be useful, and using this system, Gas Station Guy (GSG) would be described as having philosopher's hands, as his knuckles are prominent (although not particularly knotty). People with prominent knuckles like to analyse things a lot, and enjoy debate and rhetoric thinking (hence the name). This fits well with his low-set thumb, which usually indicates someone who is introspective and a deep thinker. Interestingly, there is a wide angle - nearly ninety degrees - between the tips of the thumb and the index finger when his fingers are spread out, which usually denotes a person who is outgoing and gregarious, and finds it easy to make friends. I can only assume that he is an extrovert on the surface and a deep thinker underneath.

GSG has noticeable gaps between the first and second fingers, as well as between the third and fourth, although not between the second and third. A gap between the first / index (Jupiter) and second / middle (Saturn) finger shows that the person is confident and has good self-esteem. People with this gap often have a strong ideology and will usually stand up for what they believe in. A gap between the third / ring (Apollo) and fourth / little (Mercury) fingers shows that the person is independent and likes to make up his own mind about things. However, people with this gap often have trouble expressing negative emotions and sharing their problems, preferring to pretend, at least outwardly, that all is well.

None of his fingers bend towards another finger noticeably, so most likely he is well-rounded and generally happy with his current life, and does not feel like he has had to make any great sacrifices.

There is a very light sprinkling of hair on his hands, indicating masculinity, but not so much that he is likely to be consumed by animal urges. Good thing too. :)

Now doesn't that sound like a guy I could be happy with?

Giving A New Meaning To "Auto-Erotic"

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

People ask me often if I have a particular thing that turns me on, or a particular place that makes me think of an erotic experience that I've had. And I always tell them, no. Which is a lie, but I don't like admitting the truth - that the one place in the world that I always associate with sex is not a romantic place at all, it's actually a gas station.

Yes, you read that right. A gas station. Or petrol station, for you Brits.

For several years now, I've been having a recurring dream about the Total station on the corner of Beech Road and Valley Road. I hesitate to call it a recurring dream, really, because it always changes somewhat. But there are some elements of it that remain the same.

For the sake of the Neo-Freudian analysis that so many of you seem to be into, I'll tell you a little bit about it. In the dream, it's cold outside. I'm tired, and I need a place to rest. So I come to the Beech-Valley intersection, and just seeing the gas station makes me feel warmer and less tired, like I'm already inside. I go into the store part to ask the guy behind the counter if I can use the public bathroom, and he tells me that they've added a rest stop to the back, and he gives me a keycard to access it. I go round the side of the building, to the back, and where there used to be a fence (and still is, in real life), it's been turned into a picnic area with benches where you can eat, and vending machines, and the little huts that in reality you can just see on the other side of the fence have become a kitchenette, bathroom and shower area. I let myself into the huts with the keycard, and I step into one of the shower stalls, and take off my clothes and turn the shower on. The water streams down my body, and I'm revelling in the warmth - it's cold and I'm tired, remember - and I'm soaping up my body and hair with a little travel-size bottle of shampoo that I got from the vending machine outside, and my eyes are closed, and the next thing I know I'm feeling a pair of strong, firm arms around my shoulders, and a pair of lips are kissing and sucking at my neck.

I should be surprised, but I'm not. It's almost like I subconsciously knew this would happen when I came here; like I didn't realise, but this is the reason I came here in the first place. So instead of being shocked and horrified that some strange guy has walked in on me when I was showering, I just feel warm and comfortable and safe.

Have you ever seen the music video for Calleon's "So I Begin"? The way that video makes me feel is the way I feel when this guy is showering with me. It's the way I feel when I'm in a modern apartment, with everything clean and sterile, decorated in soft, restful neutral colours, and I look out the window at the rain and know that I'm safe inside, away from the wet and cold. It's the way I sometimes feel when I play The Urbz. It's the way the underground tunnels in some northern cities make me feel. It's the way I would feel if I had a garage that I could access from my house, without going outside, and I could drive to the gym and park in the underground garage, and then drive to somewhere where I could get food and park underground there, too, and make the whole trip without having to face the outside once. It's the knowledge that the outside is there, and people are there, and I can interact with them if I choose, but I don't have to. I'm secluded, warm and comfortable and cozy and protected. In the world, but not of the world.

This man, and the shower and the warmth and the knowledge that there's plenty of food in the garage, all combine to make me feel wonderfully secure. I feel like we're in our own little bubble, where nothing painful can touch us. And he kisses me, and presses me up against the wall, and is loving me so completely and so beautifully that I don't care that I never get to see his face.

At least not while I'm dreaming. When I wake up, I care plenty. I really wish I could see who this person is, so I could find out a) if he's a real person, or at least a person I know, and b) if he IS a real person, if he makes me feel as protected and secure in real life as he does in the dream. But without seeing his face, it's impossible to work out who he is.

What do I know about him? I know he's a white man, with a golden tan. I know he has some hair on his arms, but very little on his chest. I know he has air-shaped hands, with square palms and long fingers with prominent knuckles. I know his arms are strong, and well-muscled without being beefy. I know he's a little taller than me, but not all that much. I know his thighs are strong enough to support me. I know that his abs and pecs are firm and hard. I know that his trapezius and latissimus dorsi feel perfectly formed under my hands. From the way he kisses my neck, I know that he shaves, although he has a little bit of stubble on his chin. I'd guess that his chin and nose are quite pointed, but that's just a guess.

Of course, this could describe a hundred men that I know, and countless ones that I don't.

Sometimes music plays. The music differs from dream to dream, although there are some songs that repeat quite often - usually ones where the backing music has a haunting quality. Gwen Stefani's "Cool" is one of them, as is her "4 In the Morning". Bobby Valentino's "Tell Me" repeats quite frequently. Stevie Nicks' "Crystal" is often our soundtrack. Abs' "7 Ways" has been the background music probably more times than any other song, at least as far as I can remember, and if I ever meet a guy who remembers that song I'll definitely give him a second look for this reason alone.

Sometimes there are several showers, and each of them has people in it, people who are doing much the same thing that we're doing. These particular dreams freak me out a little, principally because in the dream I'm NOT freaked out. Sometimes I go into the store area of the garage and there are people from high school in there, and I chat to them. Sometimes there's a hidden camera, taking pictures of us while we caress each other, the water flowing over our naked bodies.

I don't know how the dream ends, because I usually wake up. I can't say I'm happy to wake, because everything in the dream feels so wonderful. For days after having this dream, I feel slightly on edge, like I'm expecting something major to happen to me. I exist in a state of high anticipation. And nothing ever happens, and eventually I just go back to my life, until the next time. Recently, though, I've noticed that when I take a walk, which I've been doing a lot in the last few weeks, I plan my walks to take me past the garage. I didn't even realize I was doing it until a couple of days ago. And when I get there, I rest for a few minutes, and I watch the entrance, like I'm expecting to see someone I recognize.

And now and then, I go in and ask the guy behind the counter if I can use the bathroom. Even though I know they don't have one.

Y'know. Just in case.

Hormones, Egh

The last few months have been something of a nightmare for me, and I've mostly held it together, creating a cheerful shell around my worries in order to survive with my sanity intact. Now the cracks in that shell are starting to appear. This, coupled with the fact that I'm fairly sure my implant's malfunctioning, has turned me into a needy, whiny, moody bitch, and I'm sorry to say that the people I love most are the ones who are getting the brunt of it. The other day I picked a fight with Oli, my closest friend, probably the person I love most in the world after my Mom, over - guess what? The fact that HE HAD TO GO HOME. That, plus a few other things, the most illogical and self-pitying being that I thought he wasn't attracted to me anymore. We had a lovely visit the other day, and I was happier than I'd been in months. So after a really nice day, we're standing there on the street corner, and I have my arms crossed in front of me and my hands hugging my arms, classic stay-away posture, and I'm refusing to look at him, and these words are coming out of my mouth - words that I know are bad, I know are wrong, I KNOW I shouldn't be saying and don't even WANT to say, but somehow I can't control myself, and I say, "I don't think we should see each other anymore."

Why? It's not even clear to me, to be honest. Something along the lines of, I don't see you as much as I want to, and every time you leave I feel lonely and in pain, even though I know you'll call me on the phone later, so I need to you stop calling me and stop visiting so I don't have to deal with the pain of not seeing you. Which is pretty irrational, really. Also, the idea that he didn't fancy me anymore...well, I can understand that one a little better. I don't feel fanciable right now. My stomach is sticking out where it used to be pretty flat, and my breasts are larger than they were last year, and I've grown from just under 5'6" to 5'8" in the last two years, and my hips are more flared, and my arms have more fat on them. My hair is chin-length, and half of it is brown now, because I'm not lightening my roots anymore, so the roots look fairly trailer-parkish. I have gray at my temples. The skin on my face looks dull, because I'm not getting enough nutrients in my diet, and my legs are still scarred and bitten all over by creatures unknown, because my doctor can't seem to fit me into the skin clinic at the surgery. (I'm going to have to go private, but I can't afford it.) Even my eyes and my smile, usually my best features, look tired, which is no coincidence.

In short, I don't feel sexy. I don't even feel pretty. And I don't really understand why anyone would be attracted to me right now. I was never a supermodel before, but at least I had...something. A certain sparkle that drew people to me. Most of the time right now, I don't feel that sparkle, or see it in the mirror, although apparently other people can still see it. So I can sort of understand why I was feeling unattractive and needing reassurance, although that gives me no excuse for picking on him about it.

But the other stuff? Totally ridiculous. It was illogical, irrational, unfair and unnecessary.

Chris - Chris my therapist, not Lauren's Chris - calls this transference. He says it happens often: you have something in your life that's troubling you, and for one reason or another, you can't really do anything about it. So you push it aside, and you (consciously or unconsciously) focus that worry on something else, something that you CAN do something about. You're not actually worried about the thing that you whine and cry about, but it's a visible focus for your emotion. Apparently this is what girls - and boys - with eating disorders do. They feel that their lives are out of control, but they can't do anything about whatever's bothering them, so they shift the anxiety onto their weight, which they can control. Of course, they can't even control it as much as they want to, so they become more and more desperate to stay thin.

According to Chris, I've had a tough year. I suppose this is true, but it's not something that I often admit to. When people ask me how I am, I say fine. Even when someone really looks at me and says, "Boy, you've had a rough year, you must be exhausted," I usually respond with, "I've had worse years." Which is true, but irrelevant. Basically, I don't admit that I'm struggling. But it's true. It's been very stressful. Glandular fever, Jackie nearly dying, my Dad's stroke, my Mom's reliance on me, no Curt to lean on, no energy to see friends, using up all of my savings on travelling to see my Dad, being ill and nobody knowing what's wrong, not being able to go back to work, too much work at home for too little pay, feeling unattractive, my suspected heart condition, and the guilt of not being able to be there for both my parents at once: that constant, stomach-eating guilt...yeah, it's been a hard year. Not hard enough to cause PTSD, like 2005 was, but enough to make me stressed out and more tired than usual. Couple that with a hormone imbalance that gives me PMS-like symptoms all the time, and no wonder I'm overreacting to everything under the sun.

Chris says not to feel too rotten about acting like a brat, but I still do. I really need to apologize for that again.

The plus side, of course, is that now I know he loves me. He must love me at least a little, because he tolerates me even when I'm at my most intolerable, and always tries to soothe my fears and make me feel better. I'm not talking romantic, forever love, but any love is wonderful to have right now.

A lot of these worries, I really can't do anything about. I can't make my parents better, and I can't see my Dad as often as I want to without taking out another bank loan. I can't do anything to make Curt want me in his life again. I can't really do anything about my health, either - doctors are looking into that, and either they'll find something they can fix, or they won't. But Jackie's better now, so that's a load off my mind. The feeling unattractive will mostly go when I've lost some weight, so I'm trying to either go to the gym or take an hour's walk every day. Work and money will sort themselves out, and for now I'm staying afloat - mostly - and by next August I'll have paid off my bank loan, so that'll help a lot. And probably at least some of the health problems will improve a little if I start eating properly. For months now I've been balancing on a thin wall between lack of appetite and anorexia, and only willpower has kept me from falling down on the wrong side, but if I start forcing myself to eat healthily and regularly, then that should have some benefits, at least for my mood and my energy levels. As for the hormone imbalance, I need to get re-referred to the gynaecologist. I don't know why he took me off his books - with my type of implant, I'm supposed to get it checked every year, and I haven't had it checked since October of 2006 - but I need to have him check it now. I'll have to make an appointment with my GP in order to get the referral, and I need to talk to him about a couple of other things - I've found out recently that with one of my painkillers, they've been fobbing me off with a dosage that's nine times lower than the usual minimum - so I need to try and make an appointment soon. Appointments with my GP are like gold dust, so if I make one now I'll hopefully get to see him before college starts.

I DID get onto the college course, and classes start the second week of October. I need to email the uni, though, to tell them I got the message - for some reason they called and left a message with my Mom, instead of sending me a confirmation letter - and find out if I need any textbooks or other equipment. So, come October, this girl will finally be a university student. Better late than never, I guess. And sure, it isn't a degree course or anything, but again, better than nothing. And I'm really looking forward to it - both the fact that I'm a student again, and the classes themselves.

It's getting late and I need to go to bed, so I guess I'll leave you there, with a hearty apology for any bratty behavior that I may have exhibited towards any of you recently. Take care of yourselves, and enjoy the crispness in the air and the falling leaves! Best season of the year!

Apollo In My Dreams

Sometimes when I think of the SBD, I call him Apollo. I call him this because only twice in my life have I met people so shiny and golden that it actually hurts to look at them sometimes, and he's one of them. Part of me wishes I could get him out of my head, because it's quite distracting when you're at work or in the middle of the supermarket - or, like yesterday, having your blood taken at the pathology lab - and you start grinning like a maniac because suddenly all you can think of is how, if the two of you had babies, they'd look like Barbie and Ken. It's also hard to sleep when all you can see when you close your eyes is the same person, over and over.

And yet I can't mind, not really, because when I see him in my dreams I'm not afraid to sleep. I still keep the light on, but even that may change soon. (Note, I said MAY.) I talk to him in my sleep and I wake feeling refreshed, which is something I haven't felt in years. And when I see him when I'm awake, even the worst day is suddenly brighter.

I remember this one paragraph, from one of Frank Downey's "Naked in School" stories that I read a year ago, and it went something like,

"But how do you know if you love someone?"
"When I've had a good day, he comes along and makes it a great day. When I've had a so-so day, he makes it a good day. And if I've had the worst day in a month? He makes it bearable."

It wasn't EXACTLY those words, and I can't check out the direct quote - or whose story it was, although I have a feeling it might have been Missy and David - but I remember thinking it was the best description of love I'd seen, and when I see or talk with Apollo I feel this even more.

I'm not in love. Loving someone and being in love are not the same thing. And you can't be in love with someone you don't really know all that well, anyway. But I do love him, against all rationality. Whether he loves me or not...time will tell. I certainly know that I intrigue him, and he thinks about me sometimes, just out of the blue. So I suppose that's a good start.

Things are...well, so-so. I shouldn't have bitched about Mom so much the other day, but I suppose what's done is done. I cancelled the insurance, so my hope of learning to drive this autumn has gone down the drain, not that I could really afford it anyway. Maybe I can pick up a cheap car to learn on at some point, but for now I'm doomed to take the bus. At least the buses to and from DeHavilland seem to run fairly regularly, until ten at night, and then every hour until midnight. Perhaps come winter I won't be so cheerful about long bus journeys late at night, but for now I'm not too unhappy. Although I sure wish it wouldn't rain so much. I've been soaked so much this week I'm actually surprised I'm not starting to smell of mildew.

If I lived in Montreal, in a nice apartment, I wouldn't have to go outside in the winter AT ALL if I didn't want to, because they have a system of underground tunnels that can be accessed by most of the major buildings. Or if I lived in Minneapolis, they have a skyway system in the downtown area that serves more or less the same purpose, although some of the skywalks can only be accessed at certain times of day. Or even if I lived and worked in Canary Wharf. That would work, except that the apartments there cost a fortune. Part of me can't believe that I'm even considering using ways of avoiding rain as a factor in my choice of where to live, but meh. I hate rain. I know it's necessary, I know it's good for the crops, I know we couldn't live without it, I know there are countries in Africa and Asia that would give anything for rain...I KNOW all this. I'm not saying it's not necessary, I'm just saying, I don't like it. My body hurts when it's damp outside. Often, on rainy days, it's all I can do to get out of bed. And since I work from home a lot of the time, I'm happy to stay in when it's raining...aside from the twin problems of grocery shopping and the gym. If I lived in a city where I could get to the gym and the supermarket without getting wet...yeah, that would be heavenly. Even if I had an apartment in St. Albans, I wouldn't have to get wet when I went to the gym, as long as my apartment had underground parking, because my gym is directly accessible from Christopher Place car park. But if we had tunnels, that would be even better. A lot of people find tunnel systems to be creepy, even when they're well-lit, well-maintained ones like in Montreal, with shops and dry-cleaners and cafes. But I love the idea. If I could live somewhere where I could do whatever I needed without ever going outside...well, I could happily go without even seeing the light of day from November through March.

For now, though, I'm getting soaked to the skin most days, because from the first of September until college starts, I'm not eating ANY junk, and I'm going to the gym every day, unless I have a hospital appointment. I'm hoping that if I do both those things, I'll shed some of the extra weight by the time college starts.

It's only the fourth or fifth, and already I'm thinking about pizza. But I suppose it's OK to think about it, as long as I don't eat it. I politely refused the donut I was offered yesterday after my blood tests, though, so I guess that's a point in my favor.

Of course, this is all assuming that I've actually been accepted to college. Eleven days and they still haven't sent me a letter saying that my application's been accepted, and there doesn't appear to be anywhere on their website to check if it's been processed or not. And I was going to call them before I went out today, but Chris gave me a lift into town, and I forgot. So now I can't call until Monday. Meh. I want to know if I'm on the course, so I can book any fun courses I want to take around it. And I want to buy clothes, and school supplies. September is always my favourite month, and buying pencils and pens and ringbinders and paper and textbooks, and then boots and knit dresses and sweaters and jackets, is my favourite pastime. I'm frugal throughout the rest of the year, aside from Christmas and birthdays, but I spend a lot of money on clothes in autumn. I got a raspberry-colored cardigan and a black knee-length skirt from H & M, and some brown court shoes with low heels from New Look (to go with all my brown clothes; I always think a brown outfit and black shoes looks ridiculous), and if they get comfortable in the next few days I may get another pair in black, since I need black shoes too. And I got a black Victorian cardigan and an identical one in duck-egg blue, with puffed sleeves and lace at the top, from Sainsburys for £3.60 each - how cool is that? And this wonderful suit jacket from Marks & Spencers, which I'd been eyeing up all summer but knew that I couldn't afford, and then I found it on sale for £25 - less than half price.

I felt somewhat guilty about spending that much money on something, but hell, I need a suit, and it's always impossible for me to find one because I'm allergic to the linings that the shops use. I was thinking that I'd have to get one made up by a tailor, with a cotton lining, and that would cost a fortune. But then I found this one, in linen but with a elastane-blend that means it doesn't crease, and it doesn't HAVE a lining, so I'm happy. And I can wear it with just about any skirt and it'll look fine. Hell, I can even wear it with jeans if I don't have to dress up. Jeans and a nice jacket are great for work.

Speaking of which, I need new jeans, the zipper has gone on the ones I have, and I'm sort of bulging out of them. But I'm not sure if I should get new jeans NOW, or wait until I'm a bit thinner. And I want this wine-red soft sweater that I saw in H & M, with half-sleeves and a really deep cowl-neck, that would go perfectly with my black skirt and my red shoes. And I also need a few skirts - I only have like three for the whole of the winter. Of course, I don't have the money for most of these things, since I spent all my last paycheck on tuition, and next Tuesday's mostly goes to the bank plus a train ticket to see my Dad. But maybe I can squeeze enough out of it for shoes, or the sweater, or something. If not, I'll have to take some extra work - I'm doing paperwork at home for the center, but Kell has been bugging me to be a model for him again, and I know he'll pay me quite well. *sigh* I don't know why I didn't agree to work for him a few months ago, then I could have gotten myself driving this autumn. I just don't feel comfortable modelling at the moment. I'm not comfortable with my body, because I've put on SO much weight since just after Christmas, when I got sick, and a lot of it's gone round my stomach and arms. I don't look nice, and I don't feel sexy, and you can't really model when you don't feel or look good, even if the photographer is telling you that you do. You have to be comfortable in yourself - at least *I* do - and I just don't, at the moment.

We'll see. I may have to do it anyway, since I'm having trouble paying my bills and buying all the stuff I need. I only managed to buy the clothes because I found sales, and I haven't gone out in months, and I've been scrimping on foods.

Meh. I'll work it out somehow. But dammit, University of Herts, send me my confirmation letter so I can go and buy textbooks!

Bad News - And Good

It hasn't been a great day for me, or week for that matter. I got food poisoning about ten days ago and it took a week to start eating again (although somehow I lost no weight - go figure) and my appetite still isn't back to normal. Potato chips are about the only thing that sit well in my stomach right now. I'm just happy that the antiemetics I have at home managed to keep me from throwing up, because once I start throwing up my body doesn't seem to know how to stop, and I end up in the hospital, puking up blood. Hence my extreme emetophobia. Or at least one reason for it. (One of many, most likely.)

So I didn't actually throw up, and I know I should be on my knees kissing the ground for that stroke of luck, but I still feel somewhat nauseous, and my stomach's all bloated. It's been distended for several months now, and I'm wondering if the cysts that I had removed a couple years ago have come back. I need to overhaul my diet - the first of September seems like a good day to do it, since I always feel like the New Year starts in September - and see if that sorts it out. If it does, I'll know it was just poor digestion, and if it doesn't, then I'll ask to be send for an ultrasound, or whatever tests they do to find cysts these days.

Which reminds me, I need to have my Mirena coil checked, and probably a new one put in. It can stay in for five years, but I think it's only licensed as a contraceptive for three. Mental note - check this out after I finish writing this note. In any case, I had it put in in April of 2006, and I've noticed that my hormones have been acting up for a few months, so even if the contraception works for five years I still need to get it checked. I'm having food cravings, mood swings and I'm overreacting to various situations, and my breasts have gotten bigger.

Are you finding this strange, that I discuss the details of my private life with you guys? I apologize if it bothers you, but only to an extent - you can always stop reading, after all. :) I don't know exactly why I share all this stuff, but there it is.

Since we're sharing, you'll probably be happy to know that my HIV test came back negative, my hepatitis tests came back negative - both of which I was somewhat worried about, after that guy bled all over me back in February - and so did all my STD tests and my routine smear test. (Ah yes, two words guaranteed to strike fear into the heart of all but the most courageous men. Thank God that most of the men in my life aren't fazed by this kind of thing.)

So that's the good. The bad, healthwise? Well, I don't have any natural immunity to hepatitis - which I sort of knew, since I HAD it when I was in my teens - and with the kind of work I do (if I EVER get back to work *sigh*) it's probably important to get the vaccination. It's not often that I'm around blood and stuff, but it does happen now and then that I have to break up a fight and patch people up.

The fevers come and go. It's hard to know how bad they are right now, because it's been such a humid summer, and it's difficult to tell what's normal heat and what's not. I'll know more in the autumn.

At the end of June, I started having what I thought were panic attacks. I'm not a panicky person generally, but it's been a tough year, what with the glandular fever and Mom not walking properly, then Jackie nearly dying, then my Dad's stroke...yeah. Even though I seemed to cope with everything pretty well, and sort of pushed all the stress aside, it's still there, lurking. People deal with stress in different ways. My Mom gets emotional and gets a lot of stomach upsets. I can always tell that I'm stressed, even when I don't consciously feel it, because my skin goes to hell - I get rashes and dull patches and wrinkles and sometimes outbreaks of shingles along my spine. So sure, the stress is there, even when I push it aside, and when I started getting these episodes it was natural to assume that they were panic attacks.

However, my doctor doesn't entirely seem to agree with me, and neither does the ECG she ran. So I've been referred to a cardiologist, and I'm waiting impatiently for my appointment. It seems strange to have such anticipation for a doctor's appointment, but I really just want to get it over with. And as odd as it might seem, I have hope. Best case scenario, which keeps running through my head, is that they find something wrong, and they tell me it's likely the cause of all my other health problems - most notably the pains and the tiredness - but surprise! It's easy to fix with medicine or a little tiny minor operation that they can do in day surgery, and it'll only take me a couple of days to heal, and then I'll feel a whole lot better.

If you've never been in my situation, you probably won't be able to understand how I can be hoping that they find something wrong, but it's just so frustrating to be ill for a long time and to know nothing concrete about it. I know that there's something wrong with me, or I wouldn't feel this bad all the time. So I live in hope that one of the many doctors I see will one day be able to say, Aha! This is what's wrong with you, and this is how we fix it. Much better than being told that they don't know what it is or what to do about it, ja?

Anyway, panic attacks. They're very strange, because I don't FEEL panicky, or even anxious. They always happen in the same way: I'll be just going about my daily work, nothing special, brushing my teeth or chopping vegetables or sitting and watching TV, and I'll get a rush of nausea. Then within a minute or so, never longer than 90 seconds, my heart will start pounding for no apparent reason. Often my head starts pounding with it, and my hands and knees get shaky, and I can't grip anything or walk properly. Usually they clear up in five minutes, sometimes sooner, but I've had a couple that went on for a long time, and that got really scary. I wasn't anxious when they started, but I usually am by the end.

I figured they're panic attacks because I've always had a really, really healthy heart. Even though I'm overweight, my heart's always worked perfectly. My usual resting pulse rate is 68 or 70. It goes up to 110, 115 when I'm on the crosstrainer doing my usual workout, even up as high as 145 or 150 if I really, really push myself, but as soon as I stop exercising it's back to normal within five minutes or so. I have good circulation and well-oxygenated blood. I never get pain in my chest when I exercise unless I try to do cross-country or something, and usually my ankles give out before my chest does. And my lungs are good, too. And yet during these episodes, my heart rate shoots up to 120, higher than it usually is after fifteen minutes on the crosstrainer, and I have no idea why.

It measured 110 on the ECG while I was sitting perfectly still, perfectly calm and relaxed, so my doctor decided it's time to get it checked out. I don't know exactly what the cardiologist will decide to do, but my GP said that he (or she) will likely want to do a 24-hour trace ECG, and a chest scan (I don't know what this would be - MRI, maybe?). So I'm waiting. If I have to stay in hospital overnight to have the tests, I fully expect you guys to give me many hugs and "we'll miss you"s. Sure, it's just tests, but I don't get nearly enough chances to get hugs. ;-)

Sooooo...that's my health. Mom's is much the same. She had her MRI for her back, and now she's waiting for a consult with Mr. Ofori-Atta (her surgical consultant; he's this wonderfully adorable - but also incredibly capable - Ghanaian guy, and Mom and I both love him to pieces) to see if maybe it's something in her back that's causing the problems with the hip replacement. Sciatica or something similar, I guess. Aside from that, she's mostly the same as ever.

The rest of my day...egh. I told you how Mom crashed my car last year, and how pissed I was about it then. Today it's worse, because I got to find out that the AA have put my insurance up from £400 a year to somewhere between £1400 and £1800 a year. Yes, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED POUNDS A YEAR. Because of one accident that we didn't even claim for, for pete's sake. It wasn't even a bad accident - the other guy had a cracked headlight and a chip out of his bumper. We had a big dent in the door that still hasn't been replaced. I don't know how they can put the premium up by so much - even at the lower rate it's more than three times what I was paying. What makes me even MORE pissed off is that they never sent a letter telling me this, they just started taking the money out of the bank at the higher rate without any kind of notification.

I don't know who I'm more mad at, the insurance company or Mom. The insurance company are shitheads, but I keep hoping that we'll get a letter saying they've made a mistake and it's been adjusted to the right (much lower) figure. And Mom...hell. I told her not to drive that day. She was tired from work, and she wanted to go shopping in the Galleria. And I said, no, take a nap, you're exhausted and not safe on the roads. So she said, I'm fine, stop nagging, and made that face that I don't dare argue with. And then she took the wrong road, made a totally illegal U-Turn, and got smashed by another car. He was travelling too fast, but he says he wasn't, and there was no evidence that he was, so Mom's the one who's culpable. Or technically, I am, since it's my car.

It really doesn't seem fair, though. I didn't do anything wrong, except not insist that we stay home. And yet I'm the one whose car has a huge chunk out of the passenger door, I'm the one who's going to have to cancel the insurance tomorrow - and god knows where I'll be able to find cheap insurance now - I'm the one who cracked a rib, for pete's sake. Everyone else was fine.

There's no choice but to cancel, though. I can't afford £1400 a year. Hell, I can barely afford £400 a year.

This comes right on top of a very nasty letter from the DVLA, telling me that I haven't paid my road tax since January, and since I've ignored all prior letters - none of which I got - they're taking me to court, unless I pay them a lot of money right now. Mom was supposed to SORN the car in January, and I reminded her about it at least six times, and eventually she got really pissed and told me she'd do it, and to stop nagging. Guess what? She did it...this month. August. And here I'd thought it was done in January, so I had the shock of my life when I opened a letter saying that I'd ignored a court summons for it.

And yes, I know it's my car, and I'm supposed to be the one who's responsible for making sure it's legal. But we agreed when I let her drive it that she'd take care of the road tax. I still paid half of the first year, but from then on it was supposed to be her responsibility. So even though from a legal point of view I'm the one at fault, it still seems pretty rotten. You're supposed to be able to rely on your parents to do what they said they'd do.

I'm probably being unfair, I know. She's my mother, and she has a lot of things on her plate. No matter what we agreed, I should have just taken care of it back in January. I suppose really I'm mad at myself.

In unrelated news, although it added to my bad day, none of my clothes fit me any more. Even if you ignore the weight that I've put on since February (which is coming off - slowly - as long as I keep going to the gym), I've gained two cup sizes and grown two inches taller in the last two years. So I have virtually no clothes. Oh, I have plenty of beautiful clothes in my wardrobe, but most of them I'm not going to be able to wear until I get a breast reduction, or lose enough weight and gain enough confidence to wear skirts and dresses that are halfway up my thighs. Dresses that used to be a very respectable knee-length, or even lower.

I need to go shopping, and I probably will tomorrow, but money is tight at the moment. I haven't seen my Dad for a month, and I can't even tell you how guilty I feel. I should be there, but I simply cannot afford it. Between April and July, I spent every penny of my savings on train fares, and that was just seeing him once a week. And Paul - that's my boss - has been so sweet about it, even offering me a live-in job where I run an emergency helpline at night, which would allow me to live in London rent-free. If I lived in London, it would hardly cost me anything to see my Dad. But then who would look after my Mom? Either way, I'd be running back and forth, spending a fortune on train fares, and I don't have a fortune. I don't even have a pittance. At least my Dad has Jackie and the girls. Mom doesn't have anyone to look after her.

When my Dad had his stroke, everyone was asking me why I wasn't falling apart, or even getting particularly emotional, and I told them that I fall apart afterwards. I do what needs to be done, and then the emotional outpouring comes at a later date, usually right out of the blue. It appears that my fall-apart is now. Today I got overloaded. Papa, Mom, my health, the car...it's just all too much.

Damn, I wish I had someone to pick up the pieces when I shatter.

The one good piece of news is that I've managed to scrape up the money to do a university course in Japanese, and I've downloaded the enrollment form and am planning to fill it in tonight. I called the uni today, and the woman I spoke to said that they've only been open for enrollment for a couple of days, so there are plenty of spaces left. It'll start on the 6th or 7th of October, and I'll take a 2-hour class once a week for 16 weeks. I'll have to travel to DeHavilland campus, in Hatfield, and the buses are a pain, but it'll be worth it. :)

This has been a pretty long note. I think I'll leave you there. Now I'm going to check out about my Mirena coil, then I'm going to the gym to think about the SBD, and listen to Neil Diamond, and run until my mood has improved and I'm fit to be around other people again.

The SBD

So there's this guy.

I'm laughing even as I write this, because there's always a guy, right? (Or a girl - whatever.) I'd like to say this one is different, but I'm not entirely sure that it is. It might just be a random crush that'll go away like hundreds of others have. Unlikely, but possible. Time will tell, I guess.

But in any case, RIGHT NOW, there's this guy. We're going to call him the SBD*, because I don't feel like sharing his name with any of you. At other times I refer to him as Apollo, but for now we'll call him the SBD. And he's...different. Beautiful. Not quite like anyone else in my life. I've known him for a long time (although not closely), and I still don't have the right words to describe him.

He's not my boyfriend. I need to make that clear right out. He's not even a friend, really - we don't talk on the phone, or email each other, or hang out. But he's there.

Shit. I can't even find the words now. I have a sort of knack for writing, or so I'm told, and generally I can give my views on any subject and sound coherent, even interesting, as long as I do enough research to gain some basic knowledge of the topic. But I can't seem to write about him, even though he's such an ever-present part of my life.

Even when he's not actually there, he's THERE, in my head, in my dreams, in my daydreams, smiling at me and guiding me through life.

Yes, I know I'm romanticizing him. I don't seem to be able to help it. My mind tells me, be logical. Try to look at him unemotionally, and then you'll work out what the attraction is. But even looking at him logically, I feel like there must be something there, some kind of bond. Because yes, I get taken in by pretty faces sometimes, but not for this long. If I still dream about him after all this time, still feel like he's bonded to me in some intangible way, then there must be SOMETHING other than good looks. After all, I see a lot of attractive guys, day to day, and I don't feel this...attached, for lack of a better word.

And I do dream about him. Not constantly, but certainly a couple times a month, maybe more. I can feel him dreaming about me, too, although I don't know if he dreams the same things that I dream.

Oh - he's psychic, did I mention that?

And beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.

He's here when I cook - "I wonder if the SBD likes chicken stir-fry?" He's there when I shop - "I bet the SBD would like this dress, he likes it when I wear gold." He's there when I'm swimming - "The SBD has eyes just the colour of the swimming pool." Or when I'm at the gym - "Hey, that guy has arms like the SBD's, although maybe not as nice..."

I dreamed of him the other night. It was a weird dream, one of those surreal ones where nothing is quite what it seems to be, and nothing ever stays the same for long. I was walking through town. Not quite my town as it is when I'm awake, but my town as it would be if we lived in a climate where summers came more than three weeks a year and the ocean were right there: warm evenings and restaurants with outdoor seating and candles everywhere, and me in a pretty sundress, white and hot pink with a delicate floral pattern. White heels and that white silk shawl that Mom bought me. So I'm walking alone through the center of town, no real plans, nobody by my side, but I'm not unhappy, I'm enjoying the evening breeze and the freedom to do whatever I want. Maybe I'll stop in a bar and get a drink, or maybe I'll get something to eat, or maybe I'll go home and take a shower and watch South Park in my pajamas. I don't often get days when I'm feeling well and I don't have any major plans; most of my days fall into one of two categories - either I'm not well enough to get much done, and I sleep a lot and mooch around the house feeling sorry for myself, or I'm well and have things to do, like work or grocery shopping or general chores or cleaning or a catch-up workout at the gym. Either way, I don't get many days - or evenings - to wander around and chat to people and do whatever I please, and I relish them. I'm relishing this one, and I wander through the high street, looking unusually (for me) pretty, and mildly flirting with a couple of guys - nothing heavy, just smiles and eye contact and the occasional compliment - and chatting to people I vaguely know, and then I walk past one restaurant that has a terrace with tables facing the street, and there he is.

He looks slightly different, darker skin and hair than usual (or maybe that's just the candlelight and shadows), but it's unmistakably him. His eyes wander over me, starting at the white shoes that make my ankles look slender, moving up past the legs that are toned and tanned and smooth - and happily, because this is my dream, free of mosquito bites and scars - then up over the dress and shawl and onto my face. Our eyes meet, identical blues, two pairs of twin gas-flames, and I can see the moment when he realizes this is ME, not just another pretty girl, and this shot of awareness pierces me, and within half a second the lightning has spread right through me into every corner of my body, and I feel like every part of me is laid bare to his gaze, and I'm being seen, truly seen, for the first time in what seems like forever.

It's not a long dream, only a few minutes at most. It's not particularly erotic, and it shouldn't be exciting, but it is. And I wake up with a feeling of total anticipation and yet total peace, two things that shouldn't be able to exist simultaneously, but somehow do. And I feel secure. I feel like I have hope for the future, and that I can cope with anything that comes my way. Because of this man, this beautiful man who's so full of contradictions, who I've never had a proper conversation with and yet feel like I know inside and out, this man who has been part of my life for so many years and who I rarely mention to my friends, this man who may not know my name but knows all the things that he needs to know about me, this man who plays Ranger to my Steph, Eric to my Sookie, this man I shouldn't love but probably do, and probably always will. Because sometimes the ties that bind us are as inexplicable as they are unbreakable.


* Most of you are probably assuming that SBD is an acronym for something dirty. It's not, but it's OK if you think that.