Dysoning is on hold for now. I should've learned my lesson from the last time I did it, that doing it will (now) inevitably induce my (now) ritualistic crying out because Mirena seems to be moving and/or playing fiddlesticks in there. Knitting is my thing, Mirena. Sod off and get your own "thing". I thought I'd be OK because it was 14:00 and I'd had my tablets at 13:00. Ahh, you fool! I fell to the floor 3 times, was helped to the sofa by my adorable Pa, pushed 2 cats off the sofa to lay down, cried because I hurt so much and was brought a hot water bottle by my brother. The last few days have been particularly bad. I assume it's because I'm bleeding again. Like "a light period" (what? THAT could be a period? I. WISH.) or "spotting". I'm slightly bemused by "spotting", it makes me think, immediately, of birdwatchers or trainspotters. "Ooh, there's one! The second this week! Just write it down in the notepad... Very... liiiight... peerrriioddd..." Just say period! It's only a word. Like fuck. Just words. Although, I get extremely offended if someone becomes anti-Semitic. But I think that's more about the sentiment, than the words... back to blood and stuff, phrases like, "I'm on". On what, I say? I get annoyed by the most minute of details. And by misuse of grammar by people who should know better. I like words and languages and, y'know... stuff.
But yes, I've never had a light period. Not a proper one. Probably, when I was twelve and 13, they were just light mess. (In my head this is too much like AlrightTit in its "you probably didn't want to know that but I've said it anyway" slant. And the way I'm thinking and then typing this but that's what my head is like. This is how my brain thinks so I'm just being me, really.) I know between the ages of fourteen and 16 they were very bad but there's a lot about those years that I don't remember; I think my brain did that blocking-it-out thing, automatically. I have no memory of some of the worst times. I remember being dragged out of my house by my wrists by some education person, I remember screaming and begging them to not make me go to school because I felt so terrible, emotionally, and terrified of not being in my safehaven, i.e. home. It was a immensely confusing time. Very strange. I was so helplessly sad, so tearful so often (i.e. ALL THE TIME) and I couldn't even tell my wonderful parents what was wrong, because I simply didn't know. I wanted everything to be different: for me to wake up and be glad of it; for me to not be frightened for fuck knows what reason (it's only a word, it's OK) to go outside my own front door; to not think that putting on my right sock before my left, would mean that if a member of my close family was in an accident, it would be my fault. Really. That's what depression and OCD can do to your brain. I call myself a mental, mockingly, yet not. And, to an extent, I am, still. Brains are weird. So complicated, so incredible, all those nerves and signals, it's... well, mental.
I sit here, by the window, and see people go by, and I wonder what they'll be doing. Are they going to the shops? Alas, not Woolworths anymore. Or to work? By bus? Train? A neighbour is having driving lessons and I'm so envious. I see others get in their own cars and feel really rather jealous. They've already passed their tests. That's their own car. They have independence. They have a job, a social life, they have holidays. In short, they have all the things I don't have and for which I am desperate. I can't tell you how much I miss driving. I'd just mastered bay parking. Was SO ready to book my test in the then New Year.
But of course, plans don't always work out the way you er, plan them. I'm not pitying myself at all; I'm just really pissed off that Mirena hasn't worked. I believe that to be an understatement, somewhat: "it's been a huge fucking failure" is more appropriate, I think. A huge success, however, has been my laptop (excluding the the reason for the recent disinfection process, which has worked, thankfully. Huzzah for me!) for almost constant facebooking and Twittering. It's immensely helpful. There are daft games to play and they're sort of strategic games. Sort of is enough for now: too much thought and effort needed and I'm done for, innit. There are people on Twitter who follow me and they are people whose faces and "work" I know and admire. Why would they follow me? Marsha Shandur #followfridayed me. She said I was "consistently charming". That's so good! I adore her; she's like your mate on the radio who's cool and plays ace music and has a voice that's too alluring for your liking. Or is that just me...? I wish I has a voice like that. Mine's awful. And Lisa Lynch, she of AlrightTit, she's following me. *Grins. A LOT* AND #followfridayed me, as well! Why? I don't know... maybe Marsha answered that question before I even thought of it to ask... Wow. That's, like... y'know?
It's now Monday morning, just. A few minutes past 1 o'clock. In the A.M.. MY appetite has gone on holiday. You'd think it'd take me with it. How rude. My appetite has gone, sort of, but I'm hungry. I've been eating porridge (a bit too much sugar and it's ruined, as happened today), notShreddies (Lidl - cheaper and with an obscure image of a meerkat-with-bad-teeth-and-wearing-denim on the front), and Ritzish crackers and Primula with Prawns cheese. This is not the best diet, but equally, on Easter Sunday, I didn't gorge myself with skiploads of chocolate. In fact, I had no chocolate. I do have some, I just felt too dizzy and sick to eat any. I have a Creme Egg sitting woefully on the table beside me. Like a Weeble, except it has fallen down... oh wait, no. That's a cat. Google searches, eh... hang on... Here's a Weeble thing. Undressed, the Creme Egg would look like the newly discovered egg which Darwin collected while travelling aboard HMS Beagle. Christine McGourty said it first. Credit where it's due, like.
And now hunger has returned - with not even a straw donkey for company - it's back to mt trusty notShreddies. I really do like them. As a good friend of mine, Rose, said, "It's easier to sleep when you're hungry, than it is to eat when you're tired". And she's right. I once nearly choked on my notShreddies so much that I spat the semi-chewed maltness into the sink and nearly retched. Mmm. But what a waste. That won't stop me trying again, imminently: I am SO hungry at the moment. I had a late and quite small breakfast because I had to eat something so I could have my tablets. (Why do they make you do that? Why do they make you eat when you feel terribly sick because of pain? Piss takers.) I had no lunch, but instead, porridge. And then Ritzish crackers. Oh and Twiglets. And prunes. And my stomach is in 2 minds about whether to thank me for the last 2 ingredients.
On a final note, before I go to bed to probably not sleep very well (cheery, ain't I?) I read but don't necessarily believe horoscopes. But I liked what I read today. Somewhat poetic and entirely true, for me, I thought. And possibly for you, too. So, not really a horoscope, more general advice. And that's OK, by me at least. It said: Always look at what you have done and not at what you haven’t. Quite.