Just one step at a time

There appears to be an interesting discussion going on in the comments of my post on religion at the moment. Pop along and have a look. Feel free to join in the discussion.

I went to the doctor yesterday. Filled in a questionnaire to determine if depressed, have borderline personality disorder, or just down.

Moderately to severely depressed.

Started antidepressants this morning. Take 2-3 weeks to kick in, and could make me worse before they get better.

Back to the doctor in 2 weeks to see how I’m getting on and to talk about the other part of getting better: therapy/counselling.

Saw Sex and the City tonight. Really enjoyed it, actually. And there were some really deep bits during it, as well as the sex, the shopping, the shoes and the laughs!

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I burnt myself - deliberately - for the first time 2 nights ago. I didn’t realise, until I found this site, that I’ve been self-injuring for the last 13 years. At least. As a kid I was always picking at scabs, and I’m a nail biter (though I stop every so often, and it’s now rare that I bite right down to rawness, I pick at the cuticles and skin around my nails. They’re ugly!).

But I remember the day when I started. I was at Uni. I was trying to wax my legs for the first time, because short-sightedness, heavy-handedness and razors on legs don’t go together, and my room mate couldn’t cope with my wincing. So I was left with partially done legs. And a pair of tweezers to pluck the rogue hairs out.

And then I guess I realised there was a certain satisfaction in the pain of pulling the hairs out. I was depressed during most of my 3 years of Uni, I now realise had been for years before, and probably still am at a low level now.

So now, give me a pair of tweezers and I’m happy. I can create a whole heap of scabs, because sometimes the hairs are stubborn, sometimes they’re growing UNDER the skin and need to be dug out, and then there’s the last lost of scabs that need to come off. It’s become a habit. It doesn’t serve the purpose of dulling any obvious pain anymore. But it does serve the purpose of reinforcing my low self esteem and unworthiness. It keeps me from getting close, because who’s going to want to love a fruit loop with scabby, ugly legs?

But I did tell the guy from work what I’d done, with a little of the history, and he didn’t run away screaming. And has been in touch since! So obviously not everyone is as shallow and flaky as I expect them to be!

Of course, I’ve picked all 12 blisters from the burning incident, which will satisfy my dual “enjoyment” of picking, and will (hopefully!) leave a whole bunch of scars. Because I love scars: they always have a story, and can often be quite sexy. (The chef has one under his eye from where he was stabbed in a fight when he was a teenager. It’s sexy!) And even though I’m looking at them and can see they’re most definitely infected, part of me is looking forward to them scabbing over properly so’s I can rip the scabs off.

Because I think scabs are ugly, and even though I’ve done the cell biology at degree level and know that if you remove the scab another will form, the subconscious part of me believes that removing the scab will get rid of the problem. And then I just deal with the next one in the same way. Until eventually I’m too tired or distracted to pick and it gets a chance to heal properly. Or at least doesn’t form a pickable scab.

But I intend to see my GP this coming week, as now I’ve done something more serious once, I could do it again. This is obviously already an issue. I don’t want the new level of self-injury to become the norm. Hopefully he or she will put me back in touch with the mental health worker and we can go from there.

I’m actually a lot brighter today! I spent the morning in bed, psyching myself up to go out this evening to a birthday do where I’d only know a few people. We went to a kids’ jungle gym that they hire out to adults in the evenings, and I can’t remember the last time I had that much clean, childish fun! And I remember how I was actually a fairly happy, confident child. Until about the age of 9 when we moved.

But that’s a story for any therapist I end up with.

Am working my way through the comments section of http://asbojesus.wordpress.com/2008/04/17/443-444/ which is helpful.

The summer (well, sort-of summer, this is the UK!) is giving me the itch. All I seem to think about is sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex… you get the hint! Permanently horny! And they say men think about sex every 3 seconds!Starting to get annoying now.

Problem is, my friendly chef is (still) far to keen to help me scratch!

I’m having to live by ‘lead me not into temptation’ on a minute-by-minute basis!

I think that’s part of what OUCH was about - the general pent up frustration! Plus Church Boy has just been over to Northern Ireland to see a lady he likes. I’m kinda cool with that. But it’s still a reminder that there’s still nothing, nada, no one out there for me at the moment.

And I really could do with a decent hug!

Sometimes there is something about physical pain that just helps. It’s been a crappy week. Dunno why, just has. Then I burnt my arm taking pizza out of the oven. Just the one burn. But… Well, it felt, not good, just felt. Just felt. Felt real, there, present.

And so…

I’m fine. Things are just getting to me a little.

I went to see Bruce Springsteen at the Emirates Stadium in London last night. Which is 5 minutes walk from my house. So I heard him twice! Once on Friday night, then saw him Saturday. He was awesome!

We had standing tickets. We got in the queue at 5 and were in just before 6 (doors opened 5.30, so that was good!) We found a place to perch next to the sound desk, about half-way back. OK view, but couldn’t really see their faces.

Until 20 minutes in we realised we’d found the perfect spot - because the tech guys at the sound desk were handing out magic wristbands to the enclosed bit at the front. The bit where all the people who’d been queuing all day for where!

Woo hoo! How exciting! I did get caught up in the excitement and found myself rushing with the crowd when Bruce headed over the the forward bit of stage our side. I have the stiff muscles and bruises to prove I was in that crowd! I did manage to get the tips of my fingers within 3 inches of him though!

Thursday was my birthday treat day. I was going on a sea plane with Loch Lomond Seaplanes. Originally booked in for a tour, I had a call on the Wednesday to say they were having to cancel the tour, but as I’d travelled up from London for this, they would fly me to Tobermory (on the island of Mull) and back again later the same day.

So I took the underground (apparently the locals call it the Clockwork Orange) out to the Science Centre where the plane takes off from the River Clyde. I got there, took one look at the plane… and headed for the toilet, which is what I do when I’m nervous! It was tiny! And after the Mackintosh Tower incident of vertigo, I wasn’t that sure about going up in some teeny tiny plane.

Glasgow Science Centre and seaplane, as seen from Glasgow Tower

By the time we were ready to board I was terrified. And told them so! However, the guys were great! I’m sure they must have nervous passengers all the time, and they let me sit up next to the pilot, so I had my own private tour guide there and back!

Co-pilot Jo ready for take-off!

Leaving Glasgow by seaplane

We had to set down at Loch Lomond for refuelling, which was great! I didn’t get the proper tour, but I think I had a far better experience!

View of Loch Lomond through propellors

Refuelling on Loch Lomond

Loch Lomond, looking back towards Glasgow

Once we’d got the fuel on board it was off again. Over the Highlands and on to Mull. We’d left a dreary dull Glasgow, but once we were over Loch Lomond, the sun came out, the grass was green and the skies and seas were bright, bright blue!

The pilot, Andy, was a fantastic tour guide. But I guess when you do this 3 or 4 times a day, you’re going to know what’s what and where’s where.

Wind farm

View of a castle from around 2,000 feet

Reflection of the plane in the water

View of islands from the air

And then we reached Tobermory. We landed, the passengers for the island went by boat over to the shore and the next lot of passengers came back by boat. So all I saw of Tobermory was the view from the jetty.

Coming into Tobermory harbour

And then, sadly, it was all over. Despite my earlier terror, I was so excited by the trip I wanted to go back again. But it was not to be.

Me with the pilot and safety boat driver

So, bolstered by my new-found courage, I took a trip up Glasgow Tower, at 127 metres high, the tallest free-standing building in Scotland and the only building in the world capable of rotating into a prevailing wind, with barely a shaky knee in sight! And they rotated the tower for me!

Reflection of Glasgow Tower on the River Clyde

And then it was off to bed and ready for my long trip home the next day. Which was long! I travelled first class (well it was my birthday), but found the seats difficult to sleep on – too much leg room! Some amazing views of the North East coastline as we travelled to Berwick-on-Tweed – I might have to check that out next!

And then back to London and reality. The hustle and bustle and thousands of grumpy people. Within seconds I was back into London transport mode, head down, fast walk, off you go. Nobody smiled, but then it wasn’t particularly sunny weather.

So that was it, my Glasgow trip all over and done with. But what a trip!

“One aspect of serving others is listening to the call within to express your gifts—those talents you have that make you feel infinite when you are doing them. When we express those gifts, the Holy Spirit works through us in ways we may never know directly, touching the lives, hearts, and minds of others.”
- Joanna Bates
Environmental scientist, dancer, and writer

If you’ve seen the film The Pianist, you’ll know what it’s about. If not, here’s a quick summary I cribbed from imdb.com:

The true story of Wladyslaw Szpilman who, in the 1930s, was known as the most accomplished piano player in all of Poland, if not Europe. At the outbreak of the Second World War, however, Szpilman becomes subject to the anti-Jewish laws imposed by the conquering Germans. By the start of the 1940s, Szpilman has seen his world go from piano concert halls to the Jewish Ghetto of Warsaw and then must suffer the tragedy of his family deported to a German concentration camps, while Szpilman is conscripted into a forced German Labor Compound. At last deciding to escape, Szpilman goes into hiding as a Jewish refugee where he is witness to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising (April 19, 1943 - May 16, 1943) and the Warsaw Uprising (1 August to 2 October 1944).

I saw the film a few weeks ago, then got the book out from the library. I sometimes think we see so much crap on screen that it becomes easy to just block it out, ignore it and not be moved, even when we know it’s a true story.

But when we read… It’s the Hitchcock effect: if you can’t see it, what you imagine is a whole lot scarier.

And I believe if you can’t see it, what you read, especially if it is personal, written by one who experienced the situation, rather than a detached observer or historian, can be a whole lot more horrific.

“Another month of peace and quiet passed, and then, one June evening, there was a bloodbath in the ghetto. … As the jackbooted Germans marched upstairs the lights went on, floor by floor. A businessman’s family lived in the flat directly opposite ours… When the light went on there too and SS men in helmets stormed into the room, machine pistols ready to fire, the people inside were seated sitting around their table just as we had been seated at ours a moment ago. They were frozen with horror. The NCO leading the detachment took this as a personal insult. Speechless with indignation, he stood there in silence, scanning the people at the table. Only after a moment or so did he shout, in a towering rage, ‘Stand up!’

“They rose to their feet as fast as they could, all except for the head of the family, an old man with lame legs. The NCO was seething with anger. He went up to the table, braced his arms on it, stared hard at the cripple, and growled for the second time, ‘Stand up!’

“The old man gripped the arms of his chair to support himself and made desperate efforts to stand, but in vain. Before we realized what was going on, the Germans had seized the sick man, picked him up, armchair and all, carried the chair to the balcony, and thrown it out into the street from the third floor. …

“We saw the old man still hanging in his armchair in the air for a second or two, and then he fell out of it. We heard the chair fall to the road separately, and the smack of a human body landing on the stones of the pavement.”