Saturday, 4 October 2014

'Mother-in-law'

Help! Save me from the person shaped 'grandmother'
There’s a really good reason why I'm not friends with my bf's family on Facebook and it’s because I post stuff like this:  ‘Oh goody the mother-in-law is coming to visit – have I got time to have facial re-constructive surgery and leave the country??’

Ok, so she’s not legally my mother-in-law but as my boyfriend’s mum it’s the same thing - over familiarity with a self-entitlement to interfere.  I’m going to be calling her ‘Mil’ in this post.

You know that freak hail storm we had a few weeks ago, in the middle of a hot day, just came out of nowhere *bang* - hundreds of huge pellets of ice firing onto the planet like the sky had opened up with a million machine guns, well that’s the same velocity and ferociousness that Mil fires her nosey questions at me.

Questions of all shapes and sizes which I may or may not know the answer (has she not heard of Google?) but it’s the personal ones that cook my chicken.  Even if I’m ok with a personal question, I'm not ok with it when Mil is the one doing the asking.

One time I started a new job, she asked me on four separate occasions over two days ‘..and how much are they paying you...?’ each time I would tell her that it was personal and I didn't want to say.  But she wouldn’t let it go and each time she asked there would be more people present than the last time. The final time she asked me we were sitting at a dinner table with eight other people and I told her more sternly and final than before that I'm not answering something so personal (and in front of so many other people?!) so she rolled her eyes at me.  What the shit is up with that?!

Why not just ask me how often I masturbate or my favourite way to wipe my arse.

She also has an obsession with my skin care routine (lady, I look thirty years younger than you because I AM THIRTY YEARS YOUNGER THAN YOU) which could be a form of flattery but is a form of irritation to me.  Not that there’s any point explaining anything to her because no matter how detailed or how often you tell her something, she will continue to ask the same questions over and over and fucking over.

If I say no to alcohol in her presence she wants an explicitly detailed reason as to why I’m not drinking, no matter what time of day or what day of the week it is. 

Even though it has been told to her a hundred times that alcohol is source of pain to me; I’m a very badly behaved drunk, I drink too much too quickly and become very loud, swearing, and shameful. Then I suffer a hangover for several  days including grumpiness, sleeplessness and downright depression, she is still always SO surprised when I say no to a drink.  She just refuses to acknowledge or respect that I will and can say no to things that harm me or irritate me. 

Maybe I've drank too much in her presence in the past and now she believes that, like her, I am a heavy drinker. In fact I’m sure I’ve only done it to make the evening more bearable.

She has picked my puppy up by the legs, by the neck and tail and each time I tell her off or even try to show her the proper way to handle a small dog she acts all hard done by, sticking out her bottom lip and whining that she didn’t know she was doing anything wrong.  

Oh and she tells people that my dog is her grandchild.  She has also suggested that she should pop round to the flat while I’m at work so she can bond with my dog.  In what world is that a normal suggestion?   Why would I need her to bond with my dog?  Why would my dog want any of this to happen?

She doesn’t actually have a malicious bone in her body, but she is hugely naive, incredibly nosey and achingly annoying.  She comes complete with her own clichés too (which are always drawn out in a slow and silly voice):

‘ohh its soooooo nice to be cooked foooooooor’;

‘but yoooou don’t like pinnnnnnnk’ (in a suspiscous tone because she ‘caught’ me wearing pink socks once, and:

‘Oh whyyyyyyy aren’t you on Faceboooooook?’

I am on Facebook.  I blocked her so she can’t find me…hehehehehe

See more on my drinking here: http://www.katfoxley.com/2014/02/hangovers-and-self-loathing.html

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Nightmare going to sleep

I love first thing in the morning...before the rest of the world begins to make its noise... (and it really does begin to make some bloody noise where I live bang on 9am)

But get up just early enough, and there’s a noticeable little spring in my step where I’m skipping out of the bedroom and a notable sparkle to my mood, one I wish I could bottle and sniff at will. I’m overcome with a serious bout of optimism. So much I can do with my day. I feel invigorated with all the new time on my hands. I can write stuff. Get some extra exercise in, especially if I take the dog out and get all that nice morning fresh air up my nostrils. I can even squeeze in a whole episode of whatever Netflix box set I’m currently obsessed with, read some humorous blog articles.

But my little zip of delight is easily threatened.

I have an unpredictable, topzy turvy sleeplessness problem. I can never be quite sure when the insomnia will attack. Sometimes it means trouble getting to sleep resulting in not enough sleep (four hours), other times its getting zero sleep (blinking into the darkness, hating myself and stirring up the most bizarre over-dramatizations of past and future life moments). 

Then sometimes I get off to sleep nicely but finding myself wide awake after just a few hours. 

I tell myself that if I do not get back to sleep I will miss out on the early morning buzz and the rest of my day will be ruined.  Obviously that sets off the panic, creating adrenaline, making me more furious and more wide awake (is there such a thing as length ways awake?).

So I take a sleeping tablet. Even if I've already taken something when I first go to bed I wake up and take some more.  Sometimes just a bit of the tablet, without even knowing what the time is, so that I can ignore my thoughts and fears and drift back off to sleep.  And I must admit that is exactly what happens. Drop a sleeper and back to zonk out zone. It could well be a placebo effect quieting my mind and getting me off so quickly, but I don’t give a shit as long as it works. 

But then the next morning I am not the optimistic happy bunny of joy and rainbows and all things morning. No, I'm a groggy and moaning grump monster resentfully dragging myself out of bed knowing that if I stay in there any longer then some kind of depression will take over and then the day truly will be fucked. 

So the Kat shaped horror drags itself out of bed heavy and weighed down with tiredness, self pity and failure and try sadly and puffily to salvage back morning in a blurry, druggy fog.


Without those tablets I don’t sleep and I lie awake stressing about all things life and by morning I am completely broken and flop helplessly onto the floor as every positive feeling or emotion I have ever felt is drawn out of me by the evil insomnia wizards so that they can continue to build nightmares with my stolen energy and hope. 

How well do you sleep? Aided or unaided?

Thanks snuggle bunnies x

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Turbulent Brain Pain

Why am I suffering a three day headache?

It's completely ruined my weekend and has taken some of the buzz out of my happiness frequency about starting my new job tomorrow, which is practically the job of my dreams (the accessible and realistic job of my dreams anyway - my other dream jobs include watching Netflix whilst stroking sausage dog puppies, Prodigy dancer, Russell Brand or Gwen Stefani’s professionally best friend).
I’m wondering what I’ve done, or what has happened to play part in my weekend ruining pain, which feels as though I've been kicked in the brain by Eric Cantona.

I’m partially stressed due to a photograph of myself which I have to supply to go on the company website.  After looking through everything I have loaded on my phone and laptop (unfortunately my camera was stolen and I'm yet to replace it) pictures of me are either too cheesy; smiling too much that my eyes are pushed shut, or I'm frowning, or squinting, or have sunglasses on top of my head or on the front of my face, or too giggly-girly or holding and kissing my dog.  In some I find I look a bit like mum so those ones get deleted immediately.  I’m going to have to take one on purpose and hopefully a successful photo will help my headache to ease off.

I know dehydration is a key ingredient in the headache recipe. I had two - only two!!! glasses of prosecco on Friday night but that was with food plus water and I even had green tea once I got home again, which wasn't late by the way and I got to bed early enough.  Although as always the sleep was aided with sleeping meds which now I'm wondering if there is a possible connection to the meds and my pain as I rarely sleep unaided.  Was the food I ate possibly too salty?  I also woke up in the middle of the night due to a thunder storm, and maybe the change in weather is another factor.

I've taken enough painkillers to keep Charlie Sheen happy for a week yet they either wear off incredibly quickly or reduce the pain slightly still leaving a simmer of the burn behind.  Could be that now the painkillers are having the adverse effect and actually contributing the the longevity to this crippling weekend and happiness wrecker.

I had lots of fresh air yesterday and the pain got worse.  It could be the change in temperature albeit the mugginess at night stays with us, and something to do with air pressure.  Or the stress/excitement of a new job.  The issue of not being photogenic and getting wound up about it is the opposite of helpful, getting my brain all worked up.

Did I become dehydrated by too much salt in my food?

Or was it those two lousy drinks on Friday kick this thing off?

They couldn't have helped and stupid thing is I didn't even enjoy the drinks that much at the time (probably why I stopped after the second).

Then the continuous sleeping tablet taking that has become a bit of a habit due to my inability to sleep unaided 
(GRRRRR <= you know what that is, that's a vicious circle!)


Relaxation might help.  I'm debilitated and incapacitated by the turbulent brain pain anyway, so unable to do anything.  Which is a bit like relaxing. Except I need turn off the thoughts.

Monday, 15 September 2014

My First Hate

My friend Kelly once asked me if my first boyfriend was my 'first love'?

I quickly told her that no, he was my ‘first hate’.

Unfortunately there were more hates to follow after I eventually split up with the son of Beelzebub. Fuck knows why it took so long to break free, probably some kind of insecurity issue on my part, or maybe even on both our parts. I think it’s about as safe as a padlocked chastity belt to say that I've never really been a good judge of character.

Maybe I knew exactly the kind of character I was messing with and subconsciously wanted to attract that kind of chaos into my life?  I do wonder.

Psychopaths, sociopaths, professional shitbags, the sneaky untrustworthies and relentlessly unreliable don't tend to let on in the beginning how they will ruin your life.  They don’t introduce themselves and quickly add that going on a few dates and then getting into a relationship with them will see you eventually stripped of self-esteem, dignity and, in my case, rational thinking.

The first time round I was too naive and insecure to recognise the destructive situation I was in. A different ‘partner’ years later stalked me both during and after our break up. 
How was I finding these people?  Why was I welcoming literal danger into my life?  I wouldn’t smear myself in antelope blood and enter a lion enclosure now would I.

My reactions to their actions turned me into some kind of crazy bitch too. During my first reign of terror with nameless boyfriend number one I actually assumed that that was how relationships were and how all teenagers were supposed to be behaving.  It you weren’t doing it like us then you weren’t doing it right.  How fucked up is that.  Arguments over silly things growing into out of control, aggressive fights. The more it happened the more ‘normal’ it felt.

When we broke up I found that I wasn’t really that unstable, or that crazy, or that jealous, or that self-conscious person at all.  And very slowly I began to work out who I truly was. Notice I say ‘slowly’.

Getting over what has happened during these relationships has been a lengthy process.  Dark memories remain and depressing thoughts continue to manifest as a result of my questionable choices.  Working out that I deserved better (and that better does actually exist) was my first and biggest step.  But getting over the past is another thing.

It is beginning to get better now, maybe because most of the bad stuff happened some time ago now and with each day, month, year it is further and further away in my memory banks. I have spent enough (lots) of time fretting and replaying the emotional horror stories over in my head and its now been 'spent'.

Growing up, getting older and supposedly wiser (just a tad less naive in my case) I've really learnt how to dispel the badness out of my life and ignore and avoid the people and situations that are no good for me.

Living in the moment; in the here and now, is vital practice for a sane mind - yet not always so simple to do. If I have a day where I feel off balance a walk in the local park or around the lake really helps me to clear my mind.  I look around and above my natural eye line, instead of just staring out at the path in front of me, and see the horizon, the trees and the birds, other people with their children or walking their dogs. I breathe in all the good fresh air and really focus on clearing my mind, chucking out all that bad clutter.  Sometimes I mill around the local high street and vintage shops.

Doing something quite simple but something I wouldn’t normally do is always a good distraction as I begin to concentrate on that task. Finding something new to research helps take the mind off the past, looking up a new recipe or signing up for a new course or hobby.  Appreciating small pleasures; a soak in the bath reading a book or magazine, having a conversation with a friend. I’ll find something gripping or funny to watch on tv or my iPad. Drinking/drugging should never be used as a distraction or a comforter.  It doesn’t help and it won’t end well.

If I’ve learnt anything over the last ten years it’s this:

Realise you deserve better, know that better is out there, move forward and move on, clear your head, burn bad memories and make room for new ones.
It’s one thing to find yourself in a bad situation, it’s another to realise you need to get out.  Sometimes, thankfully, it fizzles out, other times its tougher to change your environment. But I’ve done it many times.  It can be done. xx


Saturday, 6 September 2014

Sleepwalker

Why drink so much that you get into a state of oblivion.  Where you black out and remember nothing the next day.  Is that any way to live, or to exist.  You could’ve spent the evening in a coma for all you know… what a great night. 

You could've been anally probed by aliens wearing masks made of penal flesh and you wouldn’t know it.

Then there is the fact that just because you don’t remember doesn’t mean nobody else in your presence doesn’t remember.  They were witness to your behaviour.   

As I begin to realise this I take stock on how much I’ve drunk in the past and how much I’m drinking now.  I’m actually pleased with myself now that I don’t feel the need to get hammered that I once felt.  And its alright!  I’m actually a much happier, and altogether  a more‘together’ person.  However, I now face a slightly different but almost related problem.

My boyfriend sleepwalks.  And his sleepwalking is triggered by alcohol – lots of alcohol.  And unfortunately for me my bf is a fairly heavyish drinker (like his parents – slight dig intended.) 

It is usually a similar pattern each time, the sleepwalking begins when he needs to go to the bathroom.  In his semi-conscious state he’ll forget the dynamics of the room so he is often having to feel his way around every inch of wall, perplexed and confused by the lack of door.  

Now I just think people who DON'T sleepwalk are awesome!

Often he will conclude that the bedroom is the bathroom and that the wardrobe is the toilet!  It is then becomes my job to ensure he doesn’t piss on my clothes.  He's twice my size and becomes some kind of aggressive, sweaty and bewildered mess and very difficult for me to gain any kind of control.  He’ll push me away elbow in my face as I try to motion him into the correct direction of the bathroom and grunt incoherently at me telling me to get off of fuck off or to wait a minute.

He once eventually found the door after feeling himself around edges of the room,mime artist style, but forgot how to open it.  He pulled and pulled on the door handle, foot up against the wall for extra leverage but the door wouldn’t open. It was in fact a door that pushed open the other way.  He then pulled so hard that the handle on the other side of the door fell off and onto the floor with a loud clunk.  In his dream state thought he was stuck in the room forever.   

Our most recent instalment of his sleepwalking adventures particularly pissed me off.  And not just because it wakes me up, not just because he wanted to piss in the wardrobe, not just because he gets aggressive with me when I try and direct him into the direction of the bathroom but because he scooped our miniature dachshund puppy from her crate and dragged the confused little dog across the carpet.  He then picked her up fireman style and held her over his shoulder – the look on her face as worried as the expression on mine.

I had every intention of milking this one of his slumbersome and destructive strolls around the flat.  I couldn’t get back to sleep again, mainly because I was so angry with him but also with anxiety that he might get up again and drunk-sleeping do something outrageous.  But I had to go the bathroom myself about sevenish so I got up still heaving with all the big furious emotions that I was going to unleash on him the moment he was up that morning... only to find a spider the size of my head in the bath.  The only action I could possibly take was to quickly forgive my beloved boyfriend of his horrendous night time hobby and get him up and out of bed to rescue me from death from fear of spider.  Where is the justice, I ask!

Thursday, 28 August 2014

I've decided to change my age by deed poll

Unhappy birthday to me... 
Since we are allowed to change our names by deed poll I would like to change my age.  I would like to be 27 again please.  I will fill in all the relevant forms and send them off to the Prime Minister or to the queen or Satan or who ever deals with such matters and get it all official and nice.

My birthday lands towards the arse end of the year, and I always seem to add a year onto my age from new years day.  So I'm already making myself almost a year older before I need to.  Maybe it's just because that's the next age I've got coming up or maybe it's to get the 'wow' reaction that I sometimes (always) get when I'm asked my age. I've always looked, and definitely act (irresponsibly), younger for whatever age I've been.  It's in my genes. My mum would get on the bus for a half fare when she was 25 years old.


I've always disliked my birthday. As a kid I liked the presents and the cake but it signified, not just the end of summer, but the end of summer holidays and going back to school.  Then there were the occasions where I would try and make a big deal of it but something would go shamefully wrong. Like the time a friend got hideously drunk and tried to punch me. The time I got hideously drunk and turned up staggeringly late (and staggering) to my birthday dinner. The other times where I've tried to arrange something but some of my invited have rinsed themselves out and done themselves in after the August bank holiday. Then realising that some of the people I considered to be my friends were actually my friend's friends and not mine. Or the times that I simply didn't even have anyone to round up to celebrate with because I'd moved town/city.


The main reason I hate my birthday is that it signifies another year that I haven't achieved any of the things I ought to have by (insert appropriate age). But then I never really have been the most conventional of people so why should this surprise me.


Nowadays I don't really give my birthday any legs. I'll go into deny and avoid mode. The days have gone where I group people together to go drinking as a celebration of another year of me. Besides, drinking has since become such a huge source of pain for me it is no longer a way for me to celebrate.  When I do drink it's actually by 'accident'.


The most I'll do for my birthday is that I will go out for dinner with my boyfriend's family. Which is usually perfectly lovely providing his mother keeps her phone/camera out of my face. She is one of those creatures who thinks that I (and everyone she knows) enjoys having a stream of photographs taken of them and instantly loaded to Facebook for her friends to make comments on.


My boyfriend will spoil me which is obviously lovely but I can't even enjoy that properly like a sane person because I begin worrying about his birthday being next and that I won't know what to do.


Age has since become a factor and wish to rewind the years on my personal and biological clock and happily and ignorantly live in a time warp where all my ambitions and better opportunities still lie ahead of me.


Do you hate your birthday?  Or even your age for that matter?


Thanks squirrels x


photo credit: drinksmachine via photopin cc

Saturday, 23 August 2014

Cringe

There are too many things to cringe at when I think back.  But that's not what I thought at the time - back then I was brilliant! I was a fucking wizard!  

My behaviour meant I was having a good time, proof I really knew how to have fun. The more attention I got the more valuable and relevant my life was.  

I was in the spotlight.

I have ignored a perfectly good gate and climbed a ten foot wall instead, just so I could jump off the top, like, on purpose.  Result: me wriggling around on the floor sniggering with success and slight pain, lapping up any attention I should receive by anyone who noticed me.

I blagged my way onto the maternity ward after a colossal night of excess and appallingness, when my best friend gave birth to her second child.  Once there I was quickly asked to leave by the nurses, having briefly seen my friend’s baby, as my loudness was upsetting the other mums.  I fell asleep on my way out of the hospital and was woken up by security. 

The night before the hospital incident I had cut most of my hair off with my mum’s kitchen scissors, whilst drunk and without a mirror, because I wanted to look like Kate Moss.  Obviously hacking my own hair off will achieve super model looks – not like a professional hair salon or a complete face and height transplant!

I told people, and for some reason every taxi driver, that my name was Kat short for ‘catastrophe’. Impressed with my own awesome geniusness.

I was the perpetual partyer, a glamorous disaster and the perfect poster child for the ‘just say no’ campaign.

There have been many black outs and many regrets.

My acting up and desperation to be noticed, even if negatively, goes back to early childhood.  The flip side to my showing off was to hide away under my duvet for weeks at a time, avoiding the world and my problems as well.

I took treatment for depression but drank on top of the meds.  The two really not mixing well together I seemed to become even more outrageous on top of an already attention seeking persona.
The outcome was carnage and I was both the destroyer and the wounded.

It is as though my brain is wonky.  There are moments it totally works right, but deep within there is something else living in side of me.  Like some chimera kind of being or spirit. An alter ego fused within me that didn't get to be born so instigates mischievously as an act of revenge.


I’ve indulged in self pity and external blame for literally my whole life now.  Constantly thinking over why am I like this and why couldn't I have what other people have and why this and why that….

I’ve made peace with my past but I miss some of the chaos.  I don’t think I’ll miss those sleepless endless nights of pointless talking with unknown shadows in someone else’s kitchen.

I realised at some point that I never really knew how to express myself and part of me always felt suppressed. This is something I have really paid attention to over the last couple of years.

I sometimes look back with sadness but other times I look back and cry with laughter.  I’ve had amazing times and hung out with the most fiercely fun and creative. I’ve made friends, some good and some erratic, and then lost acquaintances I didn’t even notice had gone.

Now my life is in a new phase. One I feel I wear well like a comfortable old favourite cardi.  I have loved ones and I feel safe

I haven’t suffered too much mental hardship of late and I’m beginning to feel settled in my own skin. There will always be a little streak of crazy in me but I will control her and introduce her at appropriate times only.  My new favourite hobby is staying home watching back to back box sets on Netflix.


Thursday, 14 August 2014

Dear teenage me

The nineties won’t last forever even though you think it will always be the nineties and, obviously, everything has been invented. 
You think that the world will never change, but it does. 
Don’t worry, this is a good thing and you will change and evolve along with it too.  

It’s like how you loved the eighties as a kid and thought that everything that could be discovered had been and what could anyone possibly need beyond colour TV and Sony Walkmans.  Music must surely be at its best.  Well then the nineties come along and you love the nineties more, like one big comfortable and pleasurable new friend.  You believe that this time society has definitely reached its peak.  Well guess what, it continues to change and move forward.

School will become the smallest of stains on your memory and isn’t worth the tears and effort of worry you put into it each day.  Those girls you hang out with will turn out to be the same bitches later on too.  Your real friends are yet to be met.  I wish I could stop you being such an attention seeker – you don’t realise it now but the attention you are attracting is the opposite of good.

Luckily fashions change and you actually develop a sense of style.  You’ll stop back-combing your hair to all levels of haystackdom and dying it that fuck awful colour – you’ll later want to destroy all photographic evidence that that muppet wanna-be goth version of you ever existed.  If only you’d stop messing with your hair and visit an actual salon. 

There was never any reason to empty the entire contents of your make up bag onto your face and eventually you learn to make the most of yourself.  If only you would realise that you are actually pretty.

Remember how your school had a computer?  Move forward a couple of decades and everyone on the planet will carry a tiny, slim and sophisticated one in their pockets, one which you make phone calls on and take photographs.  And connecting to an almighty power called the internet.

Films like Back To The Future and Total Recall get it so wrong.  There is mention of computers but no mention of the internet, kind of like how The Bible doesn’t mention dinosaurs. 

There wont be hover boards and flying cars or nail varnish that changes colour with the touch of a stylus. Nails will become more decorative with patterns and extensions and all colours beyond cliché red and cliché pink.  Technology will make everything simpler and more sophisticated.  There will be technologies that come along and blow your mind and then become retro just as quickly.  Others will change the world forever. 

You will live in London like you've always dreamed and you will have more fun than you can imagine in ways that you cannot yet even contemplate.  There will be tricky times too when your lifes frustrations pour from your tear ducts, but this is part of your learning experience. 

You will not become a world famous fashion designer like you keep telling everyone as this requires a lot of hard work which you seem to forget to do and you like to do a lot of hiding under your duvet instead.  You don’t stay in London either – eventually you move to a place that you haven’t yet heard of, but don’t worry, it is beautiful and it’s really, really good for you.

Michael Jackson will die and Madonna will live forever.  I’m sure once immortality is fully developed by scientists that Madonna will get first dibs on the potion.

You will give up smoking for good.  I just wish you could have done this sooner!

You will eventually learn how to read people better as you never were a good judge of character. You will begin to trust the good ones and learn to eliminate those who are bad for you. There will be heart ache at times, but again this is necessary.  It seems you will always be scared of spiders and I still can’t tell you yet if you will ever pass your driving test.  I hope you do.

I don’t think you’re going to have kids but I think you know this already. Saying that, from where I’m at right now there is still time if you want to change your mind.

Luckily you cotton on to the enjoyment of reading again after a lengthy pause where you obviously felt it wasn’t drinky or ravey enough. As with many life development tools you decide to cast it over to the geek corner while you get on with your perpetual partying. At one point you temporarily cut off the circulation in your toes, this lasts for about six months, while hanging out with people whose surnames and job titles you never know.

You will go through a strange mind bending twilight thing whilst frequenting underground clubs where you think that you and all those in that space around you don’t exist once the party has finished. The clubs will lose their edge for you after a while and you will happily live alongside the ‘normal people’.  You will find pleasure in everyday activities and no longer so wrapped up in finding another plane of consciousness. That is a fun experiment while it happens but it won’t and can’t last.  Don’t worry when the superficial bonds with undependable and delinquent ‘friends’ begin to fade away – the next phase in your life is so much more meaningful.

You will find your place in the world.

You’ll meet people of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds and you will love them for who they are and they will teach you about life, career and stuff about yourself too.  You will be surrounded by a vibrant and exciting collection of people. 

You will make some big mistakes, but everything will turn out as it should.

It is important for you to remember not to be scared of the changes because you evolve and learn with them.  Please don’t forget this when you get older than I am now. 

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Arguments in my head

The little voice that lives inside my head right behind my face is an angry little shit goblin; a thought intruder that preys and feasts on any crumb of happy thoughts.  It is an inner spokesperson for all my worse thoughts, fears and bad memories. A voice out of control that wants to ruin everything.

Everyone has an inner dialogue where they speak to themselves, replay memories and go over their concerns.  Mine obviously despises me.

The result is farfetched worries, exaggerated memories and, most often of all, imaginary arguments.  What is the fuck with that? 

And arguments that have actually happened but have been recalled and added to.  It is bad enough that my head has been taken over by these intrusions in the first place but I often find that I don’t even win during the new edition rows and debates. You’d think I could at least make the most of the replay or made-up scenario and turn it around in my favour. 

I can conjure up a right old mess of imagination that serves no purpose but to make me mad or make assholes out of otherwise innocent friends and acquaintances, past and present.

The narration is strongest during the morning.  I notice it most during my shower.  I hop off to have a shower and come back angry.  This can be very confusing to the non-showering person who I've left behind in the non-showering room (always my bf).
To him my morning routine looks like this:

Leaves room ordinarily and acceptably ok > goes to have shower > returns from shower furious.

Maybe it’s the aloneness and my vulnerable state that lures all those bad memories and negativity in.  The head space invader loves when nobody else is around to breed its doom.

I wonder if this impulsion that I have is a way the mental me prepares the physical actually-outside-of-my-head me for such an incident, ensuring I'm equipped just in case any of these completely fabricated situations actually happen.

Sometimes I wonder if it happens because I actually enjoy it.

Distractions are good.  Should I be stressing at work, about work stuff, my inner stress stops. This is because the stress fairy is satisfied with the amount of stress that the whatever situation at work is creating and calls off sending her cousin the angry little shit goblin from taking over my mind.

The noise stops while I'm in the company of other people, exciting or otherwise.  Or when I'm really happy about something like buying new things, or organizing the recycling (I know! isn't it strangely fun?) Or if I am engrossed in some other activity like obsessing over why the bath towels smell like Super Noodles.

There are times when it doesn't happen at all and then I'm all like ‘hey I'm not doing that thing where I'm arguing with someone who I haven’t seen for several years about stuff that didn't happen or did happen but doesn't matter.’ Then I start wondering if those people who I haven’t seen for so many years do the internal arguing/row thing.  That seems to rationalise it, just for a moment.


I've begun telling myself 'no'.  When those thoughts try to sneak in I’ll put a happy thought in its place, or remind myself to appreciate all that’s good in my life.  As you can imagine, or have maybe even experienced, this is so much easier said than done.  But I'm determined to keep moving forward with this thought process as it is my only hope.  

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Sam's place



Even though I lived there too we always referred to it as Sam's house, or Sam's flat or Sam's place. 

EVERYBODY knew Sam's place. 

I've forgotten how many years he has lived there, his mum owns the place, amongst others.  I eventually moved out after two and half years but that makes for another story.  

The row of flats are set back from the St Paul's Road between Highbury/ Islington and Angel underground stations.  You walk up the steps to where the shared balcony with the adjoining flats is and then through the wooden gate onto our private courtyard.  

To the left of the front door are two recycling boxes overflowing with wine and beer bottles of every coloured glass and branded labels as you can possibly find within a five mile radius.  To the normal household this would appear to be the consumables of at least a year's worth of booze but at this flat we manage to fill the recycling boxes every couple of weeks, and in less than that if someone gets really excited.  

So on this particular day I let myself in with my key, the black iron gate that protects the front door is unlocked so I know that somebody is home.  Again in the normal household, where all the residents have full time jobs you would expect everyone to be at work at this time of day. 

But not at this flat. 

I go in and I'm met with the usual smell of alcohol and that recycled aroma of alcohol that has travelled through the stomach and breathed back out again that flows through every room.  It's pretty quiet which is unusual. 

The newly fitted kitchen with its black granite surfaces is to the right, before the stairs, and as usual it is cold and messy with unwashed dishes, empty beer cans, over flowing ashtrays and various fancy dress garments and old ladies hats.  

The top layer of the chicken outfit is half draped over a kitchen chair but mostly hanging onto and touching the dusty floor.  The familiar purple wizard’s cape has been screwed up and discarded in one corner as if flung off by its previous wearer and forgotten about.  I also notice that my orange plastic comedy sized sunglasses that came from a festival in Amsterdam have been taken from my bedroom and have joined the clutter in the kitchen, oh and there's a pink straw hat, the kind that you might see on Mrs Marple.  I have no idea where that has come from.  

I go up the stairs already imagining what chaos is going to greet me. All the main rooms are there, the sitting room, the bathroom and three bedrooms.  The overall décor of the flat is modern, clean off-white coloured walls, brown leather furnishings and unfortunately an unforgiving beige plush carpet inevitably stained with the red and brown and whatever coloured alcohol has been spilled on it. 

The place is dead quiet which, like I said is unusual because we never sleep at the same time here....
..…the same as we don't all seem to go to work every day as we should either. 

Especially Sam who is also fondly known to his friends as 'Lord Faffington' and is often known to be ''working from home''.  Yes working from home in inverted commas indeed.  I pass the sitting room, where most of the hedonism of this little London flat takes place and without looking I already know it is in the same state of disarray as the kitchen with the addition of cds everywhere, cd cases covered in the familiar white dust and rolled up notes or pieces of magazines.  People also like to flamboyantly jump around and throw things in the sitting room so the sofa cushions are probably strewn about the place and somebody I’ve never met before will be asleep on the floor.

I already know this and I haven't even been in there yet. 

I head for the bathroom first which is located at the furthest point from the landing and is on the left to Sam's bedroom.  Now when I first moved into this flat Sam hid his promiscuity from me, probably out of politeness, or maybe even in an attempt to hide his intentions!  Either way a man's promiscuity isn't something one can keep hidden for very long!  That would be like asking a child to pretend they don't like sweets and to then continue pretending to dislike sweets even when in the presence of brand new sweets!  

So I'm heading for the bathroom but the door is locked, indicating that it is in use, when a girl I have never seen before comes out of Sam's bedroom, wearing very little and a guitar. This isn't all that unusual and my other flatmate and I are completely used to complete strangers coming out of rooms in the flat, but Sam now has a girlfriend...a girl he really likes, loves even, and whom he has been with for a little while now.  

'oh hello' she says, 'I'm just leaving'... ooh ok.  

So this doesn’t look good, bearing in mind we all know Sam’s missus.  Oh but of course…on closer inspection the girlfriend is there also, all tucked up under the duvet all naked with a sheepish look on her face… looks like my beloved flatty and his girlfriend have found themselves a new hobby!  

A hobby worth bunking work for!

Thursday, 22 May 2014

My mum


My mum used to be such an angry woman, with dark moods and a frustrated temper.  She always had an eighties perm and a frown on her face.

Mum seemed to be in the kitchen for what seemed to be my entire childhood, making a mess and a fuss over the simplest of meals.  I remember the smell of the ironing and the huge pile of dad's shirts and our school uniforms.  She would set herself up in the corner of the kitchen, the iron hissing as she stared into the surrendered fabric.

When she was sitting in 'her' chair watching TV I knew I had to be quiet.  If I spoke to her she told me to sshhhhh!  I told my friends at school that my mum didn't like me. I could never understand their reaction when they said that of course she liked me.  'No, she really doesn't' I would reply, confused that they would say that when they hadn’t even met her.

My mum never attempted anything more daring than a tweed skirt and British Home Stores' blouse.  I resented her for not being as cool as the other mums.  I remember her picking me up from school once with an even tighter perm and I cried all the way home.

I don't remember much more of my childhood but that’s just because nothing happened.  We stayed indoors.  My mum being quiet and furious and me bossing my brother around; blackmailing him to do as I’d say otherwise I'd tell mum that he called 'The Shoe People' The Shit People.  I had a whole arsenal of blackmail stories – and the power was all mine.

My dad would come home wobbly and loud telling us stories about talking dogs.  My brother and I would giggle childishly and ask for more stories, relieved that he was home.  My mum scowled and told us off for encouraging him.

As I got older my mum grew smaller and plumper.  She changed.  She started to smile.  We sometimes mucked around together making cartoon voices and taking the piss out of my dads friends or people on the telly.  The older I got the more relaxed we were with each other.  I remember thinking that she liked me. 

When I left home I would phone her for no reason.  She was excited to hear about what I was getting up to.  I would tell her about drunken nights out and people I’d met - she would giggle like a teenager.  When I went to uni my mum proudly announced that I didn’t need a man in my life.  She decided that I probably wouldn’t have kids and instead I would be a ‘career girl’.  

We speak less now but that’s just life.  I don’t recognise the woman I grew up with.  She stopped me from getting to know her.  Eventually she told me the reason why.  I told her that I knew.  I had made a point of working it out for myself.

Saturday, 26 April 2014

Mood swings

I've always been a very up and down person because my moods tend to be as follows:

One minute I'm:  Eeeekk hooooraryy yayayayaya wooooooowooooooo hubba hubba

43 seconds later it's like:  Boooooooooooooo hmffff I hate myself, the world is shit, yuck, rubbish

Approx 4.25 hours after that:  ARRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH ROARRRRRR GROWWLLLLLLLLLLL GRRRRRRRRRRR

And then:  Hehehheheehehehehehe who wants to get drunk and stuff, yippeeeeee

Later: Naked on the bathroom floor: "whats going on?"

Sometimes I'll worry extensively about why I'm not as normal as the normal people but then other times I think its actually quite nice to be a little bit weird.  And I am a little bit weird.  Although I can very effieciently and effectively cover it up if I need to - like say, on a job interview or in front of friend's relatives, but get to know me really well and all this random stuff pours out of me like a broken lava lamp on a particularly sticky day.  So I've got a crazy head and I try to keep it all to myself.  Sometimes its fun to share it someone else but sometimes its the wrong kind of stuff to share and that's when I bottle it up.  And when alcohol goes in then I'm no longer in control of what comes out or in front of whom.  That's why I'm best keeping drinking to a minimum.  But its still fun to do on occasion so I haven't completely given it up.  Just warning you.

Thursday, 13 February 2014

Hangovers and self loathing

It's Monday morning and I can't believe how horrific I feel after accidentally getting drunk on Saturday.  My boyfriend and I popped out very briefly to do a spot of shopping only to be ambushed by a violent blast of hail stones. We popped into the nearest Slug and Lettuce for cover....where they happened to be promoting 2-4-1 cocktails.  I even tweeted how shopping had turned into cocktails all jokingly and happy.  Over the years I've ticked various different alcohols off my list as ones to never drink again... Anyway Prosecco is still very much on my list as a go-to.  Kir Royale after Kir Royale and many more Kir Royales later... I'm completely obliterated and have stupidly forgotten to eat anything.  

I progressively become more wonky and more shouty.  I get more badly behaved, which can be either really unpleasant or really entertaining, and no doubt anyone who sees drunk Kat will assume that I actually enjoy acting like such a div in public.  I suffer hugely in many ways when I drink.

The hangovers that I never used to experience have made themselves present with a vengeance, making up for those early years of self abuse, doubling and tripling the pain.  For a good couple of days after the binge I become an angry, tearful, self-loathing, involuntarily bulimic, brain tumour pain, bipolar sufferer who can't have the lights switched on or get out of bed, except to violently throw up.  

I also have to face the fear.  

Misery and memories I'd rather forget, a spiral of guilt, regret and embarrassment whirs around inside me. My vision is blurry and I'm sweaty and unhappy.  The flat is a mess and I've not only wasted my weekend but the first part of the week too.  The gloomy depressed me, who is never that far away at any given time, has been fed ammunition and is unleashed yet again.  I make a dramatic phone call to my boyfriend telling him that I am ready to die so I can't feel the pain or humiliation any more.  He turns up with a rescue package of food, fruit smoothie, pain killers, love and foot squeezing and helps to talk me down from my tower of hate and self-loathing.

I've tried very hard to become a member of the adult society where I am in control of myself, my actions and what I chose to consume but occasionally I get caught out and the hell-raiser inside of me raises her boisterous head once and again, pulling the rug from under my feet before I even realise what's happening.

I have gone from a full time drinker to a part time drinker to hardly drinks at all. Sometimes it is a bit fun to get drunk, however its the tipsy bit before that I find buzzy and exciting.  But I can rarely end there.

Why is it so easy and delicious to get drunk?


Wednesday, 12 February 2014

Valentines Day



Why I love my boyfriend:


  • He saves me from spiders and other monsters
  • He puts up with my shit
  • He's all nice and handsome
  • He's tall which is good for getting up-high stuff
  • His hair is the same colour as a Golden Retriever puppy
  • We make up our own jokes, even though they make no sense to anyone else
  • He drags me around the flat on the bath mat when I'm drunk and incapable of walking or supporting myself
  • He gives me the best advice, better than anyone else I've ever met on the planet
  • He gave all his Kinder egg cars to Matilda (apart from the Porshe because he really likes that one)
  • He looks after me when I'm sick
  • He protects me when I'm being attacked by sadness
  • He squeezes my feet
  • He has super-hero survivor instincts
  • He instinctively knows how to do all DIY
  • He cares about the squirrels
  • He still likes me even when I hate myself
  • He loves me all the time - and I've never met anybody who loved me unconditionally before




Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Project sausage dog puppy


My niece gave me a drinks coaster with an animated sausage dog on it for Christmas.  For my birthday a few months before she gave me a mug with the the words 'Giddy Aunt'... this tells me a few things.  She knows I like sausage dogs, she realises that I'm giddy, she knows I like drinking - hence the mug and the coaster and I'm talking coffee and other drinking. 

Now I don't think that she bought them herself because she has just turned two and of course two year olds don't have their own money, they are also pretty small to reach the shop counter and pay for the items anyway.  Plus I have a sneaky suspicion the writing on the gifts was my brother's hand writing. Although I do like to think that she is pretty clued up for a two year old. 

This wouldn't be the first time I've been bought a gift featuring a dachshund...and now FINALLY I am getting closer to getting my first real miniature sausage dog.  Next month I move into a new, pet friendly flat and this is when project puppy really begins.  It's about flippin' time.  I've grown up with dogs as the household pet and have always wanted my own.  Weiner dogs being my favourite, ever since Victor Meldrew accidentally picked one up and 'answered' it instead of picking up his portable house phone, shown here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0tiNwOpZ68

I'm exciting about the little adventure we will have together.  So this news has really made my year - that and the fact my mum sent me an email the other day with an 'OMG' in it.  Bless her!

Friday, 31 January 2014

Procrastination

Boy is it easy to waste time or what.  I've spent the morning flitting from one tab on my laptop to another interjecting now and again with little bouts of walking around the flat.  Pointless, get-up-and-walk-around-for-no-reason, before I sit down and get on with wasting more time.  Funny how I get those little spurts of energy to get up and do no good thing, instead of sitting and getting on with my work. Needless to say I haven't done any work yet!

I spend so much time wasting time that when everyone else is on their way home I begin to get some actual what-I-get-paid-to-do work done!  I'm finding myself increasingly easily distracted either with the squirrels that have been trained to come to the back window for feeding or by reading a whole bunch of news articles and other blogs because I'm telling myself this helps with my 'creativity'.  I guess watching Real Housewives of Orange County must be helping my creativity as well...ahem *cough *cough.  I also find myself going over to check what's in the fridge, even though I definitely know what's over there in that there fridge because I had a look fifteen minutes ago.  Suddenly I feel the need to start cleaning the grout in the bathroom tiles and taking the recycling out to the bins.  Hmm and I bet if my actual job was to clean the grout in the bathroom tiles or take out the flippin' recycling, guess what I'd be doing instead?  Yes, getting on with the websitey stuff I'm supposed to be doing in the first place.

At least the weekend is within licking distance :)