Okay, this has been bugging me for a while. This is a question I've seen/heard in a lot of interviews (can also be "When did you decide you wanted to be a singer/actor/athlete" as applicable by profession) and it always irritates me.
Can I alter the question slightly so people can understand how I hear it?
"When did you decide you were hungry?"
"When did you decide to breathe oxygen?"
"When did you decide to wake up this morning?"
So, when do you decide to do something so intrinsic to your basic make up? Once you mastered the skill of it and decided this was what was missing previously in your life? Like, I've always been good with math, but I wasn't born knowing 6+7 would always equal 13. I learnt the basics, and remembered them for next time. But there wasn't a set time limit, I didn't wake up one day just knowing quadratic equations and that day, that exact day, was the day I knew and understood maths.
Likewise, I can't remember when I loved writing first. I know my year 4 teacher had some crazy good ideas for creative stories and that's what led me to understand creativity comes from within. I had a large book collection of my own, and frequently went to the library, so words made sense to me so much. I even remember in high school my teachers were so into the basics of English that there wasn't any room for creativity (we did a few creative writing projects. Did they never notice my marks crept up from 6/7 out of ten to 9/10 when we got those few projects?) and I stopped writing things down for a few years. Note, I did not stop creating, I just wrote in my head, I would storyboard in my head constantly. They were daydreams, but they were better than nothing. And then my friend Sammie introduced me to fanfics and I had like, a major release from my years of not writing. I was catching up.
If you're a writer, or a singer, or an actor, or a footballer, that's who you are, whatever level of success you have (and what is success defined as? Fame? Wealth? Ability? A combination? A sense of realism or sticking to the rules? Personal goals being met, whatever, surely?) and it's not something you can decide upon. It's just a question of finding the thing that gets the fire burning in your gut, the thing that is your compulsion in life, and not ignoring that outlet in spite of what life throws at you.
I did not choose to be a writer. I am a writer. Like I am a brunette. Like my eyes are both green and blue. Like the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening.
I am a writer. Fact.
Tuesday 23 April 2013
Sunday 21 April 2013
huh. interesting.
So I'm on my lunch break at work and checking this because my amazing friend sent me a message and I wanted to read and reply.
If you don't have blogger, there's a page where you can see who visits your blog and be all nosey about your readers. That's how I know I am viewed a LOT by a spambot. Anyway this new one came up and I am nosey so I had a look and it's a psychology blog. About depression. With a check box system to see if you are depressed or manic. I scored pretty high on depression with all the crap going on right now with work.
But you know what? I've been depressed before and it seemed much bleaker back then. I just find it weird that I scored high on it when I feel pretty okay. Maybe it's because I know why I feel like I do or maybe the thought of my son is enough to keep me from being completely screwed. Outside of work I'm not too bad but since I'm here so damn much I guess it's hard to tell.
I wanna go to bed now. Still have at least four hours though. Yay.
If you don't have blogger, there's a page where you can see who visits your blog and be all nosey about your readers. That's how I know I am viewed a LOT by a spambot. Anyway this new one came up and I am nosey so I had a look and it's a psychology blog. About depression. With a check box system to see if you are depressed or manic. I scored pretty high on depression with all the crap going on right now with work.
But you know what? I've been depressed before and it seemed much bleaker back then. I just find it weird that I scored high on it when I feel pretty okay. Maybe it's because I know why I feel like I do or maybe the thought of my son is enough to keep me from being completely screwed. Outside of work I'm not too bad but since I'm here so damn much I guess it's hard to tell.
I wanna go to bed now. Still have at least four hours though. Yay.
Saturday 20 April 2013
A solution?
I'm going to talk to my boss in the next week about reducing my work days to 4 instead of 5.
It's not much, but those 24 hours would make a huge difference for me.
The only crappy part is that I have another three night shifts, a night off (which I've agreed to do a quiz thing on) two more night shifts and an evening shift before I'd be able to talk about it properly.
Speaking of which, I'm officially halfway through my overnight marathon! And I've gone home pretty early every single day so far (especially at the other store, I didn't leave 40 minutes before my finish time ;) ) which is a huge help. I probably won't be blogging for another week as I'll be completely out of it and rambling utter crap until then, but I'll miss you, readers and spambots. If you end up missing me too, a nice little message goes a long way with my ego ;)
Until then, night night!
P.S. I won't just be working and sleeping. My awesome friend Lydia is writing a distopian novel, so I'll be reading and thinking and having it warp more dreams of mine where my characters are in her Island world before giving her some feedback. Again, that probably won't be for a week. Sorry.
It's not much, but those 24 hours would make a huge difference for me.
The only crappy part is that I have another three night shifts, a night off (which I've agreed to do a quiz thing on) two more night shifts and an evening shift before I'd be able to talk about it properly.
Speaking of which, I'm officially halfway through my overnight marathon! And I've gone home pretty early every single day so far (especially at the other store, I didn't leave 40 minutes before my finish time ;) ) which is a huge help. I probably won't be blogging for another week as I'll be completely out of it and rambling utter crap until then, but I'll miss you, readers and spambots. If you end up missing me too, a nice little message goes a long way with my ego ;)
Until then, night night!
P.S. I won't just be working and sleeping. My awesome friend Lydia is writing a distopian novel, so I'll be reading and thinking and having it warp more dreams of mine where my characters are in her Island world before giving her some feedback. Again, that probably won't be for a week. Sorry.
Friday 19 April 2013
Becki
So, this will be a short, and probably nonsensical post, but I want to do it anyway.
If you read my other blog, that is serialising my story until I can afford the time to get my act together and self-publish/mail it out to book agents ( which you can find here) then this will make a little more sense to you.
See, I'm actually about halfway through writing the second book in the series, and two of my friends have read almost about as far as I've written, and I find it really funny that they've both said the same thing about one of my characters, Becki (hence the title).
Becki is kind of the characterisation of every awesome girl I've ever known; the girls at my high school who would never bitch about a person and spent their times helping others, the friends who have always given amazing advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. Those girls you meet who get on with everyone and when you first meet them you wonder how they manage it but they're just so nice that they kind of make you think you're a horrible person because you show your negative feelings way more. They make you want to be better, you know the type?
Anyway, they have both said the same thing about Becki's love life and it makes me feel a little bad, because yes this has crossed my mind, but not in the way they have both suggested (if you have been reading it, and you're not Sammie or Lydia ... Becki and Carter, they've both tried to set them up now) and I think I'm going to upset them when the time comes where that may be a possibility. So sorry. I'm sorry you won't like where I take it. And since Lydia was asking about when ... it's the 4th/5th story in my head when that happens. So a looooooong time from now.
And if you're reading this blog and not caring much for my actual writing, sorry. But I'm sure you'll get over it.
If you read my other blog, that is serialising my story until I can afford the time to get my act together and self-publish/mail it out to book agents ( which you can find here) then this will make a little more sense to you.
See, I'm actually about halfway through writing the second book in the series, and two of my friends have read almost about as far as I've written, and I find it really funny that they've both said the same thing about one of my characters, Becki (hence the title).
Becki is kind of the characterisation of every awesome girl I've ever known; the girls at my high school who would never bitch about a person and spent their times helping others, the friends who have always given amazing advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. Those girls you meet who get on with everyone and when you first meet them you wonder how they manage it but they're just so nice that they kind of make you think you're a horrible person because you show your negative feelings way more. They make you want to be better, you know the type?
Anyway, they have both said the same thing about Becki's love life and it makes me feel a little bad, because yes this has crossed my mind, but not in the way they have both suggested (if you have been reading it, and you're not Sammie or Lydia ... Becki and Carter, they've both tried to set them up now) and I think I'm going to upset them when the time comes where that may be a possibility. So sorry. I'm sorry you won't like where I take it. And since Lydia was asking about when ... it's the 4th/5th story in my head when that happens. So a looooooong time from now.
And if you're reading this blog and not caring much for my actual writing, sorry. But I'm sure you'll get over it.
Wednesday 17 April 2013
Grammaratzi
So ... I've said all that stuff about how mental I actually am these days. And I've said about how dumb people can be about my name.
And tying those two together, you get a neurotic mess who hates misspellings and poor grammar but still couldn't tell you the definition of a preposition or whether she ends sentences with one. Yay for hypocrisy!
Seriously, I hate bad spellings and poor grammar. I don't mean typos, we all do that, and I read through some of these and think 'really Siobhan, don't think ahead of what you're typing' though that's totally what I'm doing even now. I end up in a word mess, or replace words with those that don't make sense. I can forgive a typo.
I cannot forgive your/you're or their/there/they're replacements. I can't forgive should of/could of. I can't forgive infinately. You know what I do on words I'm not sure of? I open my word processor, and type the word I'm thinking of, and let that do the work. I just have to be careful if it's on my story file that I delete the word, or it ends up like.
" ... I said quietly.necessary"
Because I can never remember if it's two c's or two s's. I also do this a lot when my friend Jodie hints on the times we get to meet up about having a cheeky margarita because I cannot spell that. But see, windows is into Mexican food and accompanying alcohols so it totally helps me out. Thanks windows, you tequila-holic, you!
See? I'm admitting I can't spell every word out there, but do I just think 'fuck it, I'll write how I texted when I was 13 and couldn't afford credit so put an essay in 120 letters' or do I go to a reliable source that's right there on my computer? God, most people have smart phones, they have predictive texting (like, my windows phone is cool with predictive writing, it makes a tonne of suggestions based on the words that came before but if you're going for a different word it's cool beans about it, unlike apple who when I had an iPhone, stealth-changed a word just before sending a text, demanding I send a new text to sort out my phone's issues. It also thought 'me' wasn't a word and changed it to 'mr'. Really.)
There is just no excuse for it.
And tying those two together, you get a neurotic mess who hates misspellings and poor grammar but still couldn't tell you the definition of a preposition or whether she ends sentences with one. Yay for hypocrisy!
Seriously, I hate bad spellings and poor grammar. I don't mean typos, we all do that, and I read through some of these and think 'really Siobhan, don't think ahead of what you're typing' though that's totally what I'm doing even now. I end up in a word mess, or replace words with those that don't make sense. I can forgive a typo.
I cannot forgive your/you're or their/there/they're replacements. I can't forgive should of/could of. I can't forgive infinately. You know what I do on words I'm not sure of? I open my word processor, and type the word I'm thinking of, and let that do the work. I just have to be careful if it's on my story file that I delete the word, or it ends up like.
" ... I said quietly.necessary"
Because I can never remember if it's two c's or two s's. I also do this a lot when my friend Jodie hints on the times we get to meet up about having a cheeky margarita because I cannot spell that. But see, windows is into Mexican food and accompanying alcohols so it totally helps me out. Thanks windows, you tequila-holic, you!
See? I'm admitting I can't spell every word out there, but do I just think 'fuck it, I'll write how I texted when I was 13 and couldn't afford credit so put an essay in 120 letters' or do I go to a reliable source that's right there on my computer? God, most people have smart phones, they have predictive texting (like, my windows phone is cool with predictive writing, it makes a tonne of suggestions based on the words that came before but if you're going for a different word it's cool beans about it, unlike apple who when I had an iPhone, stealth-changed a word just before sending a text, demanding I send a new text to sort out my phone's issues. It also thought 'me' wasn't a word and changed it to 'mr'. Really.)
There is just no excuse for it.
After-effects
So I mentioned a few posts ago about my having TTP. It was sleep-deprived ramble, but the basics were there. For future reference, the following are all side-effects I still live with as a result of my blood trying to destroy itself. I will probably add to this list, because catch 22, I can't remember shit easily:
1. In order to function as a person, I need to write lists. When I first got discharged, these lists included 'get dressed' 'brush hair' 'change boy's nappy' 'get boy dressed' 'eat breakfast'. I kid you not, I couldn't get through the basics of a day without my lists. My lists these days aren't so bad, but I still have them, and a memo board on my wardrobe door with reminders. I remember things better when I write them down. This is how I cheat people into thinking I'm semi-decent at my job, I'm meant to start with a checklist, and a cleaning list, and a stock list, and a list of things I need to check off before leaving, and basically, my first hour at work is lists. If I'm without even one of these lists, shit doesn't get done. People might say I was ditsy or whatever, but no. I need written confirmation that I need to clean out the hot chocolate machine otherwise that shit is gunged up and gross another day. I actually cannot think without lists.
2. I can't hear you if I'm writing. I can't do both any more. I can concentrate on my writing, or sort-of concentrate on you. Fun experiment if you know me, have a conversation with me. I could maybe participate and give you some opinion or insight, if I'm not doing other stuff. Wait an hour, and ask me my recollection of that conversation. Did I refer to it as last month or some time ago? Was I vague in the details? Was I tired? I'm wondering if something happened with how my brain communicates with my ears because I can take a little while to understand stuff.
I'm interrupting the list a second. My mother just reminded me to get a nap before work. Regardless of this list, STFU. I've been doing nights for months and I know how I function best. It's lunchtime. Go do one.
3. (Back on it) I don't like reminders, despite the above. I need to be able to think for myself. I need to get more independent in any way I can. My mother got told stuff by my doctor and she goes overboard way too much (basically, they said I shouldn't ever be alone. Which, for the kid of hers who valued alone time so much she spent entire days in a local park buried in the trees and daydreaming, is way too fucking unfair. Hence her breathing down my neck with stupid fucking reminders I don't need because ATM I'm still so tired my head hurts) ... neatly bringing us to another point actually ...
4. Sleep is a real thing for me. Like, when I first got discharged, I would have 12-14 hours at night, wake up and be a pitiful excuse for a human being, go for a 4 hour nap, wake up, eat dinner, put my kid to bed, go to bed myself. Even now, I need a good ten hours. When I first went back to work, I requested only day shifts (my doctor was like 'you're the first person I've met with this thing, we'll play it how you want. Even my doctors at the hospital were like 'you're the only real judge of this thing') and my boss said no. He said my doctor hadn't put any medical caveats in, so it was full time or nothing. My biggest regret is giving in, but I was so unwell even then that I couldn't get the words or the confidence to argue, and if my sense was still with me I would have left that job and sued the fuck out of him. Anyway, that's gotten worse and now I'm facing 6 nights in a row at work, starting at 10.30 at night. They are actually fucking killing me right now. I feel like I'm going through a lot of the same stuff I went through just before my diagnosis because of all the nights I do, and I don't know if I genuinely am or if this work is causing a set-back that's not as bad. They are masking the symptoms of an illness that can kill without any treatment. When I said I hate my job? This can be attributed. I do not want to die while my son is so young, while I'm still so young, while my writing is still unfinished. I do not want to be trapped like this.
I get headaches on lack of sleep. Lack of sleep being less than 9 hours a night. But you know what? Sometimes, it just doesn't matter how much or how little sleep I get. Because when I wake up I hurt, like I ache everywhere and it's like I've been running for months. I'm not that tired when I go to sleep, but waking up is a real bitch. Way back when, some days I couldn't get out of bed. Not in the sense of 'my bed is so warm, I don't want to leave' but in the sense of 'can I move my legs today? They feel so heavy and worn out. I ache in my bones'. I'm not yet thirty, how is this even okay? When I first went back to work, it had lessened out, but still, there was maybe one bad day to three good. Now, I wouldn't be able to tell you, I don't have a good sense of one day compared to the next.
5. I can't concentrate on more than one sound. Back to the hearing thing. If two people talk to me at once, it feels like everything stops and goes blank. In a job where sounds are important and five different machines beep at once as everyone hollers back and forth, this isn't good. I've learned tricks in the last 4 years of being back there to cope with it (I had seven months on sick leave) like the person closest to me will get my immediate attention, but even then, I have to pause a lot while I think things through. How people can't tell that there are problems in my head is beyond me sometimes with this job.
6. I have delayed reactions. It took me about three years to take my driving test, because I was rubbish at reacting to problems on the road. My instructor knew something of my blood problems (not as much as I'm putting on here, but enough to know how close I came) and he worked with me to improve them enough to pass. Technically, I wonder if I should even now be allowed to drive, since you're meant to declare before applying that you've had a stroke, but since I only had the initial signs of a stroke that was kept back with the miracle of science, I never had to declare it. Anyway, before I got ill, I could see things happening before they did (good logical thinking, I'm not a psychic) and try to prevent them with good foreplanning. And after? I could watch a cup of coke drop to the floor and spread out, and just say 'I knew that was going to drop' but I would still be standing there looking at the cup while someone else picked it up and cleaned it, and all I could do was repeat 'I knew that was going to drop' while not doing a damn thing to stop it. I can't make my body respond to brain signals like I used to, and I can't always get my brain to understand what it's seeing or hearing straight away. I used to do this trick, I've stopped it so much now, but someone would speak to me, and I would repeat them (parrot trick) and while repeating them, I was giving my brain enough time to hear, then understand what they were saying. They might have repeated it again, thinking I was a moron, thus buying me extra time (and I might have repeated again while the words fell in place in my head). I couldn't answer a straight question. I still can't, but instead now you just get a sleepy pause.
7. I get irrationally angry about the tiniest things. I can't explain this one, except I know I was more mellow before. I have a theory, like in The Eye (the Japanese one, since that's the one I watched) where some of my blood donors attributes may have come into who I am now, since for some reason I can tolerate both popcorn and pepperoni which I couldn't before, and I like steak pretty rare (and like I said in a previous post, I was once borderline vegan).
8. I don't have my memories any more. Not really. You know when you have a vivid dream and you tell people about it, but then your memory of the dream is recounting it for others? That's what 23 years of my life looks like. I don't remember being a child, a teenager, university, my son before he was 1. TTP took all that from me. Even now, my friends will be like 'remember the time ...' and my answer is no, not to be a bitch, but because I can't access that any more. Do you know what I can still access? Facts. The typical human adult has enough blood cells to wrap around the world three and a half times (though obviously, not mine). Humans are one of the few species with an aposable thumb. It is should Have, not should Of. Zac Efron is the sexiest male on this planet. The Simpsons were originally a short on some TV show not in the UK. Cat was Zoe's mother, not her sister. My son's first steps? I think he took those when I blinked, he was in stealth mode. That's what mum says. Someone I went to school with reminded me recently of making her dance to steps in front of the entire school. Sounds like something I would do, and I remember what the school looked like, so maybe?
I know there's more, but I can't really concentrate since my mother's helpful advice, sorry. Maybe this should be number nine, concentration is fucked once someone talks to me.
1. In order to function as a person, I need to write lists. When I first got discharged, these lists included 'get dressed' 'brush hair' 'change boy's nappy' 'get boy dressed' 'eat breakfast'. I kid you not, I couldn't get through the basics of a day without my lists. My lists these days aren't so bad, but I still have them, and a memo board on my wardrobe door with reminders. I remember things better when I write them down. This is how I cheat people into thinking I'm semi-decent at my job, I'm meant to start with a checklist, and a cleaning list, and a stock list, and a list of things I need to check off before leaving, and basically, my first hour at work is lists. If I'm without even one of these lists, shit doesn't get done. People might say I was ditsy or whatever, but no. I need written confirmation that I need to clean out the hot chocolate machine otherwise that shit is gunged up and gross another day. I actually cannot think without lists.
2. I can't hear you if I'm writing. I can't do both any more. I can concentrate on my writing, or sort-of concentrate on you. Fun experiment if you know me, have a conversation with me. I could maybe participate and give you some opinion or insight, if I'm not doing other stuff. Wait an hour, and ask me my recollection of that conversation. Did I refer to it as last month or some time ago? Was I vague in the details? Was I tired? I'm wondering if something happened with how my brain communicates with my ears because I can take a little while to understand stuff.
I'm interrupting the list a second. My mother just reminded me to get a nap before work. Regardless of this list, STFU. I've been doing nights for months and I know how I function best. It's lunchtime. Go do one.
3. (Back on it) I don't like reminders, despite the above. I need to be able to think for myself. I need to get more independent in any way I can. My mother got told stuff by my doctor and she goes overboard way too much (basically, they said I shouldn't ever be alone. Which, for the kid of hers who valued alone time so much she spent entire days in a local park buried in the trees and daydreaming, is way too fucking unfair. Hence her breathing down my neck with stupid fucking reminders I don't need because ATM I'm still so tired my head hurts) ... neatly bringing us to another point actually ...
4. Sleep is a real thing for me. Like, when I first got discharged, I would have 12-14 hours at night, wake up and be a pitiful excuse for a human being, go for a 4 hour nap, wake up, eat dinner, put my kid to bed, go to bed myself. Even now, I need a good ten hours. When I first went back to work, I requested only day shifts (my doctor was like 'you're the first person I've met with this thing, we'll play it how you want. Even my doctors at the hospital were like 'you're the only real judge of this thing') and my boss said no. He said my doctor hadn't put any medical caveats in, so it was full time or nothing. My biggest regret is giving in, but I was so unwell even then that I couldn't get the words or the confidence to argue, and if my sense was still with me I would have left that job and sued the fuck out of him. Anyway, that's gotten worse and now I'm facing 6 nights in a row at work, starting at 10.30 at night. They are actually fucking killing me right now. I feel like I'm going through a lot of the same stuff I went through just before my diagnosis because of all the nights I do, and I don't know if I genuinely am or if this work is causing a set-back that's not as bad. They are masking the symptoms of an illness that can kill without any treatment. When I said I hate my job? This can be attributed. I do not want to die while my son is so young, while I'm still so young, while my writing is still unfinished. I do not want to be trapped like this.
I get headaches on lack of sleep. Lack of sleep being less than 9 hours a night. But you know what? Sometimes, it just doesn't matter how much or how little sleep I get. Because when I wake up I hurt, like I ache everywhere and it's like I've been running for months. I'm not that tired when I go to sleep, but waking up is a real bitch. Way back when, some days I couldn't get out of bed. Not in the sense of 'my bed is so warm, I don't want to leave' but in the sense of 'can I move my legs today? They feel so heavy and worn out. I ache in my bones'. I'm not yet thirty, how is this even okay? When I first went back to work, it had lessened out, but still, there was maybe one bad day to three good. Now, I wouldn't be able to tell you, I don't have a good sense of one day compared to the next.
5. I can't concentrate on more than one sound. Back to the hearing thing. If two people talk to me at once, it feels like everything stops and goes blank. In a job where sounds are important and five different machines beep at once as everyone hollers back and forth, this isn't good. I've learned tricks in the last 4 years of being back there to cope with it (I had seven months on sick leave) like the person closest to me will get my immediate attention, but even then, I have to pause a lot while I think things through. How people can't tell that there are problems in my head is beyond me sometimes with this job.
6. I have delayed reactions. It took me about three years to take my driving test, because I was rubbish at reacting to problems on the road. My instructor knew something of my blood problems (not as much as I'm putting on here, but enough to know how close I came) and he worked with me to improve them enough to pass. Technically, I wonder if I should even now be allowed to drive, since you're meant to declare before applying that you've had a stroke, but since I only had the initial signs of a stroke that was kept back with the miracle of science, I never had to declare it. Anyway, before I got ill, I could see things happening before they did (good logical thinking, I'm not a psychic) and try to prevent them with good foreplanning. And after? I could watch a cup of coke drop to the floor and spread out, and just say 'I knew that was going to drop' but I would still be standing there looking at the cup while someone else picked it up and cleaned it, and all I could do was repeat 'I knew that was going to drop' while not doing a damn thing to stop it. I can't make my body respond to brain signals like I used to, and I can't always get my brain to understand what it's seeing or hearing straight away. I used to do this trick, I've stopped it so much now, but someone would speak to me, and I would repeat them (parrot trick) and while repeating them, I was giving my brain enough time to hear, then understand what they were saying. They might have repeated it again, thinking I was a moron, thus buying me extra time (and I might have repeated again while the words fell in place in my head). I couldn't answer a straight question. I still can't, but instead now you just get a sleepy pause.
7. I get irrationally angry about the tiniest things. I can't explain this one, except I know I was more mellow before. I have a theory, like in The Eye (the Japanese one, since that's the one I watched) where some of my blood donors attributes may have come into who I am now, since for some reason I can tolerate both popcorn and pepperoni which I couldn't before, and I like steak pretty rare (and like I said in a previous post, I was once borderline vegan).
8. I don't have my memories any more. Not really. You know when you have a vivid dream and you tell people about it, but then your memory of the dream is recounting it for others? That's what 23 years of my life looks like. I don't remember being a child, a teenager, university, my son before he was 1. TTP took all that from me. Even now, my friends will be like 'remember the time ...' and my answer is no, not to be a bitch, but because I can't access that any more. Do you know what I can still access? Facts. The typical human adult has enough blood cells to wrap around the world three and a half times (though obviously, not mine). Humans are one of the few species with an aposable thumb. It is should Have, not should Of. Zac Efron is the sexiest male on this planet. The Simpsons were originally a short on some TV show not in the UK. Cat was Zoe's mother, not her sister. My son's first steps? I think he took those when I blinked, he was in stealth mode. That's what mum says. Someone I went to school with reminded me recently of making her dance to steps in front of the entire school. Sounds like something I would do, and I remember what the school looked like, so maybe?
I know there's more, but I can't really concentrate since my mother's helpful advice, sorry. Maybe this should be number nine, concentration is fucked once someone talks to me.
Baroness Thatcher
So my parents (yeah, I still live at home) have been watching Baroness Thatcher's funeral. Mainly, we've been worrying about the strain on the pallbearer third on the right because he looked like he was about to cry/drop the coffin going up the steps of St Pauls.
I haven't really said much about her going, except to ask my brother not to repeat the crass jokes he's heard in front of me. I think it's really disrespectful and if he doesn't want people to make fat/lazy/smelly/arsehole jokes about him at his untimely demise, he'd do well to stop that shit.
Anyway, I never really got the whole 'lets hate Thatcher' bit (cue my friend Sammie commenting because she's my favourite Midlander and therefore the only person I know in any way affected by Thatcher's policies) even though when I was born, she had a good 5 years left in office, so my earliest 'memories' are of Thatcher Britian. I think she came into an undesirable role at a difficult time and made the best decisions she could for the majority of her constituents. She was never going to please everyone. Fuck, she was barely ever going to please anyone. But she never answered to yes-men, or tried to be everyone's friend, and yeah sometimes she had to be strict but my favourite teachers were always strict but understanding.
She had a lot of admirable qualities you know. Screw the politics, or her opinions, I'm not discussing those, but she was firm as I said, both in what she said and how she saw the world, and in standing by her decisions. She went head-to-head with people who thought they knew better and never backed down and you know what? A lot of that time she was right. She could think her way logically through a problem and take in as many aspects as could be foreseen and made educated decisions. In her private life, she was very much in love with one man, though her way of showing that was discreet and private and didn't come into her work.
I think she was pretty kick-ass, as a person. More people need those qualities. Did you see the Iron Lady with Meryl Streep? That is what a role model looks like. Not Jordan, or EL James, or Justin Beiber. Baroness Thatcher would kick all their asses.
And for the record, I tend to vote Lib Dem.
I haven't really said much about her going, except to ask my brother not to repeat the crass jokes he's heard in front of me. I think it's really disrespectful and if he doesn't want people to make fat/lazy/smelly/arsehole jokes about him at his untimely demise, he'd do well to stop that shit.
Anyway, I never really got the whole 'lets hate Thatcher' bit (cue my friend Sammie commenting because she's my favourite Midlander and therefore the only person I know in any way affected by Thatcher's policies) even though when I was born, she had a good 5 years left in office, so my earliest 'memories' are of Thatcher Britian. I think she came into an undesirable role at a difficult time and made the best decisions she could for the majority of her constituents. She was never going to please everyone. Fuck, she was barely ever going to please anyone. But she never answered to yes-men, or tried to be everyone's friend, and yeah sometimes she had to be strict but my favourite teachers were always strict but understanding.
She had a lot of admirable qualities you know. Screw the politics, or her opinions, I'm not discussing those, but she was firm as I said, both in what she said and how she saw the world, and in standing by her decisions. She went head-to-head with people who thought they knew better and never backed down and you know what? A lot of that time she was right. She could think her way logically through a problem and take in as many aspects as could be foreseen and made educated decisions. In her private life, she was very much in love with one man, though her way of showing that was discreet and private and didn't come into her work.
I think she was pretty kick-ass, as a person. More people need those qualities. Did you see the Iron Lady with Meryl Streep? That is what a role model looks like. Not Jordan, or EL James, or Justin Beiber. Baroness Thatcher would kick all their asses.
And for the record, I tend to vote Lib Dem.
Tuesday 16 April 2013
Ranting.
I lied in an earlier post.
I'm not a compulsive liar or anything, but sometimes I feel I have to tell the lie.
The truth is, I hate my job.
Not like the bog-standard 'oh my job sucks' bit, I mean I actually, actually hate it. Right now, two fingers on my writing hand have deep gouges in them, I caught them on a bit of metal. I've got cuts up my arms from other cleaning projects. I've just about healed from a burn I had the other day.
I feel like I work with children. There's maybe one person in that entire place right now who has a decent work ethic. I don't mean me, I mean a guy who transferred a few months ago (who has an awesome accent. He's Welsh, I love it when he shouts 'can we get a total?' and I make him repeat himself, a lot. I love the Welsh.) but one person in about 100? That is not enough of a support system for the stresses of this job.
I mean, it's always kind of sucked. It was meant to be a means to an end 8 years ago, so why the fuck am I still there? It used to be worse in a way because there was one person who when they were in, made the atmosphere so horrible. She's moved stores now (and I'll be in her store for two nights in a row this week. Kill me) and a lot of things have improved, but the attitudes of the people I work with is not up there.
I don't think I'm explaining myself very well, probably because once again I'm at the tail end of a long ass shift (though thankfully, not as long as yesterday) and as I explained yesterday, the after-effects of my TTP are worse when I'm tired. So no writing for me when I'm not (which is why I'm kind of on haitus from writing right now. Screw you work!).
I think that's the bit that bugs me the most. My heart isn't in burgers and fries, my heart belongs to telling my story about Lamb and Carter, it's in the ideas that I get daily and don't get to plan out because they occur as I'm rubbing bleach onto stainless steel. But there's no time to write, so I'm giving up a huge part of myself to work with people who honestly, are less well-rounded than my five-year-old. I do not leave him for 50+ hours a week, plus sleep time, to have to work with people lazier, slower and less fun than him. I feel like I've been forced to give up being mummy to help clog other people's arteries. I don't have a life around work, so it bugs me an unbelievable amount when I see people doing things I want to do or enjoying the sun, going places I want to - like when my family visit my nieces or nephew and I'm there or asleep - and I just, why am I even putting myself through this?
It's because the alternative is just as stressful, being on benefits and trying to balance my life and having to give up my laptop (which I'm still paying for), my phone, the boy's trust fund ... I don't like money at the best of times, but especially when it's trapping me in a place where I'm seriously unhappy. If money didn't exist, I would spend all day writing and then spend time with my boy while he's still young enough to appreciate it.
The shittiest thing about my job is that I know I have a banging CV, and I know I would be a great employee to have, but for some reason, it's hard for me to get anywhere with it. Like, I went for that interview and didn't get it (though the guy I spoke to sounded sad he had to say no, and my friend who works there says he's a pretty straight up guy so I choose to believe he wasn't acting on the phone) but that interview was the first one I've had in about 2 years. It's not the first job I've applied for, and it was nerve-wracking, because one of the side-effects of my illness is that I get really weird about confrontation (I don't know what it is beyond my self-confidence leaking out with all my waste blood maybe?) but I thought I did well despite almost freezing outside the building. I just don't get what more I can do to get out of this place? I know there's one person who reads this who has done just that, and I really wish I knew how you did it, how you escaped the overnights and smelling of stale chips and the constant blame-game the other managers play. I can't do this anymore.
I'm not a compulsive liar or anything, but sometimes I feel I have to tell the lie.
The truth is, I hate my job.
Not like the bog-standard 'oh my job sucks' bit, I mean I actually, actually hate it. Right now, two fingers on my writing hand have deep gouges in them, I caught them on a bit of metal. I've got cuts up my arms from other cleaning projects. I've just about healed from a burn I had the other day.
I feel like I work with children. There's maybe one person in that entire place right now who has a decent work ethic. I don't mean me, I mean a guy who transferred a few months ago (who has an awesome accent. He's Welsh, I love it when he shouts 'can we get a total?' and I make him repeat himself, a lot. I love the Welsh.) but one person in about 100? That is not enough of a support system for the stresses of this job.
I mean, it's always kind of sucked. It was meant to be a means to an end 8 years ago, so why the fuck am I still there? It used to be worse in a way because there was one person who when they were in, made the atmosphere so horrible. She's moved stores now (and I'll be in her store for two nights in a row this week. Kill me) and a lot of things have improved, but the attitudes of the people I work with is not up there.
I don't think I'm explaining myself very well, probably because once again I'm at the tail end of a long ass shift (though thankfully, not as long as yesterday) and as I explained yesterday, the after-effects of my TTP are worse when I'm tired. So no writing for me when I'm not (which is why I'm kind of on haitus from writing right now. Screw you work!).
I think that's the bit that bugs me the most. My heart isn't in burgers and fries, my heart belongs to telling my story about Lamb and Carter, it's in the ideas that I get daily and don't get to plan out because they occur as I'm rubbing bleach onto stainless steel. But there's no time to write, so I'm giving up a huge part of myself to work with people who honestly, are less well-rounded than my five-year-old. I do not leave him for 50+ hours a week, plus sleep time, to have to work with people lazier, slower and less fun than him. I feel like I've been forced to give up being mummy to help clog other people's arteries. I don't have a life around work, so it bugs me an unbelievable amount when I see people doing things I want to do or enjoying the sun, going places I want to - like when my family visit my nieces or nephew and I'm there or asleep - and I just, why am I even putting myself through this?
It's because the alternative is just as stressful, being on benefits and trying to balance my life and having to give up my laptop (which I'm still paying for), my phone, the boy's trust fund ... I don't like money at the best of times, but especially when it's trapping me in a place where I'm seriously unhappy. If money didn't exist, I would spend all day writing and then spend time with my boy while he's still young enough to appreciate it.
The shittiest thing about my job is that I know I have a banging CV, and I know I would be a great employee to have, but for some reason, it's hard for me to get anywhere with it. Like, I went for that interview and didn't get it (though the guy I spoke to sounded sad he had to say no, and my friend who works there says he's a pretty straight up guy so I choose to believe he wasn't acting on the phone) but that interview was the first one I've had in about 2 years. It's not the first job I've applied for, and it was nerve-wracking, because one of the side-effects of my illness is that I get really weird about confrontation (I don't know what it is beyond my self-confidence leaking out with all my waste blood maybe?) but I thought I did well despite almost freezing outside the building. I just don't get what more I can do to get out of this place? I know there's one person who reads this who has done just that, and I really wish I knew how you did it, how you escaped the overnights and smelling of stale chips and the constant blame-game the other managers play. I can't do this anymore.
Monday 15 April 2013
Always on my mind
Sorry for those who know me well who will find this post a little repetitive, but I want to spew a load about something I may have referred to previously, albeit in a jokey way.
And I may sound like I'm taking the piss, but it's that or feel like I am feeling right now so I will pick jest every time.
Five years ago this August, I almost died.
It sounds tactless that way, but that's the truth, five years ago, in the middle of the summer, I found myself strapped up to a load of machines and drips, fighting to stay alive.
I'd been feeling rough for a while, but I thought it was a pregnancy thing. I'd go out rarely, but when I did it took me a few days to recover. I barely drank at these things, because I didn't want the days after in bed.
It got really dangerous at one point, I worked 4 evenings a week and in between I either slept, or fought off sleep to keep an eye on my son, who was starting to crawl. I could barely stay awake to make sure he was safe. It took me about half hour to come round enough to change his nappy or give him his food. I wasn't really functioning.
And I was hella moody too. Like, a week before I got hospitalised, we went on holiday, where I spent the whole week trying to sleep and rowing with my parents because they thought I was just offloading my son on them (there was an awful moment where he hit his head on the coffee table and I couldn't move to see he was okay. Mum was fussing over him and alternating between that and 'what is wrong with you?' like I didn't give one about my kid. We know better know, but at the time ...) and I honestly couldn't see what kind of demon I was being.
And then one day, I started yakking my guts up. I'd passed out on the bathroom floor and the next two days were a vom-fest, until my parents thought maybe I had a stomach ulcer or kidney stones or something and took me to a&e. I spent maybe two minutes in the waiting room before I decided foetal position on the floor sounded much more comfortable than the seats and started sinking down, but mum thought I was fainting and grabbed my sides (read, she basically grabbed my pancreas and liver. The two problem sites) and I screamed just from her touching me ... then was suddenly having blood tests and being given morphine and getting asked a lot of questions about my drinking habits.
Because a 20-something girl who's size 10/12 in the UK just doesn't get Pancreatitis from gallstones, not often. A 20-something girl who's got Pancreatitis is a raging alcoholic normally. But once we established that I didn't drink that much, they booked me in to look for gallstones in the morning. I had an ultrasound and they said my gallbladder was like a tiny sack of gravel I had so many.
And after a couple of days of being in hospital, they started taking more and more blood tests. I've had everything you can, cultures, gases, straight up tests ... the head of haematology worked out that it wasn't meningitis or leukemia like the nurses thought, and came to explain what treatment I needed because my blood was bad, but not much about the problem. I found that out after they transferred me to London.
And look, I'm not saying I'm a complete scrubs nut, but when they tell you you have something that was on scrubs, the incorrect reaction is to tell them you saw it on there and 'the patient with it died'.
It's called Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura btw, or TTP for short. Your blood clots in your veins and you end up losing blood, but you never bleed. And you're more likely to die from a stroke or multiple organ failure than from completely losing blood. The only treatment is this machine called an apheresis machine, which leukemia patients use sometimes after radiotherapy.
It took me about two weeks to leave the hospital, and the only reason I did is because my son's first birthday was coming up. I wanted to get out for it. I got discharged the day after, so I'm always going to remember that my son's first birthday was in a hospital room, and about five minutes in the local park where mummy sat on a bench because getting to the park wiped her out.
They told me some fun stats in the months and years after my discharge, and I'd like to share them with you now:
-I came pretty close to having a stroke. I'd complained about a sharp headache, and they told me after that my speech was slurred. They upped my physio when they realised (I wondered why I suddenly had to push the nurses about in my observation slots) and asked me dumb questions like, all the time. "Who are you?" "Who am I?" "Where are we?" "Who's the Prime Minister?" "What's the capital of England?"
-There's a possible link between TTP and brain damage. They said it manifested mainly in memory problems, speech problems and reaction times. I can check all three boxes, even now. The nurse at the time was going to set up a test for patients and I put my name down to be tested because there's so little known about TTP that I want to know more and the best way to know how my illness affects me is to be part of the research into it.
-8 in a million people, or 1 in 125000 people suffer from TTP. In the UK, that puts the figure somewhere at 460 in our 60million population. Of those 460, 15 are born with TTP, and get it every few months. 2% get TTP from pancreatitis, either drinking or gallstones. 2% of 460? That's 9. I am one of 9 people in 60 million who has had this. I don't think it makes me special, but I do think it makes it hard to communicate to people just what it means, what I've been through, what I still go through. Essentially, it's an invisible illness, like diabetes or schizophrenia. And people don't always like what they don't see, or don't believe in what's not visible, so to most people I know? There's nothing wrong. The worst is when it's the end of a night shift, and someone asks me a question needing a detailed answer because that's when the effects are at their worst.
-With treatment, 1 in 5 people die from TTP. Without, you don't stand any chance. Equally, 1 in 5 people die from Pancreatitis. I've tried working out the mortality rate of having both, but then I get confused about which way I'm diluting it.
-There's a high percentage of TTP sufferers who have PTSD within 10 years of suffering the condition. This does not fill me with hope.
-TTP is typically an illness for 30-50 year olds. It also has a time limit on it, if you survive 10 years without a relapse, you're less likely to have a relapse. Since I was in my early twenties when this happened, it puts me in the main age frame at the end of my ten years. So I'm still trying to work out if I have another 5, or another 25 more years of worrying about a relapse.
Do you know what sucks the most for me? I worked my ass off the last five years, trying to beat this thing, trying to conquer all the problems it gave me. I've done a lot to try and show this illness who's boss. But it's only now that I'm realising no matter what, this is going to define me. If I'd walked away without any issues, I might have stood a chance. But now I have to get my head around the fact that maybe in the last five years I've done too much and I'm just risking making myself sick again. And I can't even explain this at work properly, because the only time I see my boss is at the end of my night shifts. There is no way to explain how much this is crushing me.
And I may sound like I'm taking the piss, but it's that or feel like I am feeling right now so I will pick jest every time.
Five years ago this August, I almost died.
It sounds tactless that way, but that's the truth, five years ago, in the middle of the summer, I found myself strapped up to a load of machines and drips, fighting to stay alive.
I'd been feeling rough for a while, but I thought it was a pregnancy thing. I'd go out rarely, but when I did it took me a few days to recover. I barely drank at these things, because I didn't want the days after in bed.
It got really dangerous at one point, I worked 4 evenings a week and in between I either slept, or fought off sleep to keep an eye on my son, who was starting to crawl. I could barely stay awake to make sure he was safe. It took me about half hour to come round enough to change his nappy or give him his food. I wasn't really functioning.
And I was hella moody too. Like, a week before I got hospitalised, we went on holiday, where I spent the whole week trying to sleep and rowing with my parents because they thought I was just offloading my son on them (there was an awful moment where he hit his head on the coffee table and I couldn't move to see he was okay. Mum was fussing over him and alternating between that and 'what is wrong with you?' like I didn't give one about my kid. We know better know, but at the time ...) and I honestly couldn't see what kind of demon I was being.
And then one day, I started yakking my guts up. I'd passed out on the bathroom floor and the next two days were a vom-fest, until my parents thought maybe I had a stomach ulcer or kidney stones or something and took me to a&e. I spent maybe two minutes in the waiting room before I decided foetal position on the floor sounded much more comfortable than the seats and started sinking down, but mum thought I was fainting and grabbed my sides (read, she basically grabbed my pancreas and liver. The two problem sites) and I screamed just from her touching me ... then was suddenly having blood tests and being given morphine and getting asked a lot of questions about my drinking habits.
Because a 20-something girl who's size 10/12 in the UK just doesn't get Pancreatitis from gallstones, not often. A 20-something girl who's got Pancreatitis is a raging alcoholic normally. But once we established that I didn't drink that much, they booked me in to look for gallstones in the morning. I had an ultrasound and they said my gallbladder was like a tiny sack of gravel I had so many.
And after a couple of days of being in hospital, they started taking more and more blood tests. I've had everything you can, cultures, gases, straight up tests ... the head of haematology worked out that it wasn't meningitis or leukemia like the nurses thought, and came to explain what treatment I needed because my blood was bad, but not much about the problem. I found that out after they transferred me to London.
And look, I'm not saying I'm a complete scrubs nut, but when they tell you you have something that was on scrubs, the incorrect reaction is to tell them you saw it on there and 'the patient with it died'.
It's called Thrombotic Thrombocytopenic Purpura btw, or TTP for short. Your blood clots in your veins and you end up losing blood, but you never bleed. And you're more likely to die from a stroke or multiple organ failure than from completely losing blood. The only treatment is this machine called an apheresis machine, which leukemia patients use sometimes after radiotherapy.
It took me about two weeks to leave the hospital, and the only reason I did is because my son's first birthday was coming up. I wanted to get out for it. I got discharged the day after, so I'm always going to remember that my son's first birthday was in a hospital room, and about five minutes in the local park where mummy sat on a bench because getting to the park wiped her out.
They told me some fun stats in the months and years after my discharge, and I'd like to share them with you now:
-I came pretty close to having a stroke. I'd complained about a sharp headache, and they told me after that my speech was slurred. They upped my physio when they realised (I wondered why I suddenly had to push the nurses about in my observation slots) and asked me dumb questions like, all the time. "Who are you?" "Who am I?" "Where are we?" "Who's the Prime Minister?" "What's the capital of England?"
-There's a possible link between TTP and brain damage. They said it manifested mainly in memory problems, speech problems and reaction times. I can check all three boxes, even now. The nurse at the time was going to set up a test for patients and I put my name down to be tested because there's so little known about TTP that I want to know more and the best way to know how my illness affects me is to be part of the research into it.
-8 in a million people, or 1 in 125000 people suffer from TTP. In the UK, that puts the figure somewhere at 460 in our 60million population. Of those 460, 15 are born with TTP, and get it every few months. 2% get TTP from pancreatitis, either drinking or gallstones. 2% of 460? That's 9. I am one of 9 people in 60 million who has had this. I don't think it makes me special, but I do think it makes it hard to communicate to people just what it means, what I've been through, what I still go through. Essentially, it's an invisible illness, like diabetes or schizophrenia. And people don't always like what they don't see, or don't believe in what's not visible, so to most people I know? There's nothing wrong. The worst is when it's the end of a night shift, and someone asks me a question needing a detailed answer because that's when the effects are at their worst.
-With treatment, 1 in 5 people die from TTP. Without, you don't stand any chance. Equally, 1 in 5 people die from Pancreatitis. I've tried working out the mortality rate of having both, but then I get confused about which way I'm diluting it.
-There's a high percentage of TTP sufferers who have PTSD within 10 years of suffering the condition. This does not fill me with hope.
-TTP is typically an illness for 30-50 year olds. It also has a time limit on it, if you survive 10 years without a relapse, you're less likely to have a relapse. Since I was in my early twenties when this happened, it puts me in the main age frame at the end of my ten years. So I'm still trying to work out if I have another 5, or another 25 more years of worrying about a relapse.
Do you know what sucks the most for me? I worked my ass off the last five years, trying to beat this thing, trying to conquer all the problems it gave me. I've done a lot to try and show this illness who's boss. But it's only now that I'm realising no matter what, this is going to define me. If I'd walked away without any issues, I might have stood a chance. But now I have to get my head around the fact that maybe in the last five years I've done too much and I'm just risking making myself sick again. And I can't even explain this at work properly, because the only time I see my boss is at the end of my night shifts. There is no way to explain how much this is crushing me.
pre-post warning
Tomorrow and Wednesday, I will be spilling my guts. Come prepared in armour.
I have a lot I want to say right now, but as it is there are 7 hours before I'm awake and doing all this shit again and I've split two fingers on different bits of jagged metal at work today/last night (because I'm lucky and get night shifts) so even though I want to vent now, I can't.
We'll just let it simmer like bile in my throat, yes?
Congratulate me if this actually makes sense, because I'm tired as fuck and annoyed and upset right now, and could just really do with a cuddle but my boy's at school so ... please give me lovely comments before my big posting to remind me I'm not a huge fucking ogre/complete doormat?
I have a lot I want to say right now, but as it is there are 7 hours before I'm awake and doing all this shit again and I've split two fingers on different bits of jagged metal at work today/last night (because I'm lucky and get night shifts) so even though I want to vent now, I can't.
We'll just let it simmer like bile in my throat, yes?
Congratulate me if this actually makes sense, because I'm tired as fuck and annoyed and upset right now, and could just really do with a cuddle but my boy's at school so ... please give me lovely comments before my big posting to remind me I'm not a huge fucking ogre/complete doormat?
Thursday 11 April 2013
Creativity can be a bitch.
Okay, so I've been trying to write some of my story today. Ugh.
Don't get my wrong, I love my characters and sometimes when I'm inner-monologuing and just woken up, I will call myself Lambrini (win!) and they're my constant companions so feel free to start speculating over which personality disorder I'm disguising in talent. But sometimes, ugh.
I know what I want to include in this story, the themes and the topics and which character is involved in which scenario.
But I still don't have a verified timeline for it. It's the summer, they're doing touristy crap, and unlike my parents I don't like military precision with holiday plans (first day of Florida is figuring out what the hell we all want to do in Florida. I don't know why they ask, because "The mall with Hot Topic in it" and "Universal Islands of Adventure" are my constant answers. My son will pick the Magic Kingdom, and we usually hit up one other Disney park, a water park, and my mother will talk about getting fabric but not from a flea market and then give it up so we can spend two days pretending we're at Hogwarts and then complaining. Still, we waste our first day having this debate and then buying crap from Publix) so that means I'm trying to do this with my whole 'we'll work it out on the day' attitude (Hola, New York in October with the besties. We met Arnie and ended up in the Jeremy Kyle USA audience as well as doing most touristy shit by this method, so STFU mother, it works!) ... it doesn't work in fiction.
Can someone write my fic for me? Without revealing the awesome and totally mind-fucking secret I have to reveal? Thank you!
Don't get my wrong, I love my characters and sometimes when I'm inner-monologuing and just woken up, I will call myself Lambrini (win!) and they're my constant companions so feel free to start speculating over which personality disorder I'm disguising in talent. But sometimes, ugh.
I know what I want to include in this story, the themes and the topics and which character is involved in which scenario.
But I still don't have a verified timeline for it. It's the summer, they're doing touristy crap, and unlike my parents I don't like military precision with holiday plans (first day of Florida is figuring out what the hell we all want to do in Florida. I don't know why they ask, because "The mall with Hot Topic in it" and "Universal Islands of Adventure" are my constant answers. My son will pick the Magic Kingdom, and we usually hit up one other Disney park, a water park, and my mother will talk about getting fabric but not from a flea market and then give it up so we can spend two days pretending we're at Hogwarts and then complaining. Still, we waste our first day having this debate and then buying crap from Publix) so that means I'm trying to do this with my whole 'we'll work it out on the day' attitude (Hola, New York in October with the besties. We met Arnie and ended up in the Jeremy Kyle USA audience as well as doing most touristy shit by this method, so STFU mother, it works!) ... it doesn't work in fiction.
Can someone write my fic for me? Without revealing the awesome and totally mind-fucking secret I have to reveal? Thank you!
Wednesday 10 April 2013
The Internet's Greatest Love Story
Forget things like Match.com or eHarmony. I'm part of the greatest love story ever created online.
We met when I was eighteen, and a few months away from completing my A2 levels. We were introduced by a friend I had made online, who I trusted more than most.
There were a lot of us back then, close to thirty, all with common interests and a similar sense of humour. We even had similar backgrounds in terms of how we'd been treated at school or whatever by the things that made us happy.
And after a year or so, I started getting really close ... to four of them. Actually, at the time it was five, but we don't talk about her. The one who broke our hearts. A fivesome works without her.
It must weird people out to discover that the best friends I have, the most amazing people in my life, are people I started talking to through a computer screen. That I would trust them with my life, with my everything.
They don't live near me, or near each other. We see each other very rarely, which means it's all the better when we do meet up.
Last time we were all free to, one of us couldn't go. We didn't understand, because she's more outgoing than most of us, but it turned out her dad had passed away the day before.
We just sent her a care package (and I will pay you back, Kel!) to show that no matter where we are, or how far away, or whether we can catch each other with five different schedules - we all thought of her. She got it today and we're having a love-in on her facebook when we can, and I just feel so incredibly lucky that, with all the horror stories out there online, I've met the people I will have in my life for the rest of my life on the net.
So whenever I mention Cat, or Kelly, or Charli, or Jodie on here ... just remember they are the loves of my life (plus my son) okay? And remember that love can come from anywhere ... even a website. I can't imagine life without any of them.
We met when I was eighteen, and a few months away from completing my A2 levels. We were introduced by a friend I had made online, who I trusted more than most.
There were a lot of us back then, close to thirty, all with common interests and a similar sense of humour. We even had similar backgrounds in terms of how we'd been treated at school or whatever by the things that made us happy.
And after a year or so, I started getting really close ... to four of them. Actually, at the time it was five, but we don't talk about her. The one who broke our hearts. A fivesome works without her.
It must weird people out to discover that the best friends I have, the most amazing people in my life, are people I started talking to through a computer screen. That I would trust them with my life, with my everything.
They don't live near me, or near each other. We see each other very rarely, which means it's all the better when we do meet up.
Last time we were all free to, one of us couldn't go. We didn't understand, because she's more outgoing than most of us, but it turned out her dad had passed away the day before.
We just sent her a care package (and I will pay you back, Kel!) to show that no matter where we are, or how far away, or whether we can catch each other with five different schedules - we all thought of her. She got it today and we're having a love-in on her facebook when we can, and I just feel so incredibly lucky that, with all the horror stories out there online, I've met the people I will have in my life for the rest of my life on the net.
So whenever I mention Cat, or Kelly, or Charli, or Jodie on here ... just remember they are the loves of my life (plus my son) okay? And remember that love can come from anywhere ... even a website. I can't imagine life without any of them.
A brief lesson in pronounciation.
Okay, I have an unusual name. It's not actually zee (I know, right?) It's not even close.
It's Siobhan.
Thanks, it is pretty, when it's said right.
Okay, look, my mum is watching CI, which I love for Women Who Kill, but my mum has it on The First 48 right now. A murder victim's friend is called Siobhan in it. I've heard my name said five times now, and there may be a new homicide in that vicinity before long.
Shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
She keeps saying it like that. Shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
Fuck right off.
If you're in Ireland, the correct pronounciation is She-vorn.
Now, I have a close relative called Vaughan, which is pronounced Vorn. So the original way doesn't work, because he answers whenever anyone speaks to me calling me that.
I pronounce it She-vonn. Emphasis on the start, rather than the end. Make it rhyme with cinnabon, which I love as well. It's actually common to pronounce it this way too, more so than the Irish version.
I am obviously, currently disregarding the French version, which is spelt differently (Chervonne, if you were wondering. I know a bucketload about my name, but hey look, the French version supplies the double-n sound at the end too)
So if you call me Sibbon (my old Media teacher) or Shervorn, or shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, or shiv, or shivvy or vonny ... do not wonder why I'm giving you my 'drop dead NOW' face. You know what you did.
See also, misspellings. Starbucks likes to write Shavon on my cup. I didn't mispronounce Sharon, FFS. I've also see Shivon, Shevon, and people who vaguely know the letters in my name favour Shiobhan, Sibohan and ... look, I didn't pick this name, but I have to live with it. I could get it down pat when I was four, it can't be that effing hard.
The worst was when I did temp work, and someone wrote my name as Chiffon on the timesheet. I was like 'change that' and she went 'oh, it doesn't matter!' because her name was Sarah or Lucy or something and also, it wasn't her pay depending on the details being right.
Why not just fucking ask if you don't know?
It's Siobhan.
Thanks, it is pretty, when it's said right.
Okay, look, my mum is watching CI, which I love for Women Who Kill, but my mum has it on The First 48 right now. A murder victim's friend is called Siobhan in it. I've heard my name said five times now, and there may be a new homicide in that vicinity before long.
Shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
She keeps saying it like that. Shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
Fuck right off.
If you're in Ireland, the correct pronounciation is She-vorn.
Now, I have a close relative called Vaughan, which is pronounced Vorn. So the original way doesn't work, because he answers whenever anyone speaks to me calling me that.
I pronounce it She-vonn. Emphasis on the start, rather than the end. Make it rhyme with cinnabon, which I love as well. It's actually common to pronounce it this way too, more so than the Irish version.
I am obviously, currently disregarding the French version, which is spelt differently (Chervonne, if you were wondering. I know a bucketload about my name, but hey look, the French version supplies the double-n sound at the end too)
So if you call me Sibbon (my old Media teacher) or Shervorn, or shhh-vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, or shiv, or shivvy or vonny ... do not wonder why I'm giving you my 'drop dead NOW' face. You know what you did.
See also, misspellings. Starbucks likes to write Shavon on my cup. I didn't mispronounce Sharon, FFS. I've also see Shivon, Shevon, and people who vaguely know the letters in my name favour Shiobhan, Sibohan and ... look, I didn't pick this name, but I have to live with it. I could get it down pat when I was four, it can't be that effing hard.
The worst was when I did temp work, and someone wrote my name as Chiffon on the timesheet. I was like 'change that' and she went 'oh, it doesn't matter!' because her name was Sarah or Lucy or something and also, it wasn't her pay depending on the details being right.
Why not just fucking ask if you don't know?
Love is a battlefield
This will have to be quick, I have next to no battery on my iPad. Sorry.
So, I read a lot of YA distopia, and I've just finished the delirium series by Lauren Oliver (sorry if you're reading and nowhere near ending requiem, but I will spoil the shit out of it here).
There's the usual themes you find in these books, 1984-type world with a government going beyond the line of what the masses can manage and causing an uprising, narrated by a teenage girl who through all this, has wuv pwobwems. Now, delirium gets away with it because it's about love being a sickness which requires a partial lobotomy to treat, but only around your eighteenth birthday. People showing signs of love are pretty much tortured. She can talk about her wuv because she is fighting for the chance to wuv who she wants.
But Oliver falls flat. She has the start of an epic battle scene, and then she Twilight (Eclipse)'s it. Lena, the main character, leaves the battle to find her young cousin, so we get all the drama of finding a six year old and then the battle's over. One of her friends might have died, and she maybe kinda loves two guys. But we get no resolution, just the author's message in about five paragraphs, which is basically implied throughout the books. So thanks for messing the ending and implying I'm a fucktard Lauren Oliver. Just when I thought we could be friends.
See soon, my fanfic with a decent fucking ending in which we know whether Raven lives and see Lena dump the nerdy guy for Alex. Or else, she gives Alex to me, that's okay too.
**edit** Okay, I'm finally on my laptop to explain myself a little better (never try and do anything on an iPad with 2% battery!). Okay, so for most of Delirium, Pandemonium and Requiem there's a constant undercurrent of fear and violence between those who want people to feel the deliria (Oliver's name for love in the series) and each part of the fight (the Invalids who love, the Scavengers who hate the order of the treated, and the Treated who think they're living the ideal because they are rational and logical without love) tries to undermine the other. The Invalids seem well organised and able to communicate in unusual ways, but you never see that, because Lena basically only ever lives in a cave. The Scavengers do deals with the Treated to eradicate the Invalids, thus proving that emotions are fickle beasts that you should have removed as soon as you're legally allowed.
The tension was built up well, and I thought that the Invalids you follow - Lena and her friends Raven, Tack, Bram, Hunter, Julian, Lu, Coral and Alex - showed all the different, wonderful ways you can love. Bram and Hunter are gay, and therefore ostracised, and called Unnaturals; Tack and Raven are the couple who love but bicker; Lu has loved and lost, and Lena has the conflict of loving someone and not being able to express it. For a lot of Requiem, she settles for second best (it does my head in, like Oliver set up a potential love triangle but rather than Twilight it, she made it look like one of them won despite the other waiting in the wings) but comes to her senses at the eve of battle. So well done for that, Lena.
And the battle is pretty epic, what you get to see of it. They use rope ladders to scale the walls of a city, despite being shot on the way up. Bodies are falling and I'm picturing something akin to an action movie, and you see Raven get shot (she may be pregnant. You see her react, but it's not clear if she dies, even at the end) and then Lena decides to visit her family in the city instead of, you know, fighting for love like the message of the trilogy has been thus far. She runs into her best friend (who was jealous of her relationship with a guy and sold them to the authorities in the first book. She's since had the treatment, and actually, this is her wedding day to the sadistic mayor. God, it sounds so good in summarising, right?) who helps her find her cousin, and then when she does ... there's no more fighting. Even the Treated are tearing down the wall around the city. There's chaos, a hint that Lena is no longer settling for second best, and then Oliver writes on the last page about tearing down the walls, so you can let in the good, as well as maybe the bad (because if you didn't get in somewhere around 1000 pages, that was the point of succumbing to the deliria) and then it ends.
She commits two of the biggest crimes in my mind that an author can (and they're bigger because her other 999 pages are fabulous) - she does not wrap up the ending, but leaves it to interpretation (so ... the Treated bazooka all the idiots on the wall remnants. There you go Oliver) and she does not write what she sets up. You set up conflict, you show the war, you set up violence, you describe the spray of blood from the exit wound. Do NOT Meyer the fuck out of your story.
It hurts, you know? That it was so, so good, and now she's left me hanging. Like a really nice chocolate bar you only get a mouthful of. I deliria-d you, Oliver, why'd you Julian me? (If you've read, that'd make sense, honestly)
I'm reading the Hobbit now. I started yesterday, and I have like, 100 pages left. I am in love with this book (Gollum was pretty graphically presented, just FYI Oliver) and I don't quite get why others don't? Is it because pretty much anyone who could chase the 14 long-term just give up at convenient plotpoints or because you just haven't had second breakfast yet, or you secretly love Bombar and can't take the fat jokes?
So, I read a lot of YA distopia, and I've just finished the delirium series by Lauren Oliver (sorry if you're reading and nowhere near ending requiem, but I will spoil the shit out of it here).
There's the usual themes you find in these books, 1984-type world with a government going beyond the line of what the masses can manage and causing an uprising, narrated by a teenage girl who through all this, has wuv pwobwems. Now, delirium gets away with it because it's about love being a sickness which requires a partial lobotomy to treat, but only around your eighteenth birthday. People showing signs of love are pretty much tortured. She can talk about her wuv because she is fighting for the chance to wuv who she wants.
But Oliver falls flat. She has the start of an epic battle scene, and then she Twilight (Eclipse)'s it. Lena, the main character, leaves the battle to find her young cousin, so we get all the drama of finding a six year old and then the battle's over. One of her friends might have died, and she maybe kinda loves two guys. But we get no resolution, just the author's message in about five paragraphs, which is basically implied throughout the books. So thanks for messing the ending and implying I'm a fucktard Lauren Oliver. Just when I thought we could be friends.
See soon, my fanfic with a decent fucking ending in which we know whether Raven lives and see Lena dump the nerdy guy for Alex. Or else, she gives Alex to me, that's okay too.
**edit** Okay, I'm finally on my laptop to explain myself a little better (never try and do anything on an iPad with 2% battery!). Okay, so for most of Delirium, Pandemonium and Requiem there's a constant undercurrent of fear and violence between those who want people to feel the deliria (Oliver's name for love in the series) and each part of the fight (the Invalids who love, the Scavengers who hate the order of the treated, and the Treated who think they're living the ideal because they are rational and logical without love) tries to undermine the other. The Invalids seem well organised and able to communicate in unusual ways, but you never see that, because Lena basically only ever lives in a cave. The Scavengers do deals with the Treated to eradicate the Invalids, thus proving that emotions are fickle beasts that you should have removed as soon as you're legally allowed.
The tension was built up well, and I thought that the Invalids you follow - Lena and her friends Raven, Tack, Bram, Hunter, Julian, Lu, Coral and Alex - showed all the different, wonderful ways you can love. Bram and Hunter are gay, and therefore ostracised, and called Unnaturals; Tack and Raven are the couple who love but bicker; Lu has loved and lost, and Lena has the conflict of loving someone and not being able to express it. For a lot of Requiem, she settles for second best (it does my head in, like Oliver set up a potential love triangle but rather than Twilight it, she made it look like one of them won despite the other waiting in the wings) but comes to her senses at the eve of battle. So well done for that, Lena.
And the battle is pretty epic, what you get to see of it. They use rope ladders to scale the walls of a city, despite being shot on the way up. Bodies are falling and I'm picturing something akin to an action movie, and you see Raven get shot (she may be pregnant. You see her react, but it's not clear if she dies, even at the end) and then Lena decides to visit her family in the city instead of, you know, fighting for love like the message of the trilogy has been thus far. She runs into her best friend (who was jealous of her relationship with a guy and sold them to the authorities in the first book. She's since had the treatment, and actually, this is her wedding day to the sadistic mayor. God, it sounds so good in summarising, right?) who helps her find her cousin, and then when she does ... there's no more fighting. Even the Treated are tearing down the wall around the city. There's chaos, a hint that Lena is no longer settling for second best, and then Oliver writes on the last page about tearing down the walls, so you can let in the good, as well as maybe the bad (because if you didn't get in somewhere around 1000 pages, that was the point of succumbing to the deliria) and then it ends.
She commits two of the biggest crimes in my mind that an author can (and they're bigger because her other 999 pages are fabulous) - she does not wrap up the ending, but leaves it to interpretation (so ... the Treated bazooka all the idiots on the wall remnants. There you go Oliver) and she does not write what she sets up. You set up conflict, you show the war, you set up violence, you describe the spray of blood from the exit wound. Do NOT Meyer the fuck out of your story.
It hurts, you know? That it was so, so good, and now she's left me hanging. Like a really nice chocolate bar you only get a mouthful of. I deliria-d you, Oliver, why'd you Julian me? (If you've read, that'd make sense, honestly)
I'm reading the Hobbit now. I started yesterday, and I have like, 100 pages left. I am in love with this book (Gollum was pretty graphically presented, just FYI Oliver) and I don't quite get why others don't? Is it because pretty much anyone who could chase the 14 long-term just give up at convenient plotpoints or because you just haven't had second breakfast yet, or you secretly love Bombar and can't take the fat jokes?
Monday 8 April 2013
Fingers crossed.
In the next few days, I might be talking to someone about a new job.
With one of my favourite people on the planet/in the universe.
Doing organisational-type things on computers all day.
My fingers are crossed so hard.
I could write or read on the commute every day.
I could come home from work not smelling of stale grease and bleach.
I could paint my nails and wear a ring every day and choose smart clothes to wear.
I could wear my hair down if I choose.
I could sleep at night, every night.
It's not much to ask.
This job sounds awesome, even when my friend told me the hard parts, they just sound like a fun challenge to me (hi, I'm a puzzle lover and a logic-problem solver) ...we just all have to hope I'm the most amazing interviewee they have, right?
With one of my favourite people on the planet/in the universe.
Doing organisational-type things on computers all day.
My fingers are crossed so hard.
I could write or read on the commute every day.
I could come home from work not smelling of stale grease and bleach.
I could paint my nails and wear a ring every day and choose smart clothes to wear.
I could wear my hair down if I choose.
I could sleep at night, every night.
It's not much to ask.
This job sounds awesome, even when my friend told me the hard parts, they just sound like a fun challenge to me (hi, I'm a puzzle lover and a logic-problem solver) ...we just all have to hope I'm the most amazing interviewee they have, right?
Friday 5 April 2013
Honest trailers/Bad Lip reading
I am in love with the videos for honest trailers and bad lip-reading. Like, seriously, seriously in love with them. I want to share them with you all. Mainly linking to the twilight ones, because I die every single time.
Every. Single ..... (narrator can talk in the meantime, you won't miss anything). Time.
watch ... laugh ... love. You're welcome.
Every. Single ..... (narrator can talk in the meantime, you won't miss anything). Time.
watch ... laugh ... love. You're welcome.
I think maybe, my body hates me sleeping. A little.
So I had a bitch of a week so far, workwise. I started 11pm Wednesday night, finished about 9am Thursday morning ... and had another nine hour shift starting at 5pm yesterday too. You'd think, me getting in about 2.20 and nuking a lasagne, and not getting to sleep until about three after that would mean I'd only just be getting up, right? Nope, awake about 8. Win.
It means my eyes are open and my brain is barely there. And when I go to bed later I won't be able to sleep either, because I'm lucky like that.
I don't function well without sleep.
Anyway, I put two more chapters up on my other blog, link in the other post. Starting to whore it out, but if you like what you read over there, please share with people. Not like I'm trying to start a cult following or anything (I'm totally trying to start a cult following). Four chapters really isn't much with my writing style by the way, I think six pages on word is a lot of prose for a chapter, so I have a lot of little chapters. A little like Life of Pi. In fact, what is up on that blog so far is 12 of the 273 pages I have in word. Practically nothing, right?
I'm just rambling. Sleep deprivation and all. Sorry.
It means my eyes are open and my brain is barely there. And when I go to bed later I won't be able to sleep either, because I'm lucky like that.
I don't function well without sleep.
Anyway, I put two more chapters up on my other blog, link in the other post. Starting to whore it out, but if you like what you read over there, please share with people. Not like I'm trying to start a cult following or anything (I'm totally trying to start a cult following). Four chapters really isn't much with my writing style by the way, I think six pages on word is a lot of prose for a chapter, so I have a lot of little chapters. A little like Life of Pi. In fact, what is up on that blog so far is 12 of the 273 pages I have in word. Practically nothing, right?
I'm just rambling. Sleep deprivation and all. Sorry.
Tuesday 2 April 2013
I took the plunge.
If you want to read the story I keep blabbing about with little-to-no info, you can now read it on my associated blog Uprooted please give feedback, share with friends, etc etc. I'd really appreciate it.
Unoriginal
I'm debating whether or not to put my story up on here for people to read and give critical feedback on. If I did, it would be on an associated blog, I'd work out some way of linking all the blog entries onto here or something so it would be easily accessible, and then I'd promote like crazy.
I know it's an unoriginal thing to do, but I'm a little nervous about putting it out on a platform like this. Even though everything then gets a time stamp on it so I'm protected intellectually ... it wouldn't be the same as getting published traditionally, or even on an ebook.
Still, if anyone is reading this blog ... would you read if I did do that?
I know it's an unoriginal thing to do, but I'm a little nervous about putting it out on a platform like this. Even though everything then gets a time stamp on it so I'm protected intellectually ... it wouldn't be the same as getting published traditionally, or even on an ebook.
Still, if anyone is reading this blog ... would you read if I did do that?
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