Can I build it? Yes I can!

Day 135

I went to my book group last night and found I was the only one who had read the whole book. This was fun as it meant that whatever opinion I had couldn't really be questioned. I've never felt myself such an unassailable expert in all my life. In hindsight I missed a trick though - I could have told them anything about the book, made all sorts of outrageous rubbish up, and they probably would have believed me. Next time I will be prepared.

Am still fighting too much insomnia and exhaustion to be very productive at the moment, and consequently am starting to feel guilty. Well, sod that for a game of conkers. I don't put up with wallowing in negative emotions for more than the minimum, so it's time to get using this blog for it's proper purpose again. (Like all good members of my family, I can feel a list coming on....)

This coming month I will -

1. Follow up on the feedback about my picture book 'I am Red' from Harry at the bookshop.
2. Finalise the script for my second book 'I am a Robin' and start on the artwork.
3. Start a new sketchbook, set myself a theme to research, and get painting again, as it's been too long and I feel out of practice.
4. Lose half a stone.

That last one is obviously the tricky one when I am this sofa-bound, but what the hell, it's time for a change, however I feel. What's the phrase? Act my way into right thinking! I like that. I'm very much an 'if you build it, he will come' sort of person, and I know that doing the same old things while waiting for things to improve, usually doesn't work. Things just stay the same.

So today I will...................take back my library books so I don't get a fine, cook a great dinner for everyone, even if I have to do it all sitting down because of the exhaustion (I have an office type chair with wheels - that would do), clean out the cat litter (Yuk!), and finish the laundry so I can give Denise back the things I borrowed for the party. That's enough. If I do too much I won't be able to get out of bed tomorrow, which is not helpful.

Better get on then. Cheerio.

Perfect parties and pity parties

Day 132

Picture the scene - I had painted a fabulous string of onions around the neck of Steve's T-shirt, with snails crawling around the hem and up his chest, and felt-penned stripes all over. It was hanging up looking great. I had decided on my own outfit for the French party - a red split skirt, topped with a white t-shirt and scarf tied round my neck, big black belt, black tights and peeptoe courts. Very ooh la la. Just had to make the skirt, and glue something into the shoes to stop me falling out of them (bought them when my feet were swollen, don't ask).

I found some red material in pieces, which I could sew together to be just big enough and then I had a brain-wave. I have a knee length red satin nightie. I tried it on, pulling the neckline down to my waist, and it fitted as a skirt really well. All I would have to do was split up one of the side seams, a little bit of sewing (ten minutes, no more), and Bob's your Uncle, red sexy skirt.

All was going to plan until I came to iron the newly split seam flat. Iron wouldn't bloody work. I've told you before about how electrical things don't work in my presence (something to do with the karma of having an electrician for a dad, I think), so I shouldn't have been surprised. But every cloud has a silver lining and my silver lining is called Denise.

She lives across the road and makes costumes for TV, film, and the stage. She's currently rustling up fabulous twenties outfits for the Welsh National Opera, so I knew she'd probably be home, and definitely have a working iron. Which she did, but I also came away with three stripey t-shirts and five pairs of shoes to try on, and a new haircut! After that my outfit looked fantastic, I was thrilled to bits. I added pearl stud earrings and a whacking great, Chanel-style charm bracelet thing, and I was good to go.

Now here's the thing - when Steve came home and the iron worked perfectly for him, I should have heeded the warning that my body was even more out of whack than usual. I knew my hormones were all up the spout and the PMS was killing, but I sort of forgot how much that all affects my brain. I was so delighted with our costumes and excited about the party I didn't notice that my thinking was about as straight as George Michael doing a slalom.

Roll forward in time. When I go to parties, I can get pretty merry, but I rarely get drunk to the point of getting a hangover. This is because after I've had two or three glasses of wine my body naturally starts to crave water or orange juice, because I feel dehydrated. I don't drink caffeine, only water with lemon juice in it most of the time, so I'm very attuned to the water content in my body. Therefore, I don't have to think about what I'm drinking, or count the glasses or anything.

Usually.

Not this time.

The first sign I ignored was when I went to the loo. Knowing that all the straps and the top part of my nightie were simply tucked carefully into the top of my tights, then covered with the big belt, I had been putting off going, because of the hassle of getting it all straight again without a mirror. So concerned was I about this, that I forgot to pull down the thong I had on under my tights for modesty purposes (having eschewed big pants over the top, not wanting the VPL under the satin), and peed straight through it.

So I had to struggle with the tiny ankle straps on the beautiful borrowed shoes (which I'd had to cut my toe-nails to fit into, but that's fashion for you), wriggle out of my tights, find somewhere to hide my pants until I came back later with my handbag, and get all dressed again. I should have noticed that I was none too sober by the amount of time this took, but it still didn't register.

When I left the bathroom there was a lady standing there who asked what all the jingling was about - the charm bracelet had been broadcasting my activities the whole time. Rather than her thinking I was a bit odd, I told her all about peeing my pants and having to hide them, which seemed the obvious thing to do at the time, then for some unknown reason, once I had told one person, it seemed natural to tell everyone else! Oh God!

At some point I thought I ought to eat something so I went to find the food table at the far end of my mate's long, thin corridor of a kitchen. This entailed squeezing past all the booze and queueing up by the guys doing the shots, who thrust a glass into my hand and ordered me to knock it back in one. I have no idea why this seemed a good idea at the time. Or the shot after that. Or why, when I finally reached the food table I was strangely dazzled by the brightly lit, multi-coloured, punch fountain.

When I got home, I mostly slept in the bathroom. I remember pulling a pillow out of the airing cupboard and wrapping a towel round me whilst still clutching the toilet bowl for safety.

Nuff said.

I awoke with a thundering hangover, a vitamin C deficiency, and a distinct impression that I needed to apologise to a LOT of people. Steve thought it was very funny, especially as I didn't stop shaking until about four in the afternoon. He particularly enjoyed describing how I looked more and more dishevelled as the evening wore on, the swine. I think I cuddled rather a lot of strangers. At fifty I really should know better, and most of the time I do, but that night all I can conclude is that the lights were on, but nobody was home.

It was an absolutely brilliant party though. Apart from the sea of berets and striped t-shirts, there were French maids, can-can dancers, mime artists, Asterix, an Inspecter Clousseau, and Maurice Chevalier. Can't wait for next year.

The lengths I'll go to for a party

Day 128

I have been unable to write for a few days due to chronic exhaustion brought on by lack of sleep. What fun. Insomnia giving me a run for my money again. Couldn't sleep untill 6.30 the other night. In desparation, resorted to sleeping pills for one night, and it has taken me until today to stop feeling drugged.

Much better now though, and planning my costume for my mate Rebecca's party on Saturday. The theme is 'French', although she isn't, her husband isn't, nor are they planning to go there any time soon. No, the reason is they have found a tape of Charles Aznavour singing 'La Mer' and such, and think it's really retro cool. Which it probably is now. Certainly wasn't first time round, which I remember only too well.

So - French. I don't even own a beret. I bought one for Sam's girlfriend Lydian recently so I asked to borrow it, but she can't find it, so no joy there. If we had the funds, I would go and hire a can-can dancers frock and glam it up big time, with feather boa, the lot. If I had only a few quid I would get something from a charity shop to turn into one, and get sewing.

But I have no money, so this is a bit of a challenge.

I am going to paint a string of onions around the neck of an old white t-shirt for Steve, and then stripe it all over with magic-marker. Might even paint on the odd snail or legless frog. Simples. But as for me, well I'm a bit stumped. I have a vague memory that I might have some red fabric somewhere, which combined with an old white pillow case and the fact that I have blue tights and boots, could be made into a sort of 'flag' frock, I suppose. If I can find it, it will have to do.

My hair has a lot of white though, and Lydian left some bright pink hair dye that could be made redder with food colouring, and Sam gave me blue hair dye for Xmas. Is this going too far, do you think?

I've always been good at going too far if it's for a party. In my twenties, my sister and I held a Xmas do. She dressed as the fairy, all in white with silver tinsel and a wand. I dressed as the Xmas tree. I had a green boucle A-line dress from a charity shop which we threaded wire through the hem to make it stick out. We sewed little 'presents' and baubles on, hung me all about with tinsel and stuck a small fairy at a jaunty angle on my head.

So far, so funky, but then the 'piece-de-resistance' - I was going to spray a dramatic stripe across my face at eye level, just like Darryl Hannah does in Bladerunner, which we thought was sooooo cool.

Ten minutes before the guests were due, we were in the bathroom with a can of green hair spray paint, which was all we could find. I shut my eyes, Caron let loose with the spray, I screamed VERY loudly, Caron dropped the spray can, I opened a pair of streaming, blood-red eyeballs, Caron then screamed and panicked, grabbed a towel to wipe off the offending (and as it turned out, alcohol-based spray), and I yelled "don't do that, I'm not going through all this pain for nothing"!

When the guests did arrive, I had used enough Murine eye-drops to keep my eyes sparkling clear for a month, the green tear-trickles had been mopped up a bit, and my eyes felt like they had been cryogenicly frozen them re-inserted into my head. I did look damn good though.

Being a Bev of very little brain

Day 122

Am in that long, slow, mind-numbing, body stiffening, waiting phase of my hormone cycle. My brain doesn't function well, and decision making is hard or reduces me to tears because of the effort involved, versus progress achieved.

At this time of the month I often feel like one of those early super-computers from seventies sci-fi films. You know the ones - big black boxes with lots of flashing lights that serve no purpose at all, and self destruct in clouds of crackling smoke when someone feeds in an impossible question. That is me. Inside I am screaming "it does not compute" in the voice of a panic-stricken automaton.

The only thing I seem able to do well is consume large quantities of the wrong sort of carbohydrates. Whenever I have tried avoiding this pattern, I have ended up with tearful panic-attacks and an inability to move on to something else. Cue more sci-fi, as I am then possessed by little black brain Daleks yelling "resistance is useless".

Have tried to circumvent the whole process early today by having brown rice and lentils for breakfast (low G.I.), which is as unappealing as it sounds, but should ward off the worst of the cravings for a while.

Next step is finding something to do. Have learnt through bitter experience that my visual judgement is really iffy at this time of the month (walk into doors a lot), and my concentration is less than a goldfish, so attempting to get involved in anything that matters to me is a bad idea. I have ruined more things on these days than you can possible imagine.

Can't go off for a walk as feet way too painful because of the attendant bloating. Can't read because of concentration difficulties and tendencies towards headaches at this time. Could spend money but don't have any, which is just as well considering distinct lack of judgement at this time. Me + hormones + Ebay = debtors prison, most likely.

So..... to recap - can't touch anything I care about, and that includes husband (as my skin becomes completely hyper-sensitive - in a bad way - and a hug makes me want to commit murder). Also, food tastes different - sort of 'wrong', if you know what I mean, hence the need for over-powering stuff like chocolate. Only got those new, huge Kit-kat bar things in the house and they're horrible, so a bit stuffed there.

Come on Bev, focus, focus. What to do?

Nope. Nothing happening, brain like cauliflower soup. Will go and do my runes, stay cheerful, stay calm, keep being open to inspiration or suggestion, try not to drive anyone else potty, and tell myself that I am one day closer to the day when I am done with this hormone-cycle business once and for all.

STUFF

Day 119

Urrrgh! Feeling really rough. Bad sleep, bad dreams, chronically horrible fatigue, hormones making me tearful, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.

So not done much thinking or sorting things out, (or anything useful, actually).

Find my brain all constipated with stupid stuff, so am knitting and watching TV and putting things off.

The knitting is a bit of an eco-wheeze. Wanted to do some, as really bored when all I can do is sit. Checked out the price of wool in John Lewis, and (after spending a happy ten minutes cooing over all the colours) decided it would just have to wait until Steve was employed again. Too expensive.

Then - aha! remembered a jumper I have with paint all up one of the sleeves. To be fair, two years as an art student means all my clothes have paint on them, but this one isn't too bad. Spent too days unravelling it and rolling the un-painted wool into balls, which I am now knitting into a smaller jumper. How's that for re-cycling!

Can't actually knit though. Got a book from the library with some patterns in it, but I'm kind of guessing what some of the instructions mean.

When I was young I had a motto which was "Just because I haven't done something before, doesn't mean that I can't". I've learnt how to do many things by just having a go, and keeping going until I get it right. In this case, however, Mystic Meg will probably be foreseeing more unravelling of wool in my future.

As I said before, have constipated brain syndrome today. Here are a few of the things cluttering it up, which I want to let go of ........

Why do famous people on the telly applaud themselves when everyone else is? Are they simple-minded? Do they suppose we think they are applauding us? It really gets on my tits.

And on what planet do people think they can go out and buy lots of 'thinks' instead of 'things'? They don't, you say. Oh yeah? - well, how come they talk about having acquired or done 'somethink' then? (and I'm talking about you, Simon Cowell).

And if you haven't been near them or done anything remotely messy, why do the inside of windows need cleaning so often?

And why don't lipsalves work for longer than ten minutes? Unless you put on so much all your hair sticks to your lips in the wind, they don't do any good at all.

And - being a tenant I know about this - why do people hang curtains so that they cover the radiator, instead of stopping just above? Why do they think I want to pay to heat the garden through the window?

And why do Dyson make vacuum cleaners that you can't do the stairs with, and why on earth did my husband buy one when I sent him out to get a completely different one? (answer, blokes love complicated looking gadgets).

My dad was a gadget freak. He loved supposedly time-saving kitchen things from those bizarre mail-order catalogues, and any that he thought sufficiently road-tested, he would pass on to us. I had a little round, brown thing that only ground nuts. It took ages to clean and didn't get used an awful lot (no shit). I refused one of those terrifying mandolins for amputating ones fingers with, however, I'm not stupid.

He liked NASA approved garlic crushers (use a knife and some salt, dad), and egg separators (what's wrong with half the shell?), and spoons that held one cups worth of tea-leaves (and half a cup of tea dust), and it all required storage somewhere, and could never be found when you wanted it. On the other hand, he was easy to buy for at Xmas.

I miss my dad. Whenever I see something like an all-in-one, sheepskin-lined sleeping bag, with two legs, a TV remote control pocket, and built-in lap tray, I think of him.

And he would never have dreamt of saying 'somethink' or applauding himself. Tidy.

A straw for my cup of kindness, if you please

Day 116

Have spent a lot of time exhausted recently - a few days ago I was so tired I needed a straw to drink with as the act of lifting a cup was just too much. Seem to coming back to myself now though, so I can attempt a bit more.

Will spend the next few days thinking about, and meditating on, what direction I want to take in my recovery this month. I need some realistic goals to work towards, or I will find it too easy to drift from one day to the next with no discernible improvement.

That is the problem with long-term illness, I think. At the start, it is very easy to remember how one used to be and feel, and the desire to have that again is strong and clear. When one has been ill as long as I have, it is impossible to keep that focus. I can no longer recall what it felt like to be well, and so one day follows the next, much like the other, because 'coping' is what I am used to.

I don't want to 'cope' with this any more, to 'handle' it well or 'manage' my illness. There have been years when that was all I could do, when that was, in fact, the best I could do, in order to spare my family from the worst of it's repurcussions.

That has become my habit. It is a sort of half-life. I know I can do better than that.

This year, despite all that, I have posted off four new manuscripts, taken down the Xmas decorations, cleaned out the guinea pigs, and bathed them. (Sandra needed a haircut and produced enough fluff to make one whole, entire, new guinea pig). I have also done some fabulous, inventive, nutritious and cheap cooking, so - all in all, not too shabby.

But still ..... I know I can do better than that.

There is a big difference between what I have done and the 'I got up, went to work, did a full day, then came home, tidied the house, and fed the family' that other people do. That's what I used to be capable of, but if I think of doing that now I am overwhelmed with exhaustion at the idea, and feel extremely frightened to boot.

This is part of the battle - getting past these thoughts and feelings and trusting my body to be able to do more than I currently acheive. Illness is traumatising to the body, and I need to be mindful of that and treat it gently, consciously, and realistically, guiding it to a healthier place, rather than imposing too much on it all at once.

The trick is to make sure progress and improvement still happen - that I don't rest on my laurels every time I am hindered by exhaustion, and allow it to slip back to my default setting. I need some time to really consider how best to do this.

The next time I blog, I will start to define the steps I think I need to take, I will make a plan. It may not work perfectly, but the act of trying will lead me somewhere that has some distance from just being here. I don't know how much I can recover, but - either way - I know I must change as to stay as I am has become untenable.

Is a change as good as a rest?

Ask me in another 100 days.

Champagne for Rosie, real pain for Barney

Day 114

Happy Birthday Rosie.

My step-daughter/lovely friend, Rosie, is 'thirty-something' today. She is as beautiful as today is from my window - the snow lawn is twinkling with diamond dust and the sunshine is a deep gold where it hits the trees. There is no wind, everthing is frozen in time as well as space, and a million animal footprints cover the clean, white ground.

Rosie had a rough time last year - she has been unlucky in love, which is always the pits. But there is a new man in her life now and a new spring in her step, so here's to you, darlin', I have a feeling that this will be your year.

Spent a fair whack of time yesterday digging two tracks out of the snow up the hill, so that the car could get out. Didn't really need to, but it made it passable for everyone else who doesn't have a four-wheel drive, although that's not so many round here. Plus, it was a good excuse to muck about in the snow whilst looking worthy.

Am obviously as unfit as I think I am, because I had to take pain-killers to get to sleep - my arms were so unused to that level of exercise. Does this bother me? Not much, actually, I'll deal with the fitness issue when I've got the exhaustion down a bit, or when the sun shines longer, whichever comes first.

I was three when we had the last really cold winter. We were living in a village high up in the quantocks, and we made a slide in the garden out of snow, which got icier, slidier, and faster each day. Brill. We didn't have central heating or any of that nonsense, and the ice patterns on the windows each morning were wondrous. I still believed in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, and now Jack Frost entered my world.

I remember having very cold hands all the time because gloves were always of the knitted variety, which became sodden and icy after only the third snowball. Wellies were padded out with two pairs of socks, which was never enough insulation, and scarves got in the way and so were often discarded. We would stay out long after our hands turned bright red and totally numb, only defrosting them in warm water when they had started to reach that interesting purple stage.

These days I am a total wimp. I don't like getting cold, it uses up my energy too quickly. But whether I get to make one or not, unless we get enough snow for a decent snowman, it doesn't feel like a proper winter to me. Last year we only had enough for me to make one for the squirrels, (who are fine and dandy, by the way, I saw two of them shagging in the maple yesterday). This winter is shaping up nicely.

The cat doesn't rate the snow, so she is leaving all the super-exposed, un-camouflaged prey to Barney, the cat next door, who is known as 'The Holy Terror' in these parts. He is the reason my Guinea Pigs do not get to roam in the garden unattended. I can see his prints all over the garden. However, he is jet black, and I am hoping this has slowed the success of his blood-lust down a smidge.

I tried to get a fire going yesterday, but the chimney smoked us all out of the room. At one point Steve had to open windows to stop our eyes streaming, so I shan't bother today as it rather defeated the object of the exercise. Will just enjoy it and wrap up in lots of blankets instead.

From Vienna to Venice

Day 111

Happy New Year everybody, it's good to be back in contact with my keyboard, I've missed blogging more than I expected. Been too busy with Xmas, etc., but that's all done with now. So ......... New Year Resolutions, what do we think of them?

Each year, people all over the globe start out afresh with lots of good intentions, some high levels of enthusiasm, and the almost certain knowledge that they won't last 'till the end of January. Sadly, that's not very resolute, and it doesn't resolve much either, so I don't think I will join them in that.

I do like the concept of an appointed time of year being adopted for self-assessment, however. While we hunker down away from the cold, biting weather, waiting for the days to lengthen and the first signs of Spring to arrive, this is a perfect time to examine our lives, our hearts, our health, and our dreams.

Rather than rush headlong into another diet or smoking ban, to join a gym or finally get through 'War and Peace', perhaps we should allow ourselves a little more time to really find what will bring us balance, harmony, growth and joy. To ask ourselves what is missing and what gets in the way, and to explore where we have drifted into habits which no longer serve any useful purpose in our lives.

I have one of those that I can identify quite clearly. I run a hot bath every morning - as hot as I can take - because overnight I used to develop backache so severe it was what woke me in the morning, and left me bent double and hardly able to walk (and no, a new bed didn't help, but a very hot bath did). But my back's not so very bad now. I can walk fine, even if I am rather stiff and achey, (but frankly, at my age, who isn't?).

I don't need a bath every morning, taking over an hour out of my day, I really don't - I'm just used to doing it and it's nice. So I ask myself, has it any real place in My New Life? Would a shower do? What could I use the time for instead? What do I really need? What else have I filled my time with that could make way for something that brings me closer to health and happiness, success and prosperity, excitement and joy?

I watched 'Under the Tuscan Sun' on TV last night, the film of Frances Mayes decision to start a whole new life of her own in Italy, and I was struck by something she said. Apparently, there was once a railway line constructed over the Alps that ran from Vienna to Venice, long before a train was built that could handle the journey. They just believed that one day there would be and therefore the track would be ready when it was. Such faith, such optimism, how utterly brilliant is that!

I need to do that - to build a track for My New Life that upholds and supports it for when my body allows my illness to depart, and my heart to follow it's true course. It can't be laid in one fell swoop, so no rigid, domineering, New Year's Resolutions for me. Just one small step at a time, like each sleeper of the railway, end on end, until it's done.

No bath tomorrow then. I will listen to my inner voice and wait to hear what it wants me to do instead. This New Life of mine is not a race, but a journey, and it is more important to take the RIGHT steps than to hurry along taking the wrong ones. I will not rush in to fill the gap, but let myself be guided, though I must confess that I find this far harder.

When I looked at my 'Inspiration Book' recently, I was struck by how many pages were filled with tangible goals, and pictures of things to have. It was not a book about things to Be. If I have learnt anything through nineteen years of illness, it is that being is the critical thing, not doing. Get the being right and the having takes care of itself.

So ............ New Year for me is a time for assessment, adjustment, realignment, and hope. A time to take care. A time for loving and listening to myself, for asking hard questions, and giving gentle answers. My measurement will be not 'what have I achieved?', but 'who am I being?'. I will tread lightly but firmly upon the new ground of this decade, in a slightly different direction, over and over, until the track leads me way out over the Alps.