Embarrassed Celery

I never thought that I'd be sat up at 2.30am, bonding with the heating.

It starts like a slow buzz, gently letting you know it's there, that it means business. Big, hot business. It's coming alive, nothing is getting in its way. It's powerful and all-encompassing, yet softly supportive.

I admire the heating.

I want to be ready at any moment, at the flick of a switch. Ready to roar. To smell like hot metal, capable and consuming.

I am reliable, comforting, radiant and strong. My continuous rumble a reminder of my presence.

I would listen through the slats on my bed, knowing this was home. Whatever the day may bring, the night had the heating.

This is one of the most magical yet rocky rollercoasters I have ever been on. I know I can get off at any moment, nobody or nothing is stopping me from doing so. But how empty it would feel to stop, how normal, how soulless. My rollercoaster feels safe. For the first time in my life.

It has felt right from the second I got on. It has made me sick, cry and wonder if I should be on it at all. But, like most good rollercoasters, there is the thrill. It’s addictive, all consuming, beautiful and exhilarating. I might never know what’s round the corner. But I ride, screaming into the wind. And I love it.

Because it’s my rollercoaster. And I will never leave it.

I might quite like a pill. A pill that once consumed, it makes one cope with everything.

I could decide what goes with a Kiev, and cook it without hesitation. 

Amongst many other things.

But just that one thing, would do for now.

It is February.

My birthday is next week, another year older and yet more to feel guilty about.

It's a Saturday afternoon, I am sat in my usual position, cat on lap, racked with panic.  I want it all to end.  When I say this, I'm not talking about suicide, I just want this groundhog day/life to end.  I need a new chapter desperately, but it seems I have been stuck on this page forever.

I applied for a job in the week.  A full time job, with a great salary and equally great expectations.  I know I am probably setting myself up for a fall, but I am longing so much for a slice of normality, that I am willing to wear the mask again until it cracks into a million pieces.  On my CV, I look great.  I have great job experience and many qualifications in the field I was drawn to.  I say drawn to, as I still don't know if it is right for me, but it was the first role I actually enjoyed so assumed it was the one.  Interviewing is usually my downfall, and I am generally rubbish at them, due to my lack of eye contact and practical, non-personalised textbook answers.  This is the only way I can cope however, as I am utterly useless at answering questions on the spot, whilst under pressure.  I can retain and recite information without an issue, so this is why I tend to go down that route.  I guess I can come across as wooden and emotionless, when in fact I am totally the opposite.

The last job I got, I was interviewed over the phone.  I got the job.  This says a lot, as in this instance, I didn't have to worry about maintaining reasonable eye contact, or coming across as confident in my body language.  I just had to talk, and answer the questions, making it so much less overwhelming by only having one thing to concentrate on.  It would be great if all interviews could be conducted over the phone, and perhaps I could request this by explaining my maybe-autism, but then I don't want to bastard well admit it, do I?  I am still behind that heavily painted mask, its smile sensible and never faulting.  I am the capable woman, beating rugs hung over the washing line and playing football with the boys.  

To start, I need a bath, but it is full of bin bags.

I have a telephone assessment for counselling in about half an hour.  Naturally dreading it, and thinking of excuses as to why I am unable to do it.  My throat is sore, I am too panicky, I didn't sleep well thus my head isn't clear enough.  These are all true, but not valid enough reasons to not do something I really need to do.  And I should be grateful that it's over the phone, and I don't have to go out.

Typically, I cannot remember the exact time of the appointment, I just remember her saying something surrounding 2pm, and it's 10 past 2 now so it will be any time.  I can't relax and keep checking my phone.  I think I shall go into my bedroom when they call, and lay on my bed.  I feel peaceful there and it may help me open up a bit.

I hope it is a nice person, preferably a lady.  They will probably make me cry though regardless, as I am crap at talking about myself for fear of sounding self-obsessed or an idiot. Plus I hate talking about what's wrong with me, as it is a reminder of what a giant failure I am.  I am ashamed, the counsellor will be a normal person with a normal life, with a nice salary and neat, 2 bed semi. What will he/she think of my upside down, back to front, bonkers existence?  This is the one time that I cannot mask, I have to be stripped down bare, Mr Krabs without his shell, vulnerable and open for dissection.  That's the whole point of this.  

I am in full on panic mode now.  It effects me by causing my hands to knot (it's not easy to type like this!), my lips to go numb and my heart to race.  Many times before have I felt like this and thought I was dying, but at least I know what it is now.  And I want it to go the hell away, hence I need to face normality to try and make this happen.

I wish they would hurry up and call.

......

It's done.  What a pile of old wazzocks. I had to answer a questionnaire, so they could assess my current mood and/or mental state.  It was a lady, and she was pleasant, but robotic, making it clear in her voice that she had done this a thousand times before.  I am sick of answering the same questions, although I understand that this is needed to ensure I am not at present risk of topping myself.

"What kind of things do you do to relieve your anxiety?" she asked.  I told her I take long hot baths by candlelight, practice mindfulness, and controlled breathing.  In reality, I just cry a lot and go back to bed.

Miscellaneous robot lady continued that she couldn't refer me to actual counselling whilst I had anxiety.  I am not sure why, but you don't argue with a robot,  haven't you seen Terminator?  So I politely accepted this and was offered something I can barely even bring myself to type, as the word is so foul.  But I guess I will have to, else I won't know how to describe it.  It's 'webinar.'  Shudder.  What the hell is one of those anyway, it sounds like some sort of modern mutant, and I want nothing to do with it.

How can a God damned 'webinar' help with my anxiety, if I can't even bring myself to say the word, without becoming fucking anxious in the first place?  Admittedly, it did seem better than the other option, which was some kind of "hey, it's cool, we're all mad here" conference, with egg mayo sandwiches and a flip chart.  At least I could do it from the comfort of my own home, hopefully anonymously, but I am still not sure how this work.  I am willing to give it a go however, even if it's just so I can write about it on here, and drag some sort of comedic worth from it.  

You never know, it may actually help me and then I will happily eat my words, and be full of praise for Mrs. Cyberdyne herself.

The postman just dropped a letter through the door.  I am paralysed with fear.

This is another thing that curses me daily - the threat of the outside world.  I once hid for an entire day as there was a bailiff standing outside my door, I could see his intimidating stance, dressed from head to toe in black, through the glass.  Turns out it was my bin, having been moved by the binmen when they emptied it earlier that morning.

If there is an actual knock on my door, that's it, I am spiralled into wild panic for at least the next couple of hours.  I never answer it, unless I am entirely sure who it is, and I am happy to face that person on that occasion.  Friends know not to turn up uninvited, and my closest associates have their own key.  I do, however, have a deadlock which then seals me in entirely from literally everybody.  I do this overnight, and as soon as I hear that click, I know that I am 100 per cent safe from everything that isn't me or mine.

I have just checked the letter - yet another debt warning.  I love how they think their wording scares me now, with the bold red fonts and generic threats.  It's just been torn in half an added to the pile of other debt letters.  It's not that I don't actually care, of course I do, and I would love not to be in debt, it's just that there is literally nothing I can do about them at the moment.  I simply don't have the money to make payments, even token payments, to these companies.  If it's a choice of eating, or paying a multi million pound company, mine is the spag bol please.

I have always been shite with money, since I was old enough to earn it.  It's so exciting and comfortable to have it, and I actually hate spending it, even though I somehow find it very easy to do so.  At the moment of course, I am not really able to budget or save or even plan accordingly, as £73 a week is very difficult to spread very far.  I have applied for PIP and am awaiting a decision, though I am doubtful I will be awarded this as I do not have my official Autism diagnosis yet.  To the state, I am just another statistic with apparent anxiety and depression, trying to blag what I can as I am too lazy to get a job.

I do sometimes worry that this is true.  Maybe I don't have Autism, and this journey is just another dead end.  But several immediate family members have received diagnoses, I have all the traits and it makes sense.  This is why I am going down this path.  It might not necessarily be the right one, but I have to try it and see, else I will never know.  Then, maybe I can get the correct tools in place to help me live a normal life.

I actually long to wake up early each morning, to feel bright and excited at the day ahead.  To have breakfast, maybe something fancy like overnight oats, as I am so organised that I will have prepared it the night before.  I would get ready in a nice, matching outfit, from clothing hung on my clothes rail, not found by scrabbling about on the floor.  I would leave the house and go to work without a second thought, no dread entering my head, and looking forward to getting started.

That is just normality for most people, but to me it seems impossible.  I seem to be terrified of routine, and if I know I have to do something, I dread it as if I am going to have all my teeth removed.  Minus anaesthetic.  Even if it's really fun, or nice, or something as simple as going to stay at my Mum's for the night, I cannot cope with the idea of having to do it, and I will start thinking of excuses of how to get out of it from the moment it is arranged.  My little flat is my sanctuary, with my own air and skin cells and probably rancid stench.  But it's my stench, it's overwhelmingly comfortable and I don't want to leave.  The world is horrible, so why would I wish to go out into it?  My pyjamas and leopard print blanket are my shield of steel, staying under here means I can't get judged, or hurt, or misunderstood.

But I know that I can't stay here forever. It's terrifying, but true.  I know I need to change, I am wasting away a potentially good life, and there are many people that would love to be healthy and able bodied such as I am.  The guilt is crushing.  I have a perfectly working body, and mind (albeit it a little bit differently), so just sitting wallowing in my own misery is a stupid and selfish thing to do.  I just need the God damned motivation, self appreciation and support to do this.  But it's not like you can buy that in bloody Asda is it?

I am pushing 40, awaiting an Autism diagnosis, and sat here in my pyjamas on a weekday.  

I am out of work again, probably through choice, definitely through fear.  I haven't worked since March of last year, having felt literally exhausted since then.  I have had a couple of job interviews, but thanks to my lack of eye contact and practicality in answers to questions, I haven't got the roles.  I guess I was kind of relieved however, as maintaining a constant mask of normality all day, every day, is quite frankly terrifying.  I would need to sleep for a week after working one day, let alone going back every day and doing it again.

So, am I just on the scrapheap now?  Can I just not work, destined to be a dole-bludger for the rest of my days?  The Daily Mail would love me.  The ultimate layabout, not 100% British, claiming sick benefits but still managing to go out on the piss at weekends.  I am an embarrassment to society, a scumbag, a lazy fool who just hides behind some kind of illness in order to do absolutely nothing with her life.

It would be great if this were the case.  Well, actually it wouldn't, as I hope I would still have some sort of drive and ability to get myself out of this mess.  I don't think I could ever be happy sat doing nothing.  And as for the benefits side of things, I am currently receiving £73 per week, and I have to decide whether to eat or pay bills.  Or go out on the piss of course, if the Daily Mail were to be believed.

The thing is, I do actually go out and have drinks.  Quite often too.  This totally contradicts myself, well it contradicts the person I am right this second.  The quiet, shy person, sat indoors in mismatched PJs, make-up free and toes in front of the fire.  But alcohol, you see, is the ultimate mask.  Not that I would ever encourage anyone to drink alcohol, or to try and mask any issues they have with that or any substance.  However, for me, all it takes is one glass of wine and I am the same as anybody else in that pub.  Everyone is silly, inappropriate, loud, animated, self-indulgent, happy and daft, so for once, when a little drunk, I do not stand out if I behave in any of those ways.  It's utterly refreshing, and I'm not just talking about the wine!

I can get up and sing karaoke, talk to random people, accept compliments, give compliments, make eye contact, keep eye contact, not even think about bastard eye contact in the first place.  I come across as a normal person, albeit a rather drunk one, but I am in a pub, that is perfectly normal in a pub on a Friday night isn't it?  It's brilliant, and that makes me live for the weekends.  Nobody else seems to understand this, and think that I am just a saddo that stays in doing nothing, counting down the days until the weekend.  They would be entirely correct.  

I could become a raging alcoholic and go out every night, but that wouldn't be right either.  Weekday drinking feels wrong to me, unless it's a special occasion such as a friends birthday.  There is just something magical about a Friday or Saturday night, and having any old reason to use as an excuse to party makes it all the better.  I have actually had parties for my cats birthday, Summer-themed get togethers just because it is Winter, new job parties, sacked from job parties, kitchen parties, bedroom parties (nothing crude, may I add, the living room was just too messy).  I just love any kind of party.  But as long as I am in control, especially lately.  Nowadays, if having gatherings at mine, it is only a select few close friends.  They understand that my house is not perfectly tidy, and that sometimes I can cut the night short without a moment's notice if I feel too overwhelmed.  The same goes with going out, I know that if I start feeling like hell, I can get the hell out of there and back to my sanctuary.

But yes, I do recognise that this is not a healthy lifestyle.  My intelligent brain is rotting away with each moment that I sit here, struck with some kind of agoraphobia at any mention of having to go out to do normal things.  I had to meet my family for lunch the other day and threw up twice beforehand, for example.  I am fully aware that I am wasting my life, I could/should be doing more, that I am ruining all of the most glorious years of my life that I will never get back, etc etc.  These things are said to me often, and this is what makes it all the more crushing.  I want to change so badly, but I really don't know how.  Will having an Autism diagnosis actually even help?  I guess it would give me the actual card so to speak, it would finally answer all of my questions and explain my lifelong behaviours, but then how would I proceed?

It was a conversation with my partner that made me realise that I can't just sit around waiting for this damned diagnosis, I have to understand myself right now and work out how I can achieve the thing I want, around my condition, and not letting it determine me.  I know he was trying to be helpful and constructive, but naturally at first we had a blazing row about him not understanding me.  He doesn't, and probably never will, but he is right.  This diagnosis is going to take over a year in total, at least, as my local M.H services are typically exhausted and underfunded, so I can't just hang around watching David Dickinson in my slippers, waiting for some kind of life changing miracle to happen, can I?

So what is the next step for me?  I don't actually have a clue.  Everything is overwhelming, like a giant unsorted pile of wires.  I know I can sort them, and they can be sorted, but just looking at them, all mixed up and intertwined, makes me shudder.  

Where do I start?  

How do normal people choose handbags?  Normal people, that have normal tastes.  How do they determine one from the next?

The same goes with all clothes really. If everything is the same, how do you choose?

I saw on TV earlier that someone had bought a gift of a white handbag for their friend. Just a plain white handbag, and she said "it's so you, I knew you'd love it."

But how can a plain white handbag be specifically identified as being part of someone's style, when they are all the same?

I don't get it.

midden

/ˈmɪd(ə)n/ noun

a dunghill or refuse heap.

I have my very own midden.  I am sitting next to it at the moment.  I had never even heard of that word, until my friend used it in reference to the pile of junk that seems to accumulate wherever I sit.

No matter how many times I tidy my midden, it slowly creeps back up again, rendering one seat of the sofa useless, and sucking items in like a void of chaos.  Currently, my midden consists of:

2x Bras

1x Bobble hat

2x Handbags

A large stack of miscellaneous paperwork

3x Empty packaging

4x Empty crisp packets

3x Empty tobacco pouches

1x Multipack of hair grips

1x Pink make up bag

1x Hare Krishna "The Higher Taste" book

Multiple fake nails

4x Odd socks

1x Passport

4x Gel nail varnish

I will stop there, mainly as those are the only things that I can still identify.  Trust me, it will have increased by later on, as it resumes sucking up everything in its path.  Maybe it might swallow me too?  Lost in the midden, drowning in crisp crumbs, loose baccy and hair grips.  That would be a horrible way to go.

I have tried everything to stop this evil midden.  I have tried using boxes, with the idea of stuff going into the box instead, but now I have many full boxes and still a midden.  I have sorted and tidied it, cleared it all out and hoovered underneath.  But it creeps back in again, one brassiere at a time.

I am considering making friends with it.  After all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and all that.  But I don't appear to have much in common with it (other than being a bloody mess), it confuses me, and it probably smells.  Its contents does not really have anywhere else to go either, it's just comprised from miscellaneous stuff, so even if I did go into full battle with the original midden, then it would simply regrow somewhere else.

It's a hell of a task, I tell you.