Revolutions!

Well, finally made some progress on this old writing malarkey:

We are delighted to let you know that your story has made it through the selection process for the REVOLUTIONS anthology and that we would love to publish it.
Please find attached our standard publishing agreement. If you could sign this and return it to us as soon as possible, that would be awesome. We are in the process of finishing the galley proofs. Once we have them, we will send you a copy.
Your author name on the manuscript is SK Harrison. If you would like us to publish your work under a different name, please let us know at this time.
Also, if possible, please supply us with a short biography. Just a paragraph about yourself with any links to websites, blogs etc.
Again, thanks for such a great story!
Kind regards,
Craig, Graeme and Eric
The Editors

Very happy with this because I've had fuck all published in a while. Mostly due to churning out utter shite and not looking at things objectively. 

So, hopefully with this boost I can pull my finger out and raise the bar on other writing projects. Stop settling for what I think is okay and really rip apart everything I type, trying to make something that I would be proud for anyone to read. 


Neversettle. Ironically the name of the WiFi network I'm currently connected to... 

#unleashthebeast

These Monster energy drinks may not be good for me...

Bolton Food and Drink Festival

Enjoyed the splishy-splashy rain during the culinary delights of Bolton.

After being accosted by some amorous street performers as French chefs, The Boyfriend and I managed the swarms of people, puppies, and kids. There were Chinese noodles, Mexican nachos, Polish sausages, Spanish churros, Fish 'N' Rice, and unusual meat burgers. Plus artisan stalls selling handmade soaps (got a nice goat's milk and aloe vera bar that is supposedly very good for soothing skin), carved wooden figures, handmade jewellery, and, strangely, knock-off Adidas tracksuits with the logo replaced with the cannabis leaf and the word ADDICTED. 

I had a kangaroo burger, which apparently has 2% fat (all that jumping that Skippy does), but tasted very rich (apparently like venison?). 

I nipped into WHSmiths to grab a travel book for a holiday next year, and a little old member of staff on the basement floor saw me browsing for some time, saw me grab the book I wanted and make for the lift. She shouted at me to stop and asked where I was going. 

Me: Upstairs. To pay. 

Her: No. You pay here. 

Me: No, I'm getting some drinks upstairs as well.  

Her: You put it in this basket now. Before you go.

I dutifully put the book in the shopping basket and scowled all the way in the lift. I grabbed the bottles of pop and mentioned to the cashier I felt a little insulted that I'd been treated like a potential shoplifter. I said I'd regularly been in the shop to get books from the basement and preferred to pay in one hit upstairs so I could look at magazines and get my favoured energy drinks. I said I appreciated she was watching the store on a busy day, but frankly, an older couple or professionally-dressed person would not have been questioned (I have tattoos, wear jeans and have a fade on the side of my head). To my surprise, the cashier was angry and said, 'Oh, yeah, I know her,' and radioed for the manager who turned up straight away. I reiterated my confusion/anger and he also seemed angry. I basically summed it up as, 'I'm a professional adult who has no need or desire to shoplift and I very much resent the stereotyping.'

Bit odd. But there we go. Some older generations see me and think, 'Scruff.' Some older generations smile at me and say how much they like my tops. Mad. 

So, here's some pretty pictures to show how nice the rest of the day was.

Hospicable

This is a long post, I'm afraid.

So, I've been ill. Two Wednesdays ago, I had quite epic D and V followed by generalised stomach pains. I saw a GP registrar on Thursday about getting some repeat meds and mentioned the D&V, nausea, and that the pain had moved to my right lower side. He just mumbled about seeing how it went. By Thursday evening, I was in agony and crying, in between taking codeine and paracetamol. By Friday, it was hard to walk and coming back from the cornershop I had to stop and was doubled over in pain. So, succumbed to my health anxiety and called NHS Direct. They called an ambulance.

I was taken through to the Red Zone of A&E, had blood taken, and had a cannula placed quite violently in my arm. They prodded my stomach and said they'd refer me to surgery for suspected appendicitis. But I didn't mind too much, because they gave me IV morphine.

Wow.

Everything became soft and gentle, and I remember my thoughts being pink. Every sound coming from Resus sounded far away and I remember smiling and having no pain at all. I didn't care what was wrong with me at all.

Four hours later, I was wheeled up to the Surgical Assessment Unit. A nice nurse chatted to me and I was quite upset and scared and was pulling my hair out. I was given codeine and my diazepam. I didn't sleep well as a Healthcare Assistant kept hiding in the bay I was in to use her mobile. She was obviously not meant to do this, as she kept hiding her phone when other staff came near. Myself and another patient gaped at her. I filmed it on my phone. I was on Nil By Mouth until 10pm when I saw a junior doctor who said I'd probably just pulled my muscles from the D&V. Then I got toast. Then I was told from 4am I'd be Nil By Mouth again for an ultrasound the next day.

Saturday, my back seemed to lock up and I had trouble walking and it was very tender to touch. When breakfast arrived, the new nurse in charge (who looked very happily stupid) said I could eat. I had a little bit of cereal and then a doctor appeared who said I should be Nil By Mouth. I yelled at the nurse as it would delay my scan. She said it would happen later in the morning. Dinnertime it hadn't and I wasn't allowed to eat or have anything more than sips of water. I felt awful. By night, I was told my scan had been cancelled so I could eat. But I could only manage a little bit. I was angry that plans were being changed and no one was keeping me up to date. I screamed when the nurse 'reassuringly' patted my arm and I yanked out more hair. She backed away and then started burbling about an injection everyone had to have to stop blood clots. I was already upset and I couldn't understand. I went outside and came back and lay on the bed with my hood over my face. I'd bought a £10 Big Bundle TV card, good for 24 hours, and vaguely remember watching Meet The Goldbergs, The Big Bang Theory, and Big Hero 6. The nurse came back, gave me another codeine and left. Later, I went into agony and was given OraMorph. The night nurse discovered that my cannula was bent where it had been put in and it later just fell out of my vein. Now have a nice painful lump there.

Sunday, I was screaming the ward down for morphine. I had an ultrasound. There was no female chaperone. I didn't like this, but the porter for radiography was very nice and actually made me laugh, which was a real boost.

But then the surgeon came with the results. Not serious news, but unknown to me. Ovarian cysts. He was very cavalier about it, said no point in operating and spoke very quickly. I asked him to slow down or write it down as I have problems processing verbal information quickly. He wouldn't. I asked about fertility and he just shrugged and said I should ask a gynaecologist.

I limped off the ward in tears and phoned Mum. I was terrified. I didn't know how they could be sure the cysts were benign, if I meant I could have children. I shouted that if he'd been told there was a lump in his bollocks he'd be pretty scared. She calmed me down and told me to get the nurse (nicer than Saturday's) to slowly explain to me. The nurse did and told me to stop pulling out my hair. She gave me printed information on cysts and calmed me down. I messaged female friends and turned out a few of them had had them and said it was common, had had some pain when they 'burst' and had had problems conceiving, but that had conceived.

I had morphine and slept for an hour and then felt happy and trippy and read and wrote quietly. With just enough internet signal and a morphine high I ended up ordering kawaii handmade jewellery on etsy.com for a few hours and enjoyed re-reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History. I appear to have ordered a custom junk food charm bracelet, a Chuck Palahniuk quote engraved aluminium wrist band, a “Valar Morghulis” necklace, some skateboard stickers for my Kindle, and Harry Potter necklace for my friend's birthday. I think.

At about 3am after seeing a nice junior doctor, who said the surgeon hadn't been professional with me. The new ward staff were nice and treated me with kid gloves. I finally went to sleep around 4am after they gave me morphine to induce sleep.

Monday, I woke up with the worst migraine I'd had in a year. I screamed for morphine for an hour and half, but there was only one qualified nurse on the ward. Mum called in the middle and she was furious so called the ward to complain and explain my problems. Finally I got morphine and Imigran and fell asleep. Getting the Imigran was difficult. They knew it was with me and locked up by my bed, but I was wasn't written up for it. The nurse showed me the chart and I said I knew all that and that because it was mine I was allowed to self-administer. She said that was right. I asked then why didn't she just get the keys and let me do that? She sighed and did so. 

Woke up and then needed more morphine. Had to lie with a t-shirt over my eyes and a cold can of Coke on my head. Yelled at a healthcare assistant who came to make a bed and left a radio on. A surgeon came to see me and said I needed a CT scan as the back pain could be kidney problems. He told the staff to draw all the curtains and turn off as many lights as possible, which I appreciated.

I was injected with a dye, which made my insides feel very very hot. Then my stomach was scanned. When I sat up, I threw up 800ml of water and orange juice. This actually helped my migraine a lot. By now I was written up for regular morphine and looking at my chart, had had it increased from 5ml to 10ml to 20ml every four hours. I slept well that night.

On Tuesday, I was told my CT scan was normal, but my right leg was puffing up as I'd been dragging it due to back pain. I was given another blood clot injection and told to bend my leg more. A junior doctor checked my legs and back and said there was no point referring me to orthopaedics as it would take awhile. So, I was to be discharged with lots of painkillers, see how I went over the next week and see my GP to discuss a gynaecological consult and physiotherapy. Then we had this awkward conversation:

Me: Umm, before I came in I was having...pain...during...sex. So, with this cyst how long should I, umm, wait? 

Him: Well, I'd ease into it, if I was you... 

Me and Him: [sniggers] 

Him: But, no, you're not going to do any damage if you have intercourse so, you know, just, umm, when you're ready [smacks fist into palm] go for it. 

Me: [laughs my head off]

The nurse in charge was so nice and friendly that day and it made me happier. But she was furious when the junior doctor disappeared for four hours and didn't answer the phone to sort out my discharge. She said for me to go outside to calm down so I wouldn't yank out my hair.

A strange thing happened. The nurse told me that as I had run out of cigarettes, to take 10p out with me to see if I could buy one off someone. The man I saw wouldn't take my money, but rolled me a cigarette and then rolled another without asking and said I'd probably want it later. I was genuinely touched. Then a man he knew came outside. This man's partner had just given birth to twins. The man who rolled my cigarettes, his wife was in surgery for breast cancer. The new father had no idea. There was a strange moment, opposite ends of the spectrum of life. I left them to it.

When I got back upstairs, the Ward Sister had chased down the doctors and had my paperwork and meds ready. The lovely nurse gave me a hug, which I didn't mind too much, and I gave her some chocolate. The Boyfriend picked me up and couldn't stop kissing and hugging me. We went to his Mum's and his brother and his girlfriend were there and it was nice to see people I knew and enjoy my trippy morphine high around friends.

Later, The Boyfriend was what we call 'goo-goo' and followed me around and kept cuddling me. We'd really missed each other. I felt overwhelmingly happy to be home. The Boyfriend had gotten me a pretty 'festival-esque' watch, which looks great.

Today, I am trying to move around more and ignore my health anxiety about my right calf being a bit swollen. It must be from lying around for so long. The morphine makes my pain all but disappear and make me at first tired and then strangely creative.

What I have learnt from this is that hospital staff, for the most part, know what autism is, but don't know how to communicate with someone who is high-functioning. They don't know they should keep someone up to date, even if there's no new news, inform about changed plans, and don't touch without asking. And always give written info. I have contacted NAS and will fill in a “Hospital Passport” form that would explain my needs should I need to go to hospital again.

So, stressful, lost a fair amount of hair, and in slightly less pain than what I went in with. But, just happy to be home and around familiar things.

What is quite horrible is that I know that when I have a meltdown, I must look as though I am twelve and throwing a tantrum. In my world, my head, it feels like a change in my routine = end of the world, everything is destroyed and I have no idea what comes next. It is so out of proportionate, yet it is very characteristic of this brain thing. What I really want to learn is how to 'shut down' quick enough so that these incidents can stop happening. It's embarrassing. 

Terrifying Nights

I'm terrified. 

I've lived in this house with The Boyfriend for six months. Three times (one just now) I thought I was definitely awake because the bedroom looked exactly the same and I could see The Boyfriend sleeping. I don't remember falling asleep, mostly because I was in the same position. Always this has been in the early hours of the morning. 

I became aware of something in the room by my side of the bed that frightened me, perhaps a shadow. I wasn't/didn't think I was paralysed because I was screaming at The Boyfriend for help and even hitting and scratching him to wake him up. 

Then I felt a very hard poke in the ribs. 

I hit The Boyfriend very hard and the next thing he was awake, but said he hadn't poked me nor did he remember me hitting him, only that I was thrashing around. 

I'm not going back to sleep.

What is this? I want it to be Sleep Paralysis, but I don't understand the absolute certainty that I was fighting and screaming for help. 

Could it be Night Terrors? I've been under massive stress, predominantly medical, since moving. But surely I'm far too old for them?

I'm fairly logical (though prefer to "pass" as someone quirky, etc) so even though it felt like a demon or ghost, how can it possibly be? 

I'm on the verge of seeing my doctor (who will probably sigh and tell me to take paracetamol) or call a priest (even though I'm not religious).

Now I'm chugging caffeine with the lights on and going to read a "fluffy" book on my Kindle. I'm envying The Boyfriend who has fallen back asleep upstairs and is snoring contentedly. 

UV

I discovered a quite wonderful term today in Rayne Hall's Writing Dark Stories: How to Write Horror and Other Disturbing Short Stories:

SPLATTERPUNK:This type of horror relies on extreme violence and graphic gore. There may be detailed descriptions of dismemberments, chainsaw massacres and disembowellings. Splatterpunk aims to shock, revolt and terrify. It seeks to create an immediate intense experience, rather than a lasting impression.

Basically, what we call 'Torture Porn' in films such as the Saw franchise.

This sounds exactly like the kind of stories I was writing at the age of ten in school, which had my parents hauled into school by a concerned teacher. An insane farmer running around with chainsaws killing his family and so forth. Maybe that's why I now enjoy watching Wire In The Blood and Dexter. Who knows.

So, I decided to try to return to my childhood roots and write a very nasty story. With a nice cold glass of Moloko Plus to inspire the ultraviolence.*

This is what my brilliant plotting actually says:

An Awesome Splatterpunk Story
1. There's this girl. She's alrite.
2. She wants to join this group, yeah? They won't let her.
3. She proves herself. Turns out the group is baaad.
4. 2,000 words of ultraviolence
5. There's this Obstacle.
6. Then there's this Twist.
7. It ends brilliantly.

* Recipe courtesy of The Geeky Chef Cookbook by Cassandra Reeder. Her outstanding blog can be found at www.geekychef.com

What I Did On My Summer Holidays

[In the spirit of so many of friend's Facebook albums being dedicated to exotic and exciting holidays, here is my own Summer Holiday Essay]

Wow! Arrived in sunny Farnworth today and was gratified to see there was only 30% cloud cover. I'm so lucky!

I listened to the harmonising of sirens go back and forth to the local A&E department and gazed up at a heat-seeking helicopter that appeared to circle the estate. I couldn't hear birds, but at least four different dogs were barking and being told to, 'Shut the fook up!'

The boiler was temperamental and required running down the stairs in a towel to work some dial magic to make the water hot. But eventually I was able to wash my hair with a bottle of Head Strong shampoo, Aldi's finest. 

I visited the local convenience store and was brightened by the range of re-heated pasties, burgers, and chicken fillets. I marvelled that somewhere could sell such low price food with no allergen information or reference to Halal or Kosher. Such simpler ways!

On a Sunday, nothing else is open (not even the famous Pound Bakery!), so I was treated to the local area in all its relaxed splendour. Last night's abandoned scratchcards, bottles, and vomit lined the comfortably wide ginnels on my return to the house.

The day passed more slowly (some would say boringly, but I wouldn't!) and I sat on a warm patch of concrete, drinking a nice cold glass of water that had been boiled to eradicate the recent outbreak of the parasite cryptosporidium. 

That evening I retired to a leg of lamb with lashings of Smart Price ketchup and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of my neighbours snoring through the party wall. 

Discover this gem of the North-West before too many tourists get here!!

Here are my photos from this glorious day:

My arrival on Devil's Road!

A local beauty spot.

The local artwork is divine! 

Local cuisine!

The wildlife is endangered.*

It's advisable to take extra medication when you visit!

All mod-cons here!

A typical local sporting event.

Bolton Rail Station is shut every Sunday from now until October so be prepared to be captured by locals.


*Please note. This mouse was already very dead when the photo was taken. Presumably, like rats, it was sick and came out into the open to die just to shit up the neighbours.

Kindling

I did something I thought I'd never do. 

I thought I'd never succumb. 

I stood on my soapbox of battered paperworks and screamed, 'Never!'

I have a Kindle.

Yes. A Kindle. And actually, it's very good. It was a gift from The Boyfriend who gave me the get-out of allowing me to say I didn't like e-readers and that he could return or sell it if so. But the gesture, the intention to help me be more easily distracted, find solace once again in books, was so sweet, so meaningful that I tried it and love it.

It solves the practical issue of book storage. Too many books enter my home and when I move, 50% of the heavy boxes are books. It's a joy to be able to carry dozens (one day thousands) of books in my bag, rather than commit to one paperback I can read quickly and its cover gets shredded by pulled in and out of my bag. It keeps me occupied on those long, long bus journeys and any shift work that comes my way. The Kindle books are a bit cheaper than hardcopies, which on a budget helps. But I want authors to make as much money as they can in such an unstable publishing era...

There is an ever raging debate about whether e-books provide a good income stream for authors. I don't know. I know as a reader, I have found more things accessible. Magazines that were only stocked in perhaps two places in the whole of Manchester I can have at a click of the big black BUY button. 99p books make me swoon, though I can't vouch yet for the quality of them.

Some books that went out of print decades ago have not resurfaced as e-books, which is a shame. 

My little library will never be replaced. Some books remain most beautiful in hardcopy, especially as hardbacks. But if it can stop the influx of books eating into the corners of my living room, then so be it. 

And it will help my postie's back a bit.

Shortlisted

I am officially on the shortlist for an anthology of Manchester-linked short stories, being edited by The Manchester Speculative Fiction Group, entitled Revolutions! with my story 'Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want' - yes, a Smiths lyric. How clever.

I've bounced off a longer short story to a magazine I greatly enjoy, but the chances are never great as I think my style is not their style. As evidence, so far they have rejected me 5 times. But, still, I try. So very few short story magazines out there.

Another entry for the end of this month ready to be emailed off, once some little Sharpie drawings have been scanned, Photoshopped, and put together nicely.

A big short story competition the same time every year rolls around. Bugger that if I'm entering again. It's very...high-brow. In other words, I don't understand any of the damn stories that win. Are they meant to be so obtuse, to have no undercurrent of tension, no discernible resolution? Is that a publishable short story? Am I muppet for not understanding them? In that case, I'm fucked so I'll save myself £17 and not enter.

I am 50+ words into a novel. Again. I write quickly, but this does not make for good writing. It makes for great fun, great brain-scratching, but more time must be loaded into thought, editing, slowly walking around it and studying it from many angles.

This sudden huge word count has been accomplished simply by scrapping the load of utter, utter crap from the beginning of the year (what was I thinking, seriously?), realising what was just padding, and how the same scenes, the same middle of each 'novel' is always the same, whatever plot I employ. This is a story I feel I have to write, and write correctly, so that I can stop circling around it and write something NEW! Imagine: the same damn story in your head for years that you can't purge. Like a reoccurring boil that you finally realise needs a surgical excision. 

It is frightening how very, very wrong you can be about a novel's potential, about its readibility, even its credibility. Rose-tinted glasses perched on a nose shoved against the page. You don't see anything except one damn word at a time.

Shakey Shakey

After ten months, the report from the consultant I saw in October finally arrived. Pretty much exactly what he summarised at the end of the appointment. Battery of tests indicate IQ in the top 2-3%, motor skills and visual processing in the high-normal range, but understanding emotions/hinting exercises very very low. He concluedes that it is indicative of ASD with possible underlying epilepsy-migraine complex. No evidence to support schizophrenia, bipolar, or a personality disorder.

So, makes sense and good that WonderWoman from the mental health team has made my ASD referral (possibly being seen in September). Also, saw a random GP who agreed to arrange an EEG for epilepsy and the 'possible significant neurological loss' caused by head injuries.

Things move forward. Still end up curled up on the floor when I had to email letting agents to see how we go about arranging a tenancy renewal. I came out of it eventually because I understood:

1) We have never missed rent
2) We passed our 3 month inspection
3) We have no record of antisocial behaviour
4) We have not been served with a notice to evict

So, groundless anxiety. Yet today, my debit card went wonky in the shop and declined. Cue suspicious looks from staff. Quickly checked balance outside and everything normal. Decided chip may have been wearing out. Then immediately get text from bank about weird transactions. Luckily the bank is so good no money was lost and card is blocked off and new one being sent out. Bizarrely this caused only physical anxiety (severe shakes), but I have managed to rationalise it all so that I am not crying or ripping out chunks of my hair.

Now, after a weird start to the day, back to bouncing between three story ideas. I lack focus. 

Also, I won £4 on a £2 scratchcard so that ain't bad.

Skin Deep

Nothing more romantic than getting scarred with your partner.

Last week, The Boyfriend and I were at Vida Loca Tattoos in Bolton getting inked. 

No, not matching tattoos and not each other's names i.e. "the kiss of death".

I now have a Game of Thrones quote (from beloved Tyrion)...

..and The Boyfriend had his final sitting of his Hulk piece. We are itchy and covered in Bepanthan.

Interestingly, we both established a good rapport with our artists. The Boyfriend had his done by Jamie and they chatted about art and whatnot. Becci did mine and she was a lovely soft spoken girl with a kick-ass attitude. With a love of comics and games, I had to resist blurting out, "I'm new to this town. Be my friend!"

But as a woman in a still mostly male industry I could tell she was hacked off that a lot of 'feminine' tattoos were coming her way: script, cats, flowers, etc. She wants to do big, cool pieces. So, when I'm ready to say goodbye to the clearness of my outer calf, she can do a big, beautiful piece of art down it.

Comic-Con

Manchester MCM Comic-Con 2015 (Saturday 26 July)

Geek heaven. 

Stalls. Robot Wars. Comic Village. Cuddly Toys. Canvases. Jewellery. Bullet carving. Meet and Greets. USA candy.

Found some sellers, such as Geek La Chic, Cakes With Faces, and Tokyo Toys, who all could have just taken my money once I saw the dreaded WE ACCEPT DEBIT AND CREDIT CARD signs.

I met the very dry Stuart Ashen and got my bootleg t-shirt signed. I bought prints from independent artists. I bought Pop Vinyl figures from Funko Toys. 

There was Marvel. DC. A lot of anime and manga. 

There was severe social anxiety. Having to walk out for air, then all around and back to get in was stressful. A lot of people were browsing and mingling and the crush and noise was brain-splitting.

By the end, I was worn out and a bit tearful. But I did it and am very glad I got to go to a large public event.

There was some amazing cos-play and even though the queuing system was a bit scrambled, it went smoothly. Except for forgetting which NCP the car was parked in.

The artist @TheKangel had drawn some art that gave me the biggest laugh all day. Very funny (see first image). And The Boyfriend sang me The Jigglypuff Song to get me to sleep after massaging my aching flat feet.

Crap Tattoos and Great CPNs

Can't quite believe it. Had my appointment with the Single Point Access Team and The Boyfriend came with me. The mental health nurse actually listened to us. 

She heard how I was struggling and becoming more ritualistic and frustrated, that our relationship was solid, but we needed help to keep me even and also support for The Boyfriend if he was worried. He spoke to her about how I can be mute for two days after a meltdown. She gave us space to weigh up support options and said she'd spoken to my GP surgery and agreed with our perception that the secretaries were unhelpful (they won't even look at my paper notes to help me) and said she'd do my ASD referral (6-7 weeks) and would do my C+ pass renewal form (something my GP's just won't do as it's "too complicated").

This has lifted a lot of stress for us. Someone has finally heard us and is in our/my corner and hopefully this will lead to some good support and help me dial down my anxiety and rituals and keep me out of a ward. 

A change of environment has been so hard. But GPs who are nice to people that go in with physical problems and abrasive to people with mental health issues/development disorders is way out of line. And not having repeat medications ready on time is plain poor organisation. 

In other news, we walked past The Bolton Tat Shop and saw this in the window.

Why would you put this up? The other examples were pretty good. This linework looks a bit shaky. And there's a missing letter in 'noticed'...

This is the original image, courtesy of Google.

Look at it!

Just...ouch.

Tsundoku

FINALLY! Something that combines my Japanophile/Nipponophile tendencies and my obsession with hunting and buying 'perfect book'...and then not reading it, but piling it up with other such Amazon and Waterstone's purchases. 

It frightens me how many books are waiting. Some unemployed booklovers might love this situation. Just sit and read. But between acting like some sort of 1950s housewife and doing job application after job application (for some reason people don't want to hire someone who has longstanding mental health issues...) there are not enough hours in the day. 

And, unfortunately, I am in the obsessive state whereby any remotely interesting DVD or book triggers ideas in my head that drives me to the laptop, but I can't focus enough because of the itchy brain. So it feels very...squashed in my head. Too many brilliantly put together stories out there at the moment and my brain can't filter out what is entertainment and what is inspiration.

Such terrible, terrible problems, I know.

In other news, I'm on Twitter now. For some reason, with the ability to tweet a celebrity, I thought it was some massive version of Facebook where everyone carried on conversations. 

Nope. I have tweeted Masie Williams, Jasper Fforde, Matt Haig, Augusten Burroughs, Jon McGregor and Ryu Murakami and got bugger-all back. But with 50k+ followers in some instances, this does make sense.

It's also very unnerving when random people 'follow' you. Usually they're writers who have just broken into a publishing contract and looking for exposure. Fair does. I'd do the same. My friend's eleven-year old recently decided to follow me and I made the very correct decision to make sure his Mum was okay with this. She is and frankly, this is a cool kid (comics, rollercoasters, travelling) with cool writer parents and I'm quite nice and don't swear on Twitter.

So, a run-down of the week. Mental health team appointment, job interview, family occasion, Comic-Con, tattoo appointment. Busy busy. But that ain't bad. Nice to have a routine for the next seven days that starts scarily and ends happily.

Scratch It

The brain is terribly itchy tonight. I feel pressure. I am 30 and baby talk is on the cards. I love kids, want kids, but I want to grow more before I sacrifice so much alone time and be ready to pass on wisdom and provide kids with security. 

My brain tells me that to succeed in writing I have to not sleep and carry on. This will make me feel dreadful by 6am. The Boyfriend holds me and massages my head. I chatter of my theories. I browse Amazon, Etsy and Firebox for the perfect presents for upcoming birthdays. I worry about an upcoming job interview. 

I fret about my worsening headaches. I fret about my recently bereaved mother. I fret about my wish-career. I fret that I appear to have no friends I see regularly. I fret about caffeine, carbohydrates, cigarettes. I fret I am just Bridget Jones.

I breathe. This is just a rough night. This is, strangely, normal and therefore not really a problem. Just my life as it stands and I have to work hard to reign in the itchiness. 

I watch Big Bang, I take the diazepam, and try not to have an original thought. 

All Of My Flaws

After an appointment with the local mental health team following a transfer to a new county and thus a new GP surgery, I wasn't feeling all that good. Upshot is the mental health team won't take me on. On one side good as it means less poking. On the other bit of a problem if things go wrong. 

So, this meant a lot of nonstap chattering at The Boyfriend and worrying if we would cope just the two of us if I went into crisis. He was scared. I was scared and scared for his emotions. In the car we drifted into silence. It was worrying. 

Then Bastille's 'Flaws' came on and we cracked up. It was very appropriate and suddenly we were okay again. And I realised I will do anything to fight for this relationship. Now my health is not just for me, but for him, for us.

I don't know what will happen next. I know my ASD referral went to a commissioner and her report was sent to my new GP's. They haven't got it yet. I worry. I don't 'want' this diagnosis. I want clarification so I can understand the past and move forward with less confusion on my part and on medics' parts. Now I function better, some friends now judge that nothing was ever wrong. That the doctors got it wrong and I pretended. This hurts. I wish for them to have seen me when I was and am too scared to go outside, open a letter, answer a phone, or unable to explain the rolling itchiness in my brain. 

Oh, they say I look 'well' now. They mean I have a tan. This apparently means nothing is wrong. 

The Rejection Reaction

It's that time of year when the rejection slips have started hitting my inbox. I am unsurprised, mostly because I see that my last attempt was very much me trying to cram all my ideas and interests into a Word document and pass it off as a novel. My brain has its deep-rooted interests and I find it hard to commit to one thing. I want a a bulging word count of all things that fascinate me. 

This creates a book that is just too...weird to guarantee enough people will buy it, read it, recommend it. Or weird, but also too scattered. I take it on the chin. I learn that once you put out something to be read by a professional, it turns on a light for you and you see its lack of marketability. I learn.

And then I start another. I have a compulsive need to write. I have stories that I am tinkering with already earmarked as to which publication I'll send them to. I have a 'great' idea for another book. A great big mess. But no matter. I enjoy doing it. I don't think, based on feedback, that the syntax is dreadful. More my plotting ability may be so. But I enjoy the fight to be 'a real writer'. 

The latest two rejection slips. Let's look at the encouragement/fuck-off, shall we?

"[...] is not quite the right fit"

=

"This is weird. This makes no sense. Why in God's name did you send this to us?!"

"We have to be highly selective"

=

"You are not in the top percentage of people who qualify as professional."

"We are replying as soon as possible to give you the best chance of finding the right agent."

=

"We don't know who in God's name will sign you, but it sure as hell won't be us."

"Another agent may well feel differently."

=

"Another agent would be a mug to think you have a shot."

Am I disheartened? Nah. I try to find humour in most things. If I can't laugh at my own failures, 'tis a sad existence I would be living. 

Let's keep those e-mails coming! 

Another Label, Another Med

This has been a couple of gruelling weeks.

I saw my shrink who decided that whilst I was waiting to see if I'd be assessed for autism, she would diagnose Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder due to my ritualistic behaviour. 

Are shrinks on commission if they 'find' a new diagnosis? 

She prescribed agomelatine (initially she wanted me back on an antipsychotic just for sleep, but I said no way. The side effects aren't worth it) for sleep and to calm the 'OCD' tendencies. For a couple of days, I slept better. Then on day 4, I became very hyper and by day 5 was running and dancing around a supermarket. By the evening, I felt restless and aggressive. The Boyfriend held out his palms for me to punch to get the aggression out, but the only thought in my head was that I wanted to beat the shit out of him. This was extremely distressing as I love him very much; I think it was because he was the only other person in the room. So, I stopped taking it and after a few days calmed down.

I saw my GP today who said my shrink should stop throwing medications at me as they rarely agree with me and if it is autism, it can't be drug-treated.

So, tired and nervy. Moving soon and the packing is nearly done. Letting agents did a viewing while I was out and when they left, didn't double-lock the door or set the alarm. Cue anxiety. 

The Days Are Long

I really need a job. The lack of routine is crucifing my sleep cycle and I have so little motivation that I buy desired books and then have no interest in reading them. And I'm the proverbial bookworm. 

People viewing the flat is unsettling me and reminds me of all the change that is coming. Part of the day I feel low, but I know it can't be depression as I know I'lI perk up when I hear about my referral/job applications/get the keys for new place.

Just bouncing through days of nothing interspersed with boxsets.

There is no point to this post. I just hate change and lack of routine and it's making me jumpy.

True Gent

Well, today I opened a large box from the US from Chuck Palahniuk's agent's offices. I was stunned. Alongside a personal letter were all sorts of lovely gifts, including a necklace made by him of stones he's found and also stones recycled from his mother's jewellery. 

Amongst a box of Ouija mints and bacon strip plasters, was a black skull money bank that he suggested I put ideas in, like he does. A very creative use for a money bank and you can just shake out scraps of ideas when you're stuck. Inspired! 

Thank you, Chuck. You didn't have to do this, but you did. You gent.

Five Months In

1 October 2014

A consultant raises the possibility that my mental health issues may in fact be undiagnosed Asperger's. Recommendation to be tested.

28 October 2014

Neurological/Cognitive testing strongly indicates autism spectrum disorder. 

15 December 2014

GP makes a request for funding for diagnostic assessment. 

22 January 2015

GP asked to do a short AQ-10 with me. Score = 9/10. 6+ needed for diagnostic consideration. 

02 March 2015

GP completes more detailed referral form sent by testing centre to secure funding. Apparently I lack social imagination i.e. all my stories are loosely wrapped things I see (characters wear or have the same possessions as me) and even though I've known this city for 11+ years I can rarely think of anything to go or do that isn't outside my routine of going to the same supermarket everyday. Unless someone says 'Cinema' or 'Bookshop'. And why I can copy a detailed comic book page almost flawlessly, but can't draw from imagination. And here I thought I was creative. 

This seems a very long road, but if it clears up the uncertainty of how I see the world, gives me ideas to avoid obsession/rituals/meltdowns, and wipes off BPD, bipolar, and schizophrenia from my file, it's worth it. 

Please Block NHS Choices From My Phone

Having a cold at 20:

"Ahh, I'll take some Beechams, maybe chill for a day, but I'll just carry on. Isn't my red nose funny? What's a smartphone?"

Having a cold at 30:

"I'm dying. I'm going to sneeze/vomit my brains up. I have a brain tumour/Addison's/fetus/MS/some sort of blood parasite. WebMD told me."

#NotHypochondriajustGoogleeducated

A Problem Must Always Be Solved

Part of what comes along in the aspie way, is a very strong need to solve any problem that presents itself. Immediately. For example, if I remember I have a book I'd like to skim through for something and can't find it immediately, I will spend around two hours tearing through my flat to find it. The Boyfriend needed sweatpants the other day to chill in and even once he'd put on jeans, I couldn't settle until I'd located said sweatpants, even though he wouldn't be wearing them.

So I have this obsessive/compulsive streak. This proved to have disastrous consequences last night.

Twelve years ago I had my eyebrow pierced and happily, it never grew out. Eighteen months ago I had it taken out by a piercist (I was having a MRI scan soon) who said as I'd had the piercing that long I could easily go three months before it started to close up.

Since then, I've had my piercing in and out, but this time it was out for around six weeks. I tried for ages to get the bar through and wound up giving myself a NEW piercing. I basically forced this tiny bit of metal through my own head, all because I've 're-pierced' before and refused to stop until the job was done. Or it goes wrong and can't be done. 

So, old piercing more or less healed, but aggravated, and an angry new divet in my head. I look like Pinhead.

Luckily the nice people at Holier Than Thou gave me good advice and now have to use healing oils on my perforated eyebrow and then get the original piercing re-done when it's better. All because I have the compulsive need to complete tasks.

And yes, it hurts.

A Surprise In The Inbox

I wrote this email, not expecting a response:


Friday 20 February 2015

"Dear Mr [Chuck Palahniuk's agent],

I hope this email finds you well.

I apologise for writing with a 'fangirl' question, but I wondered if you may be able to answer this for me.

I have read that Chuck Palahniuk prefers to sign prosthetic limbs rather than his fans as people were then getting the signature tattooed. I also read that a possible reason for this is the worry of Sharpie ink entering the skin. I know someone who has a signed letter from Chuck. Would he still discourage his signature from that as a tattoo for them?

Also, I've been a fan of Chuck Palahniuk since I was a teenager and am now 30 and still follow his work. Seeing him read in the UK at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation (and listening to him read 'Romance') was possibly the highlight of my year. I'm looking forward to 'Make Something Up'.

With best wishes, 

SK Harrison"


Sunday 22 February 2015

"Dear Ms. Harrison,

Can you let us have your mailing address as Mr. Palahniuk would like to send you a gift.

Thank you.

[Chuck Palahniuk's agent]"

Wahooo!!!!