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!