one hundred

Hi there, and welcome to my 100th post! I feel like I should have prepared something, possibly the blog equivalent of slightly burned cake with sprinkles on it.

I'm not even sure how to start writing again. Over the last few months I've written and deleted the beginnings of about a dozen draft posts that I got a few sentences into and gave up on. As soon as I got to a point where I wasn't a hundred per cent sure what word would come next and I'd have to stop and make a choice, it was like someone chucked a black cloth over the birdcage of my brain (yeah, you hear that? You're a BIRDCAGE) and everything would just... stop working.

ME: It's OK, we can skip over that word and come back to it later.
BRAIN: No. Done now.
ME: But I want to write.
BRAIN: WE ARE DONE. Now are you going to back away from the blog or do I have to send in the Wave of Inexplicable Hopelessness?
ME: But...
BRAIN: UNLEASHING THE WAVE
ME: Everything is useless.
BRAIN: That's better.

I will get over this. But not the way my brain is telling I will; i.e. by staying completely silent until PERFECTION happens. It will happen by posting things like this, because I promised myself I would write and I have. It will happen by showing myself every day that, yes, I can write, and yes, I can share it. It will happen by looking back over several dozen entries and seeing my voice getting stronger, watching my writing come back to life. And where my writing goes, the rest of me will follow.

PLAN

So, this is what's been happening since the last time I wrote a proper post:

- I have been on long-term sick leave for four months
- I have tried three different types of anti-depressant, none of which have worked
- I have basically subsisted entirely on cereal, brownies and cheese
- I have cut out most of my regular activities because seeing people is terrifying
- I have, on occasion, refused to go down the stairs in my own house because of non-specific terror
- I have been completely unable to write because all the words look wrong
- I have got quite sick of all the above but not felt able to do anything about it
- I have not been having very much fun at all, really

However, over the last few days my brain has seized on to something it's calling my PLAN, very definitely in capital letters but also not standing for anything (Paving Laid for Achieving Newness? Preliminary Lists of Ambitious Notions? Pugs, Limes, Ardbeg, and Netflix? STOP IT JEN this is not a useful way to spend an afternoon). It's quite excited about it and I'm worried it will run out of steam before we get to the important bits. I'm trying to keep it going by eating actual food and not sleeping during the day and possibly coming into contact with other humans, i.e. the exact opposite of what I've been doing since May, because I really want PLAN to work and I want to have the wherewithal and motivation to make it happen.

Boiled down to its essence, PLAN is as follows:

This year: quit job.
Next year: get another.

PLAN is a bit scary. No, PLAN is a lot scary. I've written before about my fear of not being able to get another job, and I've been there for, frankly, years longer than I should have been because it was comfortable and I wasn't exactly sure what I wanted and the money was OK and who else would want you, anyway. But they're not compelling arguments anymore - it's no longer comfortable, sick pay isn't a thing forever. I'm still not sure exactly what I want, but my sights have shifted from "something better" to "something else".

The goal of PLAN is not to find the interesting, highly-paid, conveniently located, work-life balance respectful, wonderful people-filled Unicorn Career of my dreams. It's not even to find a great job, or a good job, or lots of new friends, or an incredible latent talent of some kind that I've managed not to discover up to this point. At its core, PLAN is to get me to a place where I'm comfortable existing in the world again; eating and sleeping on a normal schedule, doing things I enjoy, spending time with people I like, without panic and tension and fear invading it all and sucking all the fun out of life. I will possibly write a bit more about the fear thing, because I think I might make daily blogging a thing again for a while. Either that or I'll just write out a list of all the terrible "how fear feels" metaphors my brain comes up with while trying to write the first sentence.

My doctor's appointment is made. My social life has been scheduled for the rest of the month. All I have to do until October is eat, sleep, write, sew (oh yeah, I do that now) and remain calm in the face of other humans. Here goes.

a short play

Cast

ME, a depressive
BRAIN, an asshole

[Bedroom, 9pm]

BRAIN: I'm tired.
ME: It's only nine.
BRAIN: I said, I'm TIRED.
ME: I'm not going to bed now.
BRAIN: I can't stay awake.
ME: Yeah, right up until I turn the light off, when you suddenly remember a graphic newspaper article from when I was twelve or that time someone shouted at me in the street or when you thought of some really creative ways for people I love to get hurt and for it to be my fault.
BRAIN: Well, we need to be prepared for all the ways people you love might get hurt and it might be your fault. Then it won't be a surprise.

[song interlude]

BRAIN: I'm TIRED.
ME: You've got to wait.

[Bedroom, 11.30pm]

ME: OK, this is more like bedtime. We can...
BRAIN: We should empty the washing machine.
ME: O...K...
BRAIN: It's important.
ME: Remember when you wouldn't let me do any washing for weeks because downstairs was too far away and I still had three pairs of clean pants?
BRAIN: IMPORTANT. WASHING MACHINE.
ME: Fine.
BRAIN: And hang it all up.
ME: Yes.

[washing machine is emptied, contents are hung on clothes horse]

BRAIN: While we're up, this room's a bit of a state.
ME: What, now?
BRAIN: NOW. It's a mess.
ME: Yes, it's a mess. It's always a mess. You look at it and you CAN'T and it's AWFUL and you have to lie down.
BRAIN: This sounds like excuse-making. You're always doing that.
ME: Alright, fine. I'll put a couple of things away.

[an hour later]

BRAIN: This cupboard needs reorganising.
ME: You have got to be kidding.
BRAIN: IMPORTANT. CUPBOARD.
ME: It's 12.30am and the cupboard is fine.
BRAIN: I'm on a roll. Stop complaining. You're always complaining about things that need to be done.
ME: Remember when you wouldn't let me eat because moving was too hard and you might accidentally see some other humans?
BRAIN: You're fine. Stop living in the past.
ME: Uh...
BRAIN: ORGANISE THIS CUPBOARD FULL OF FABRICS AT ONCE.

[organisation happens]

BRAIN: Now for writing.
ME: What?
BRAIN: You should write! You keep saying that!
ME: ...you haven't let me write for over three months.
BRAIN: So you'd better jump on it, hadn't you?

[writing]

ME: Does this mean you're going to let me dance again too?
BRAIN: Let's not go nuts.
ME: But...
BRAIN: I don't like moving. And there are people.
ME: I like people.
BRAIN: Yeah, but let's face it, you're no fun anymore.
ME: Whose fault is that?
BRAIN: This would be a lot easier if you just accept the fact that nobody cares if you're there or not and that moving around is rubbish.
ME: I'd rather not.
BRAIN: Maybe you should clean the carpet.
ME: Maybe you should shut up.
BRAIN: Maybe YOU should shut up. Ever think about that?
ME: Yes.
BRAIN: Good.

[writing finishes]

ME: Now is it bedtime?
BRAIN: You need to make a spreadsheet.
ME: A spreadsheet?
BRAIN: IMPORTANT.
ME: Can't we do that in the morning?
BRAIN: Well, sure, if that's a risk you want to take.
ME: Fine.

[The next morning, 10am]

ME: So, did you want to vacuum the carpet?
BRAIN: I'm TIRED. I was up LATE.
ME: Whose fault is that?
BRAIN: I can't do ANYTHING. Not one thing. Bring me the internet.
ME: But...
BRAIN: IMPORTANT. INTERNET.
ME: I remember when you used to be nice.
BRAIN: Stop living in the past and bring me the internet before I start imagining that you've been locked in a room with your ex for science and all you can do is scream obscenities at him because of all the things he did that I'm about to remind you of.
ME: Yes, yes, alright.
BRAIN: Youtube is soothing.
ME: The room is still kind of a mess.
BRAIN: You made me do THINGS. I'm not doing THINGS again for WEEKS. Remember when we stayed awake every night and watched five hundred videos of improv sketches in a row? Wasn't that great?
ME: It really wasn't.
BRAIN: Those were the days.

[Youtube]

ME: Can we go for a walk?
BRAIN: Ask me again in a week.

scenes from my father

This, as faithfully as I can transcribe it, is what just happened to me.

[I am visiting my parents. We are discussing railways]

Dad: But once it's up and running, people will start moving to Swindon because it's an easier commute to London.
Me: Nobody's going to move to Swindon, Dad.
Dad: You never know. It might undergo a revolution of sorts. If you think back to the mid-nineties when the White Stripes brought stripped-back garage rock into stadia...

[I completely lose it and spend the next five straight minutes laughing my head off]

Mum: There you go, she laughed more than I did!
Dad: I read that phrase in an article about two months ago and I thought it was wonderful. I thought, "I must remember that phrase and say it in front of Jen." I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget.
Me: [continues giggling helplessly]
Dad: I've been trying to work out how to drop it into conversation for the last two hours.
Mum: He's been quite excited about it. He practised on me.
Dad: I just went out to the kitchen to look up the phrase so I'd have it right. I've been wanting to say that in front of you for two months.

[He disappears out to the kitchen and returns with his phone, which has a note on it reading "Mid nineties White Stripes brought stripped back garage rock into stadia"]

Dad: See?
Me: Oh my God, you wrote it on your phone.
Dad: I didn't want to forget it. Such a wonderful phrase.
Me: You compared the White Stripes to Swindon.
Dad: [nods, very pleased with himself]
Me: Do you know who the White Stripes are?
Dad: No! Not a clue! I just thought it was a wonderful phrase.
Mum: Oh, come on. You know about Jack Stripe.
Me: Jack Stripe?
Mum: ...that was the wrong one, wasn't it.

[I collapse into giggles for another five minutes while Mum does an impression of Meg White on the drums.]

Dad: I'm so pleased about this.
Mum: You've made him very happy.

help, or a difficult post

Every year since I was sixteen, I've made ten New Year's Resolutions. At the beginning of the year I write them down, and at the end of the year I go back and see how well I did. For over ten years I posted them in my OpenDiary - last year's resolutions with short commentary on how many I kept and what I did, and a fresh ten for the coming year. Now that OpenDiary has gone I put them all in a Word document, and it's a tradition so deeply ingrained in me that I forget it's actually a pretty weird thing to do. 

For 2015, resolution number seven was "I will ask for help when I need it."

I thought this was a great resolution, and actually quite insightful in terms of things that would make a real difference to my life. I'm terrified of asking for help. I'm terrified that I'm being an imposition, or being annoying. If I can just learn to ask for help, I thought, I'll be less anxious, more secure, life will run that bit more smoothly, I can get things sorted as soon as I start to see a problem rather than letting it run itself up into a catastrophe. This is a Good Resolution. 

It wasn't until Tuesday, when I found myself sobbing hysterically in my therapist's office for nearly an hour after the session was over that I realised there was a deeper layer to it. A conversation about my problems at work, my being completely taken aback by how upset I was about work, and the realisation that the session was nearly over and I was now going to have to walk my blotchy and red-faced self right into work were all feeding into each other and I just couldn't stop crying. My therapist, who had never seen me do this before, was rather concerned. I was struggling to speak, but between us we managed to establish that I did not feel up to going to work, but also had a meeting to take and didn't feel like I could call in sick. He suggested that obviously there was someone else who could take the meeting, it was no big deal at all, did I really think I'd be able to work in the state I was in? My brain acknowledged that this was not a question, this was therapist-speak for Holy shit, dude, GO HOME, and helpfully switched its narrative from you can't seriously be thinking about calling in sick because you're crying to now you have to call your manager and that's terrifying. 

It sounds stupid to write down. The same brain that conjured up images of every single person in my office sitting around talking about how rubbish I was for calling in sick is now berating me for being so stupid as to be scared of that. But that's what happened, that's what I thought, and my upset got worse and worse until I was choking on my own tears. I knew what I needed; I needed him to make the phone call. You can't ask him that, said my brain, shocked. He's here to help you learn to deal with your own life by yourself. He's not going to enable your stupid behaviour by making the phone call for you. He thinks you should damn well be able to make it yourself. If he offers, fine, but you can't ask him for something so unreasonable. 

He did, eventually, offer, and it was only when I heard him leave a voicemail that included the words "my professional opinion" that any part of me registered that this man was a mental health professional watching a patient have some kind of breakdown and of course he could make a phone call to my employer. It fought with the part still insisting that I was overreacting and/or deliberately and manipulatively trying to get out of work and not take responsibility for it. I went into work the next day, which was a very bad move, and the day after that I got an emergency doctor's appointment, a sick note, and some fancy new drugs. 

This is not depression as I know it. Depression as I've experienced it in the past is a complete lack of motivation, days on end in bed, awake on the internet all night and asleep for most of the day, hoping to be able to stay asleep until the week, the month, the year is over. Depression is not speaking to people, depression is not being able to feed myself, depression is taking three or four days to force myself to leave the house. That's not what's happening now. Up until this week I was diligently going to work every day. I'm going out with friends, on courses, to dinners. I've almost completed my first self-made skirt. Yesterday I bought general housing supplies, ordered some chocolates for my mother, and went to a friend's party. That would have felt like a goddamn miracle to any previous incarnation of Depressed Jen. But my brain is being nasty to me, keeping me worried and scared and guilty and upset. I feel bad that I haven't cleaned the bathroom. I feel bad that I don't go home as often as my family would like. I feel bad that I left the party early last night even though the host told me she wanted me to stay. Everything makes me feel like a bad person, or a useless person. 

I ended my worst period of depression by breaking up a relationship. That relationship took away the things that interested and excited me piece by piece, while keeping both eyes fixed on me to make sure I didn't find anything else to fill my mind. That relationship made time stretch out so far it exhausted me, but berated me for being so exhausted by doing nothing. That relationship told me I wasn't good enough, would never be good enough, that I was a pain nobody else would put up with. To this day, ending it has been the best thing I've ever done. 

Now my relationship with my partner is healthy, encouraging and supportive, and he wants me to get better, which is so unfamiliar to me that it sometimes still confuses the fuck out of me after nearly a year together. But I see shades of that former boyfriend in the relationship I have with my job, and that's the one that needs to end. I've been aware of this for a little while, though not with quite so much urgency as this week, and I've mentioned it to people before. They say, "That's a great idea. Get a new job if you're not happy! It'll do you good to change things up a bit." 

The thing is, I don't know how. Apart from Saturday work during my A levels, I've never worked for another company. I've been here seven years. I came in at the suggestion of a friend, doing admin grunt work, and through promotion and pay rises and moving to a different city, I'm up to twice my original salary (which still isn't a lot, mind you). I don't know how you get a job at this level or higher. Every job I've applied for has been on application form, so I've never needed a CV. I've never done an interview that wasn't civil service competency-based. I've been working my way into a company, not a profession, so I don't know what I want to do or what sort of thing I could reasonably expect to get. I don't know how the real world of job-hunting works. I need help, but I don't want to ask for it, for several reasons:

1. I don't really know what I'm asking for

2. I don't know what or how much is OK to ask for

3. Part of me is convinced that at age 30, this is not the kind of thing I should need help with

This last one is a real sticking point for me. 30-year-olds should know how to get jobs. The kind of 30-year-old who needs help getting a job is a really pathetic 30-year-old. 

I'm not at my best right now. I'm sick, I'm exhausted, I'm upset, I'm taking a brand new anti-depressant, and I'm terrified of going back to work (also, terrified of getting fired and having no money and not being able to live in this city anymore). It's not unreasonable to think I would need help. And yet I judge myself, because asking for help is just an excuse to be lazy, or sure you can ask for help but you really shouldn't need this kind of help, or what the hell are people going to think of you asking for stupid things like that, or this is something you should be strong enough to do yourself. I give myself lists of things I've been able to do by myself as proof that my need for help isn't actually real. 

I probably do need really stupid help. I probably need someone to sit and go through job websites with me. I need from-scratch CV help. I need people to tell me what I'm good at. Since I'm not only trying to do a thing I'm unfamiliar with but trying to do it when I'm not well, I probably need a lot more than that. I need people to understand I'm having a shitty time. I need hugs and stupid conversations and reassurance that the world won't end if I miss a few parties. I need to be occupied but not overwhelmed. I need to put my mental health first for a while, and I need to acknowledge what a bastard hard thing that is to do. 

This was long, and sad, and tough to write. I judge myself for how depressing my blog is sometimes, and how it's not the fun storytime I started off with, but this is where I am right now. Stuff about sunshine and puffins, I hope, coming soon. 

"Jenny"

This morning I got to work and ran straight to the loos to change out of the Tights That Like To Roll Down To Mid-Thigh (which keep managing to avoid purges, probably because they don’t have any holes in). When I came out of the cubicle, one of my co-workers was standing at the sink. She did what she always does – looked up briefly, registered that it was me, narrowed her eyes slightly, then pretended she hadn’t seen me at all and stalked out. She’s been doing this for years now, ever since this happened:

Three years ago

[I am walking from the photocopier back to my desk. I vaguely hear someone say ‘Jenny’ and assume they must be on the phone. As I sit down, co-worker approaches]
Co-worker: Jenny! I was calling you!
Me: Huh?
Co-worker: I was calling! Jenny!
Me: Oh, God, I’m sorry. I don’t answer to Jenny, I didn’t realise you were talking to me. What can I do for you?
Co-worker: [eyes narrow, voice turns to ice] Oh.

She asked me her question, I sent her the thing she was looking for, and we’ve had no interaction since. Beyond the very brief glares, she ignores me absolutely. In the early days I tried smiling at her, which she would respond to with a slightly longer glare, a small toss of the head and an offended sweep straight past me. I can find no other explanation for this other than that she was mortally insulted by my refusing to answer to ‘Jenny’.

I am not a Jenny. I’m just not. I’m no more a Jenny than I am a Susanne or a Patricia. Some Jennifers are Jenny and that’s great, but I’m not one of them. It sounds like a completely different name to me; like someone is trying to get my attention by yelling, “Hey! Desdemona!” It just isn’t my name. But because it’s a commonly accepted nickname, people use it. They know other Jennifers who go by Jenny, they personally prefer Jenny as a name, they thought they heard someone else call me that once, so they assume it's fine to call me that. It is NOT fine to call me that.

I started seriously objecting to Jenny when I was thirteen years old. It suddenly sounded weird and wrong and a bit like the addresser was mocking me. I didn’t take it up with the teachers, but all my friends were instructed, in the strongest possible terms, not to call me that anymore. Mostly it worked, eventually. Some of the schoolfriends I've stayed in touch with still do it occasionally.

Friend: You’re going to have to let us off calling you Jenny! We’ve known you too long, we can’t change now!
Me: We’ve known each other since we were eleven. I was alright with Jenny for two years and have been objecting to it for the seventeen years since. I think you’ve probably had enough time to get used to it.
Friend: Alright, alright. Jeez.

This is the worst thing. Worse than when the director of my dance school pulled me up on stage without warning and announced to several hundred people that I was the shyest person he’d ever taught (Why would anyone think this was a good idea? WHY would you do that, Scott? WHY?), and I didn’t realise he was calling me up for about three minutes because he was calling for “Jenny” and I had to spend the next three months retraining everyone not to call me that. Anyway. Worse than that. The worst thing is when people get annoyed or offended at being asked not to call me by a nickname I hate, or mock me for overreacting.

Acquaintance at party: Hi, Jenny!
Me: [having already drunk an entire bottle of wine] Argh, please don’t call me that. It’s Jen.
Acquaintance: Awww, but why? Jenny is lovely!
Me: Sure, but I don’t feel like it’s my name and I don’t like being called that.
Acquaintance: Awwwww.
Me: Please just call me Jen.
Acquaintance: [edging away from me and looking annoyed] OK.

Of course, the more this happens, the more it gets on my nerves. The more people imply I shouldn’t get upset about what they choose to call me, the more likely I am to go on a five-minute rant when I correct them. The more people I upset by correcting them on my name, the more likely I am to write long rambling blog posts about how My Name Is Not Jenny and Never Will Be, Stop Calling Me That and start plotting ways to surreptitiously circulate said angry blog post to the widest possible audience.

There is a special place in my heart for people who apologise and correct themselves when I ask them not to call me Jenny, people who correct others who call me Jenny, and people who say “I don’t know why anyone would call you that, you’re clearly not a Jenny.”

Boyfriend Back In Pre-Boyfriend Days: The funniest thing was, you didn’t even realise he was calling you for ages because he called you Jenny!
Me: I really, really hate being called Jenny.
Pre-Boyfriend Boyfriend: I was wondering for a minute whether to start calling you Jenny as a really annoying joke.
Me: I warn you, I have absolutely no sense of humour about this whatsoever.
Boyfriend Who Wasn’t My Boyfriend Yet: I can see that. I already decided it was a stupid idea. I don't think I even could call you Jenny, that just isn't who you are. You're Jen.
Me: [phew, and also yay]

A special place in Hell for people who correct me on my own name, and the most special place for this particular guy:

Nice Co-Worker: [introducing new employee round the office] And this is Jennifer.
New Guy: [to my co-worker] Jenny. [to me] Hi, Jenny.
Me: Jennifer. Hi.
New Guy: Nice to meet you, Jenny.

Message to that guy: I judged your entire worth as a human being based on this fifteen-second introduction, and I was right to do it.

fringe

I would like the record to reflect the following:

This morning I cut my own fringe, and the result was not disastrous. 

The reason for my cutting my own fringe was a gradually but noticeably mounting hate for my hair combined with lack of resources or motivation to go and get it professionally cut. Obviously poor reasoning and decision-making, and yet somehow, disaster did not befall me.

I had an engagement tonight that I couldn't get out of with an "I've fucked up my hair" excuse, which normally would guarantee that I would a) fuck up my hair and b) be in a ton of photos with fucked-up hair, but neither of these things happened. 

I have never attempted to cut my own fringe before in my life, and I'm not sure I've ever managed to get something right the first time before, and yet my fringe looks like a fringe that might reasonably be expected to sit on the forehead of a normal person. 

When I went out tonight, I got multiple compliments on my excellent new fringe before I informed anyone I'd cut it myself. 

Practical tests have since revealed that, despite what my brain immediately thought, the sudden discovery of a fringe-cutting talent has not made me any better at sewing in zips. I'm not sure why that is.