Word For Wednesday (W4W) #68


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This week’s word is

Ennui

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How I have been feeling and some explanation as to why my W4W is a day late!

I need distraction. I need stimulation. I need to be busy.

I need to not be so fucking meh!

Someone shake me? Slap me? Give me a kick up the arse!

I will try, my lovely friends, to remove my own head from where it is lodged far up my rectum soon and revert to being a cheerful, productive blogger… I really will try.

Peace out.

*drops the mike…

Ciao!

💋

Copyright, 2016, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

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Word For Wednesday (W4W) #67


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This week’s word is:

Pain.

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http://nlm.nih.gov

I live with pain on a daily basis. In fact, according to the definition above I live with chronic pain and have done for almost as long as I can remember.

I am not talking about physical pain, (although at the moment I am experiencing a lot of that also). I am referring to psychological pain – depression, anxiety, self hatred, self destruction, self loathing.

I read Cherry’s W4W and related to her situation so strongly.

It has been suggested to me by several friends, as well as the OH, that I may have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I struggle with this idea. If I were to say yes I have that, in my mind I am also saying, yes I am not hideous and ugly, in fact I might even be attractive but simply cannot see it for myself.

I cannot accept that and I feel that if I said that it is borderline arrogant/big-headed. Yeah, I can see how you might read this and shake your head at my contrariness. After all, I am the one who regularly lifts others up and encourages them to love themselves, yet when it comes to me I do a 180 on my own advice.

Cherry told me this:

“One of the reasons people don’t think or talk about it is because they might think they’ll be seen as being vain. It’s part of the condition and it’s the lies that are warped, not your mind.”

It has given me a lot to think about today.

What would it be like to actually LIKE myself? To accept myself? To not constantly only see my flaws? To see what other people claim to see when they look at me?

Would I even still be ME?

I have always been a person who disliked or even hated herself. The concept of not being that way is foreign and perhaps even a bit scary.

These questions are overwhelming and are bringing tears to my eyes as I write them. How different would my life have been if I wasn’t always hating myself? Have I wasted all these years? Am I incapable of being happy?

Who AM I????

I think I have much more soul searching to do before I even begin to address these questions.

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💋

This week is World Mental Health Awareness Week so this post felt appropriate today.

Copyright, 2016, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

Things I would love to be but I’m not…


Musical

I love music. I love dancing. I love to sing.

I am no Adele, but I can hold a note, in so far as I haven’t yet caused the OH to deliberately smash the car into a wall whilst driving to escape my singing along to Spotify.

I went to a secondary school that prided itself on its choir and musicality. I remember sitting through musicianship class completely bewildered, as my fellow students seemed to just naturally grasp the difference between a crochet and a quaver and effortlessly read sheet music. I never learned to play any instrument, not counting the obligatory “The Gypsy Rover” on the tin whistle that all Irish primary school children were forced to learn.

To this day I would love to play guitar but my lack of musical confidence inhibits me. I don’t think I have the ‘ear’ for it. How would I know if I am in tune or not? My brother in law tried to teach me a basic chord on his acoustic but my tiny hands couldn’t span the neck. Maybe I need a child size one?

My other dream is to get proper singing lessons, learn how to control my breath and all that jazz. I actually contacted an instructor who told me her timetable was full. A silly part of me felt rejected, as if she could somehow sense I would be a hopeless student and I never followed up on it.

So, my singing stays in the kitchen, (sorry neighbours!), car, (sorry OH!), and shower, which provides marvelous acoustics!

Don’t expect to see me headlining at Wembly any day soon.

Graceful

I am, and have always been, that girl with the messy hair. I can spend time, money and effort perfecting my hair and still look as if I had just been dragged through a bush backwards. I see other women who look stylish, put together, groomed and grown up and then there’s me… the awkward tomboy, scruffy little sister with the smudged mascara and flyaway hair.

It is one reason I dress as I do, mainly in jeans, tee-shirts and converse sneakers. If I try to dress like a grown-ass woman I feel and look ridiculous, like a little girl trying on her mom’s clothes and heels. I am naturally clumsy. I can fall over my own foot, walk into walls and trip on my own shadow, so walking in heels would fall under the pedestrian equivalent of drunk driving. I would be a danger to myself and others.

Patient

If I am teaching something I can have endless patience. I enjoy the challenge of finding ways to make a subject make sense to a person. I love helping someone get to that place where the idea clicks. That is fun in my opinion.

But if it comes to waiting for a person to arrive or a thing or start, I am the worst! I value punctuality and consider it rude to be late or to faff about wasting time when you have somewhere to be. The OH is very guilty of this. We agree to leave the house, I put on my shoes and coat and stand by the door while he, taking his sweet time, mooches around finding his wallet, keys etc, then announces he needs to fix his hair and disappears upstairs, leaving me ready to go at the door. Usually, a good 10 minutes will pass before we actually leave the house. I never learn. I always get ready and wait. It is an endless, hopeless cycle.

(He insists it is never 10 minutes. He says 30 seconds. A bit like cock size in reverse right?)

Weirdly, I can wait in line, even if someone cuts in front of me, with perfect Zenlike calm…

Assertive

When it comes to standing up for other people I will do so with ferocious passion. When it comes to standing up for me… I crawl away like a timid mouse, terrified of causing a scene or creating a confrontation.

I am not sure where this comes from. Maybe it is a reflection of my sense of self worth, maybe I don’t feel I am worth standing up for. I tend to say nothing, to put up with being put down.

It is not good, I know this. I know I should defend myself as much as I would a friend or loved one. This is something I will continue to work on.

A good sleeper

I have never been a good sleeper. My sister can fall asleep any time, anywhere and I envy her.

I am Princess and the Pea level fussy… I require total darkness, total silence, the ‘just right’ temperature, blah blah blah. I have an incredibly expensive, NASA style mattress which I adore; it is like lying on a bed of clouds. I only use high thread count Egyptian cotton bedding. I have blackout blinds and ear plugs, (a futile attempt to drown out his snoring). I have tried different bedtimes, hot milk, relaxation exercises, herbal remedies.

Sleep evades me. Sleep is my enemy. The bags under my eyes have bags. I have resigned myself to a life of sleepless nights, curled on the sofa under a blanket, watching strange nighttime TV. Such is life…

A flirt

I would love to be a… wait… exactly who the fuck am I trying to kid here?

I popped out of my mother with a shimmy and winked at the OBGYN.

I flirt with my own reflection.

I flirt with men, women, babies, dogs… I am powerless to resist the urge to flirt.

It’s fun. It makes everyone feel good.

Hey, how you doin??????

Ciao!

💋

Copyright, 2016, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

Word For Wednesday (W4W) #66


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This week’s word is:

Denial.

Ireland has a truly woeful approach to mental health. Our Health Minister admitted that €12million, originally earmarked for mental health services, was going to be reallocated. I think that in itself speaks volumes about how our government values its society’s mental health.

In Ireland, 500 people are estimated to die by suicide each year, meaning we can reasonably suspect the number is even higher. We are getting better as a society when it comes to talking about suicide and depression. But not enough, in my opinion.

Here is my denial story…

I was 17 when I sat on my bed one night, wrote goodbye letters to all my family members and took an overdose of paracetamol. I remember lying there crying, feeling only utter despair. After a while I heard my big sister come in from her work. She worked shifts and it was very late. I felt a sudden need to reverse my decision and went downstairs in my nightie and told her what I had done. She took me to the A&E where I was given a dreadful emetic and a revolting charcoal cocktail to drink.  I remember The Beautiful South were playing on the radio. Then I remember being left in a ward of adults, my lips stained black from the charcoal, dreading the next day.

I remained in hospital for a number of days while they did tests to see if the paracetamol had damaged my liver. A stern doctor and a group of medical students stood around my bed, discussing me as if I was invisible to them, handing around my suicide letters. I felt completely violated, vulnerable and pretty furious but I was a good girl, I said nothing.

My parents came and wanted to know why I had done this terrible thing. I had no words to explain it to them. I remember fleeing to the bathroom to escape their questions. They followed me and, feeling helpless and cornered I remember crying and actually stamping my feet in frustration. My father said I was acting like a child. My mother told him I was frightened.

My father was the one who came to bring me home. He was faux cheerful and insisted on taking me to a large supermarket on the way home. He told me to choose whatever fancy foods I wanted. I could not have cared less and he grew frustrated with me. He actually seemed to think a treat would fix me.

My suicide attempt was never discussed.

My father seemed to think I was “on drugs” and would occasionally ask me to promise not to “take drugs again”.

I was never offered therapy. Life went on.

I never told them the real reason I took the overdose.

(Sidenote: My mother died when I was 20 and the morning after her death my father found me downstairs very early because I could not sleep. He sighed with more frustration, I felt as if my grief was an inconvenience to him, my neediness was the last thing he needed. I had a packet of herbal remedy for sleeplessness, Valerian, next to me and he said, “You’re not taking drugs again are you?”)

Denial. My family excelled at it.

If someone you know is feeling suicidal, or you suspect they are, please do not ignore it.

Be brave. Talk to them. Ask them how they are feeling. Ask them if they feel a desire to hurt themselves or to not be here anymore.

Give them the gift of allowing them to say it. Give them space to talk about how they feel, what they need.

Understand they are in more pain than they can express. They need support.

Don’t judge them. Don’t admonish them. Don’t blame them. Don’t shame them.

Don’t bury your head.

Don’t be my father.

Denial – it ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Copyright, 2016, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

Word For Wednesday (W4W) #65


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This week’s word is:

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I embrace imperfection in all things… except me.

I do not so much have a fear of never being good enough. It would be far more accurate to say I have a deep seated belief that I am never good enough.

I remember being a little girl and my mother was testing me on my times tables I had to learn for homework. I got them all right and she was very pleased with me. I, however, was very unhappy. I said I was bad because I had cheated. She enquired how I had cheated. I replied, “But, I just remembered the answers!”, and burst out crying. I simply, even at that young age of about 5, could not accept that I had done well. I could not feel good about my achievement.

I went into town yesterday to buy some groceries and supplies. I made the mistake of trying on some new bras. (Any woman will tell you this is usually not the most pleasant of experiences.) Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. Really, really hated it.

As I walked home I struggled to contain the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks.

I know… Hey Kat! It’s not rocket science – eat less, move more, lose weight, right?

Been there, done that.

I got down to a size where I wore age 11 clothes and I saw a fat, ugly person.

Following medical advice, I allowed myself to put on enough weight to fit into a tiny size 6 and I saw a fat, ugly person.

I never, ever thought I had achieved the look or the body I wanted. I never felt happy with it. It was never good enough.

So, I could starve myself again and get tiny again, but here is the rub… I will still hate who I see in the mirror.

I sit here and type this post and my fear is not of imperfection, but that I will never feel at peace with “me”. That I will never be happy. Despite having so much in my life that I am truly grateful for – a loving relationship, friendships, family, enough money/food/things, my dogs, my health – I remain a shallow, vain and vacuous shell.

And worse… I am so bored with myself and this constant discontent. I am certain I have bored you, my readers, with my incessant whinging.

And one thing I never wanted to be is boring.

Dammit!

💋

note:

I do not equate fat with ugly, nor do I equate thin with beauty. It is much more complex than that.

In an uncharacteristic display of self kindness, I will say that I think I did myself a disservice when I called myself a vacuous, vain shell – there are reasons for my body issues and they are real.

Copyright, 2016, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.