Passive aggressive/conflict dodger

 

I like to think I know myself fairly well now.  I’m naturally more of a thinker than a doer, and thinking leaves plenty of time to contemplate one’s positive and negative qualities.  I should add the caveat that this self-awareness is not to be trusted in any of the extreme mood states.  Whatever you think about yourself in an extreme mood is likely to be, at best, a caricature of a personality trait, blown up out of proportion, like

Jessica Rabbit’s tits.

That may have been a little distracting, but if we can move away from Jess’s boobs, I was just going to say something about passive aggressiveness.

I’m passive aggressive sometimes.  I veer that way on the scale anyway.  It depends on the person, the situation and all that hula, but, in general, I have to admit I don’t take the bull by the horns if someone has upset me.

I’m annoyed/upset/hurt by a friend at the moment.  I am feeling quite irritated by him because he’s one of those people who will give you a big speech about how they’ll always be there for you if you ever need them, how they consider you one of their best friends and stuff like that.

Anyway, that’s only tangentially connected to why I’m upset with my friend.  It’s mainly that he has been out of contact, I’ve done all the running lately in terms of sending texts etc.  He just hasn’t been a very good friend lately, in my opinion. 

I could have used a chat the other day and tried to let him know that I wasn’t doing so good and he was more interested in watching the sport.  He’s been really good in the past, and it’s a two-way street, because I’ve also gone out of my way to help him when he’s not been on top form.  Lately, he’s just been a bit of a crap mate really.  That’s how I’m feeling.  I think it’s exacerbated by the previous declarations of unstinting support “whenever you need a friend”, and it’s all such bullshit in the cold light of lack of follow through.

The passive aggressiveness comes in because I haven’t had this out with him.  I’ve just seethed quietly.  I have now started a text-silence (I know, so mature), where before I was trying to keep the communication up. 

I had a scenario a few years ago with a female friend, which highlighted again my dislike for confrontations.  I felt she’d behaved disrespectfully to some of my friends on a night out – not a huge deal, but enough for me to be annoyed.  At the time I was trying out some assertiveness that I’d learned in an assertiveness group.  I tried, as diplomatically as I knew how, to express my disappointment and it kind of blew up in my face. 

Her response was really defensive.  I’d hoped I hadn’t sounded attacking, and I don’t think I did, but I learned a couple of things. 

1.) Never use the text format to have a serious conversation.

2.) I’m awful with conflict.  I hate the whole thing – the initial “I’m not happy with…” convo and the ramifications (in this case a cooling off of our friendship that lasted several months).

I also realise that I was in my rights to complain about the way she had behaved, which is all the rage in assertiveness training.  The thing is though, I hurt myself more in the long run.  I was anxious as hell over it all for weeks and I lost a friendship I couldn’t really afford to lose at the time.

Now we’re still good friends: after drifting apart we drifted back together over time.  I do understand the need to get grievances in the open and I would prefer to be the sort of person who does that.  My take on it is, it depends on my life situation.  If I am feeling good in myself, and not reliant on one or two individuals for my social life, then the risk in asserting myself is worth it.  If not, well, it’s a risky strategy.

Right now, I’m a conflict dodger.

Itchy Feet

 

And fingers.  And skin.  And everything.  It’s all itchy.  I am agitated, I want to get away, I want TO GO.  I must have A PLAN.  People need plans.  But my head is either too dull or too busy to locate the plan-making brain parts that enable this calm, cool planning.

I’m here, there and everywhere.  In the past two days I’ve googled stuff as disparate as “bacp”, “quiet retreats”, “how to change your identity (my personal high-pitched favourite- I must be OFF.MY.ROCKER)” and I’ve looked up other options like which travelodges have cheap rooms, not really caring where they are, just somewhere different.  

Honestly, the fevered level of ideas pinging round my brain you could do this, you could do that is pretty overwhelming.

I was bored, okay?

 

It has been a lovely sunny day where I live, in the north bit of England (we haven’t got many bits, so we tend to hold onto the bits we do have).

I went to the supermarket – my usual haunt, when I have nowhere particular to go – Morrisons.  I didn’t actually use the store for a change, but I did take an old pair of jeans, thinking I could toss them in the clothes recycling bins they have there.  I’m incapable of leaving the house with absolutely no end in mind.  If I lived somewhere picturesque, then, sure, I’d go for walks just for the hell of it.  As it stands if I want to go for a walk, I choose a shop, or decide I need a copy of the paper, or a lottery ticket.  Off the point, there.  Back to it:

Morrisons.  The bins for clothes, large, angular metal contraptions, rather aggressive, in primary colours, side by side, rusted and intimidating.  The mechanism for depositing old clothes is rather like the drop box at the bank, where you can deposit a cheque in an envelope.  You pull a lever, the mouth gapes open, you put your money in, mouth snaps shut.

Here it is:

“CLOTHES!” it yells.  “Give me clothes.  NOW!”

 

 

 

“Okay, okay, you want clothes.  I shall give you clothes and appease your anger.”  Anxiously, I stoop forwards to get a closer look at the mechanism for feeding this monster.  I am surprised to see this warning:

Seriously?  You’re seriously worried that I might think it’d be great fun (on this lovely, sunny day) to try to clamber into the jaws of this appalling metal monster.  Do you think I’m mad? (Don’t answer that).

Perhaps I’m being too hasty.  After all, people have their fun in all sorts of ways, and if inserting oneself into the bag drop is, like, the new huffing glue, then I stand corrected.  Even a helpful phone number there in case a hapless young adventurer gets themselves in a bit of a pickle.

It’s good that they ram the point home, with this sticker.  How cool.  You can look at it from any angle and the perimeter of the sticker will always read “WARNING!”  Genius.

 

“Climbing into this bank can cause injury.”

Interesting.  Don’t do it, kids.  Don’t climb into the bank because it can cause injury.  That’s a good reason.  Also, I might add: climbing into this bank would be futile, ridiculous, like trying to post yourself through a letterbox.  For what gain?  Maybe there’s a nice pair of really old cast-off trousers that possibly might fit you, if only you could actually see in the dark cavernous stomach of the bin you’ve dropped yourself into. 

So, that was my day.  I don’t usually take my camera out with me, but I happened to today, and this made me smile, so I couldn’t resist snapping it.  My jeans are safely inside and you’ll be pleased to know I heeded the warning not to jump on in after them.

Just me babbling from here on

I’ve been okay today, but bored.  Last night I didn’t want to do anything except stay home with a ready meal, a drink and a copy of Reveal, so I turned down the offer of a drink with my friend.  Today, despite sleeping really badly, I have felt oddly bored.  Perhaps the knowledge (gained from over-texting and Facebook peering) that a lot of people were either excited about sport matches going on today, or having bbq’s, or sat in beer gardens, made me feel like I wanted to join in with these frolics.  It’s probably just a case of wanting something because it’s not immediately available to me. 

The path I chose today was one of languorous submission.  I can’t stand watching football so meeting anyone (i.e. male friends or family) who would be doing that, would have been so wildly out of character that it would have resulted in enforced psychiatric admission or a declaration that I must be suffering sun-stroke, with a dire warning “no more sun-provoked activities, for you, young lady”.  I couldn’t be bothered with that, so I lounged about on my own.  Until I decided to go to the supermarket, and dodgily take snap-shots of their recycling equipment (wonder what people thought of that?)

Coiled/anti-depressant combinations

 

I mess around with my meds sometimes.  I don’t think twice about adjusting the dose of something.  I suppose that’s kind of inadvisable.

I put myself back on the contraceptive pill because I had two boxes left from whenever the last time was I was on it.  I’ve had maybe three really awful cycles of PMT.  It’s been crap for months but now there seem to be fewer good months (in terms of PMT) than before.  Anyway, I’m feeling pretty hormonal today.  It’s like I’m coiled, tense inside.  I suppose it’s going to take more than six days of taking the pill again before I get a remission in the hormonal craps.

My PMT takes the form of a week (this is prior to the actual period) of emotional instability.  A week at the worst.  Three days at best.  During this time I oscillate between the reclusive curmudgeon, the bitchy cow, the misanthropic Scrooge-ess, the teary child and the impulsive/compulsive addict (compulsions ranging from buying stuff I can’t afford/don’t need, eating for triplets and necking wine or whatever’s handy).

I can’t have this every month – it’s so far removed from the fairly laid-back person I genuinely am the rest of the time.  But, yeah, guess I’ll have to give the pill another month to see if it can help me out with this a bit.

I’m also reducing the Aunty D, on the advice of my doctor.  Well, she sort of advised it, or maybe she didn’t, it was one of those confusingly “huh?” consultations.  What it was- I told her I’d heard a low dose of tricyclic AD was sometimes helpful for CFS related pain, headaches and to aid sleep.  So far so good.  She seemed on board with me when I broached this as a solution to crap sleep.

Then she did something amazing.

She looked the drug up on her internet database to check for interactions (oh, yes, she’s a true pro).

Uh Oh.  Actually, combining an SSRI and a tricyclic is NOT ADVISED – DO NOT DO THIS.

Then she double-checked in the British National Formulary book – a big doctory tome that is present in every surgery.

Yup.  They both concur.  You shouldn’t prescribe fluoxetine with amitriptyline because of the small chance that the patient could overload on serotonin.  Serotonin Syndrome  is rare but can be fatal.

So.  That’s that.  She suggested I reduce the SSRI (slowly, slowly, in manageable stages, as a man should de-flower a virgin) with a view to then being given the ami at a later date. 

It was a bit confusing.  I take the SSRI for depression (even if I don’t feel depressed, just because my episodes of depression are so debilitating/life-endangering that it’s hardly worth the risk coming off it totally- tried a couple of times, was fine for a while, then hit the floor).  I wanted the ami for my CFS symptoms. 

So it became a case of which condition would you like to treat more?  In the red box you have your SSRI.  In the blue box you have this new-old drug, amitriptyline (new to my medication menu, old in the history of AD medications).  They don’t get on together. 

Choose.  Really, that’s it?  They can’t be reconciled?  Can’t we send them to anti-depressant RELATE, where they could learn to put their personal feelings aside for the sake of their common goal – to get me feeling tip-top?  They could talk about repressed anger – how amitriptyline used to rule the roost, The One! The Only! A rock star for the 1960′s, bowing down only to his predecessor, Queen Imipramine.  Amitriptyline could speak about how he felt threatened when fluoxetine and the other newbies came on the scene.  Suddenly, it wasn’t cool to be a tricyclic anymore.  Now the SSRI’s had the floor – this was the first real threat to tricyclics, like amitriptyline.  Sure, it’s natural they felt some resentment.  The balance of power changed as new relationships blossomed.  Just as Bing and Sinatra were left licking their wounds, as Elvis swaggered in, so Imipramine, Amitripyline &co were over-shadowed.  Can they ever learn to love each other?  The SSRI’s were bold, new and daring challengers.  They were bound to catch the eye, what with their sexy newness, effective advertising and alluring specificity.  Specificity is always a turn on, no?

I feel that this bad blood between amitriptyline and fluoxetine, and indeed others like them, could be resolved.  We just need to get them in a room with one another, with a trained counsellor, and let them talk about their feelings.

Back to reality. 

I’m sort of reducing the fluoxetine anyway, but I..don’t know what I want to do in terms of whether I’d prefer to switch to amitriptyline.  I felt my doctor was rather partial to the idea of amitriptyline (from the CFS/headaches/sleep point of view), but I haven’t seen her many times, she doesn’t know me that well, and I’m used to fluoxetine.  If I ever felt stable I’d come off fluoxetine again, but it seems risky at this stage. 

I’m actually leaning more towards trying some non-drug therapies, like a chiropractor (for tension that builds up in my upper body and contributes to headaches and tiredness), maybe a CFS specialist, the alternative/complemetary therapy routes and perhaps a psychologist.  A psychologist, or other similar therapist, is a risky strategy for me, because I’ve experienced negative results, indifferent results and vaguely positive results from my forays into that arena.  If I was going to do it again I’d do it privately, research someone who had reasonable experience and whom I could ‘get on’ with in terms of their demeanor and personal approach.  In the past I’ve seen one psychologist through the NHS – a negative experience with no real improvement.  I’ve seen numerous person-centred counsellors, such as the kind that are free when you are at uni – this technique is useless to me.  I’ve seen god knows how many CBT-styled therapists, through various agencies, mostly free on NHS, or reduced-rate (because they were notching up their hours as relatively new therapists).  These have been sometimes helpful, sometimes not so much.  It may be a crass comparison, but I’m thinking shopping for a therapist is like finding the right hairdresser.  You can get your hair cut by lots of people, some you’d never go to again (spiral perm – 1991), some you are indifferent to – they’ve done a reasonable job of making my hair manageable and presentable (lots of hairdressers have fallen into this category), and then, now and again, you find an amazing hairdresser.  Someone who highlights the plainness of the others with dazzling understanding and execution of what it is you want and need.  They listen to what you want and then add their own ideas, based on their understanding of what can and cannot be achieved with your hair-type, lifestyle and maintenence budget.

If I do decide to shop for a therapist, I will do it differently than before.  I’d be paying a sizeable sum to go private, which has always put me off, but then again, it’s relative to what benefit I might get.  I wouldn’t think twice about saving £50 for a night out somewhere if I really wanted to go.  If I do find my Andrew Collinge of the therapy world I’ll let you know.

Feel icky: writing for distraction

 

I dunno if I’m getting a virus or what, I just feel weird today.  My eyes are sore, I keep alternating shivery and warm, I feel shaky when I move about too quickly.  Feel a bit better now I’m sat in bed.  So, no theme to this post.  Just something to do.

Our world is mad.  It’s hard to see how mad it is sometimes because we’re all slap bang in the middle of the madness.  The cult of celebrity is now no longer small enough to be considered a cult.  We talk about famous people on a first-name basis to our friends, as though they are part of our social circle. 

We are a mass of contradictions.  For instance, we are more connected in more ways to one another than ever before.  Yet we are disconnected.  We have more time-saving devices than ever, yet less free time than ever.  We are deluged with opportunities other generations never had and yet stifled by this amorphous cloud of possibility.

Taking the inter-connectedness example.  I mean, here I am, writing a blog, detailing all sorts of aspects of my life, to as many people as may stumble across it.  I’m also on Facebook.  I have a mobile phone.  I have several email addresses.  These things empower me and constrict me. 

A good example is Facebook.  A friend said to me over the weekend how sick she was of reading people’s status updates and the like.  They are either boring “Tara is excited about going shopping today” (who gives a fuck?), or they evoke negative feelings by laying the groundwork for comparison to others.  She gave the example of people she’d been to school with who now had babies etc. 

My friend confided “I’m thinking of coming off the whole thing”, by which she meant deleting her Facebook account.  But, I doubt she’ll do that.  One has to smile (wryly) that the decision to be on or off a social networking site should inspire such serious consideration.  “I’m thinking of coming off the whole thing!”  So, this isn’t a decision she can make at the drop of a hat anymore?  It made me think how bloody enveloped we are with this stuff.  I’m the same too, though perhaps I could delete my account with less worry – my friend has a responsible job, so would she really want to deny herself access to photos (of herself) that might be posted by other people and reflect badly on her, professionally speaking?  At least while she’s on there she can de-tag herself etc.  Facebook has insidiously made itself indispensible to a lot of us.  That doesn’t sit well with me.

Right, well I’m tired again now, so I’ll close this post and probably check Facebook before having a lie down (well, I don’t want to be left out, do I?)

Still

 

I’m still.  There’s nothing I want to do, nothing I want to say.  The sun peeks out and the texts

“hope you’re enjoying this nice weather”

“hope you’re out and about in the sunshine”

inevitably follow.  These sunny appendages are in full force – whatever the text may be about there’s usually a sun reference clipped on somewhere.

Drunk 30

 

This is the first post I’ve ever written whilst drunk.  I’ve written whilst ‘under the influence’ before, but not with this much alcohol in my veins.

My bloody birthday is now over.  It’s ten o’clock at night, but I’m done.  Day 1, yesterday, involved a relaxing massage/spa day and day 2, today, has been lunch, cocktails, 3-D cinema, dinner, champagne, wine and too much tiramisu.

I know all that sounds like fun.  And it was.  In parts, at least.  But I couldn’t escape the fact that it was all about getting through this fucking birthday that I never wanted to have.  It’s a ridiculously self-involved and human paranoia about ageing.  There’s no way I can write about it and have it make sense.  Rationally, I know all the clichés are true.  It’s just numbers etc.  There are bigger, more important things to worry about.  Yet, when it comes to the crunch, we are all self-contained vessels of emotional neuroses.  Some are more level-headed than others, but we all feel the pinch at one time or another.  This has been my time.  And it has fucking hurt.

I want to send out good vibes to the people who came out with me, who made passing the time easier and less stressful for me.  I will thank them in texts and so on.  It was just one of those birthdays where I was never going to be cool with it.  In many ways it has made me realise that I can not carry on this way.  I need to get away.  With the birthday over I can maybe focus on how to make that happen.

I stuck my fingers down my throat when I got home tonight.  I felt sick with wine and pizza and dessert and the weight of expectations.  I wanted it all out of me.  I wanted to know that I wasn’t going to just swallow it anymore – this life, this routine, this monotony.  Maybe some of this is a drunk girl talking shit.  But some of it is real.

So, the plan.  Well, tomorrow probably will be quite tired.  After that, I’m going to start, little by little, sorting things through – my friend wants to go on holiday next month.  I’m wondering if I should go and then just stay away for a while.  I’ve no idea if this is mid-life crisis come early, a flash in the pan, or a build-up of dissatisfaction.  Whatever its genesis, something has to CHANGE.

Dentists then Dharma

 

DENTISTS

Tremulous is the way I’d describe myself this morning, prior to my dental appointment.  I go in,

“HELLO,” he says, pausing to check my name in his notes, “…Louise..” 

I think he thinks bellowing HELLO! buys him time to check my name, thus completing the sense of familiarity started with the greeting, whilst never having to legitimately remember who the hell I am. 

“Come in, come in (friendly voice).  And how are you?”

“I’m fine thanks, yeah.”  Is there any other response?  He’s good at these friendly entrees.  I know he doesn’t give a shit.  He knows he doesn’t give a shit.  Frankly, it’s a big waste of time, but the social niceties prevail.  The sarky voice-in-my-head really wants to highlight the absurdities in these exchanges, saying something like,

“I’M GREAT.  And, if it’s not too much to ask, I had been hoping that we could maybe do some invasive dental work today?  I was thinking maybe a little plaque-scraping, just enough to make my gums bleed, and then, well, if I may be so bold as to suggest…a needle-full of your lovely dental anaesthetic?  I mean, I don’t want to overstep the mark here, but I do enjoy our more rigorous sessions.”

Needless to say, I resist.  He continues,

“Right, so…we did that tooth last time, didn’t we (rhetorical question, I hope)?  [He points in the general direction of his own left jaw]  Any problems?”

Just so you know that tooth has been featured on this blog. I had some root canal agony a few months back, posted about at the time, probably under “pain so bad I want to rip my head off”.  Or similar.  Today was a six month “How’s it now?” thing.

I haven’t had any pain so it looks like the root treatment was successful, although I am a bit sensitive when eating/drinking sometimes.  I leave the dentist with an appointment for later in the month for probable tooth rebuilding, ending in a crown, all being well.

p.s. I’m a “cheek-biter”, apparently.  Not as saucy as it sounds.  After conducting an examination of my whole mouth, presumably some new directive for the early detection of mouth cancer etc, my dentist said,

“Cheek-biter, hum?”

I was taken aback by the term and the tone.  The latter was sort of blithely accusatory, like a doctor might deduce a smoker from nicotine-stained fingers - ”So, you’re a smoker, hum?” 

Cheek-biter?  I’ve never heard of this before.  I do have a sore line each side of my mouth, that place where if you suck your cheeks in, your teeth catch flesh.  I never knew we were a group of people, though, like nail-biters and skin-pickers.  Do I need to find a therapist?  I must do it in my sleep because I don’t make a point of chewing the inside of my mouth during the day.

DHARMA

Later in the day I went to a meditation session – Buddhist-style.  I’m sort of window-shopping groups at the moment, because the one I attended through NHS-referral for CFS is over.  It was meant to be a group today, but I was the only one who turned up.  So it was more like one-to-one tuition.  I’m really glad I went though, because I was dithering over it.  After the dentist I felt tired and tense.  Although I was tired, I felt like I’d not done anything nice with the day, anything to lift my spirits, so I needed a boost.

I am a little bit hopeless when it comes to practicing meditation by myself, at home.  Too many distractions.  I do find the group meditation very helpful, though.  I just felt so much more positive after the 90 minutes I was there.  I’m almost self-destructive when it comes to creating the conditions for a peaceful meditation at home.  The negative voices seem to gather forces when I’m trying to be still.  If I’ve got other people around me, with a voice leading me into a relaxed state of mind, it’s much easier.  For a wonderful snippet of time I had that break from the tension of body and mind and I was able to focus.  My back and shoulder pain receded and I just felt much more ‘me’ again.  The me who is able to think of others, to put my issues in some sort of perspective and, importantly, to just relax and laugh and find the pleasure in my surroundings.

The benefit I feel after these sessions is short-lived, because a) life’s distractions start to seep back in, and b) I’m not yet proficient/practiced enough to be able to re-create the calm perspective on a whim.  However, its reinforced the importance of making the effort to attend stuff like this, especially when I’m feeling disconnected and down.