Pushing an Elephant up the Stairs

The count down begins...

Time is fast running out to complete my final major project. The new semester begins on Monday and then there is only two weeks to go until the deadline.  From the 15th May until around the 23rd will be spent cleaning and painting the studio as well as putting up work. Next comes assessments, a visit by the external examiner and then The Big Day.  The Graduate Shows and our Introductory Studies Exhibition will be held from June 9th until the 15th.  The following day all work has to be collected and that's it. My first year will be over.  I can't believe how quickly the time has gone or that I have actually managed, or at least almost managed, to complete the course.  Only another three years to go!

I don't like to think about how long it will take me to get a degree.  Right at the beginning I decided to make small commitments - I will complete this week, this project, this semester - with my track record it was and still is too frightening to think further ahead than that.  Its worked though.  My philosophy these days is based on the question "How do you eat an elephant?" the answer being "One small bite at a time."

I'm feeling better about my project than I was at the beginning of the Easter break. In my usual, self critical way I thought that I was a long way behind until I sat down yesterday and reviewed how much I had done and how much remained. Over these two weeks I have completed four new paintings, have another about two thirds finished and two beaded pieces well under way.  The only major item outstanding is my notebook which needs quite a lot more work. That shouldn't be a problem, though, given two  more weeks to work on it.  All of the work will, of course, need mounting, but if I leave that until the last 2 or 3 days that should be OK.

It looks like I have a plan.

All I have to do now is get on with it.




Thirteen Things about my first Thursday Thirteen 1.  This is the very first Thursday Thirteen that I have taken part in. 2.   I have a brain like swiss cheese - full of holes - its taken me two weeks to figure out how to set this up! 3.   My introduction to Thursday Thirteen was through Elle on Domesticated Blogging . 4.   Its been awhile since I blogged regularly, it feels like I am having to learn the technical stuff all over again. 5.   This is a great way to avoid writing essays... 6.   Completing my course project... 7.   Doing paperwork... 8.   Starting housework. 9.   I'm already beginning to think about what I might list next Thursday. 10. I've been up and about for five hours and the only thing I have done so far is explore Thursday Thirteen lists! 11. I was so busy reading that I forgot to leave any comments. 12. Which means I can fill another couple of hours doing some more exploring. 13. I just realised it was Friday today, not Thursday! Told you my brain was like swiss cheese! Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I’ll add you here!) Elle          Leanne          Jane                 Ames        Ardice Karin        Paul             Lifecruiser         Moogie

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Talk, Talk, Talk

One of the reasons that The Independent is my newspaper of choice is the way it has campaigned on mental health issues.  Still very much a taboo subject, it is too often only mentioned in the press in connection with some terrible crime committed by someone who is mentally ill. The Independent, on the other hand, has run informative articles on all aspects of the subject, from the recently defeated bill to the experiences of service users.  And not just the kind of service users who hit the headlines but the every day people one rarely hears about.  The 1:4 who suffer some kind of mental illness during their life time or to quote a recent article, the 3.5 million Britons taking anti-depressants.

The two articles that have caught my attention lately both appeared in the Independent on Sunday, Madness: Britain's mental health time bomb  and Prozac nation. The first deals with proposed cuts in services to the tune of £20m in order to help cover the deficit in other parts of the health service and the second with a proposed expansion of 'talking therapies' as a better alternative to drugs.  Forgive me for being cynical but my reading of both translates as the Cinderella service is going to get even poorer.

Don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting that it would be a mistake to improve the availability of so called 'talking therapies'.  On the contrary, I am all for it.  My argument has always been that I do not want to be medicated, kept on 'hold', but to find a way of either curing my depression or of learning to deal with it without drugs.  I will also admit that anti-depressants are often helpful and there are times when they are the only option for many people, including myself. It is just that it does not seem to me that the government is interested in offering an effective mental health service, but that it is more concerned with saving some of the £400m p/a bill for anti-depressants. I cannot see how improvements in choice can be made without investing more money in  mental health services, not less.  For a start, to recruit, train and employ the 10,000 new therapists it has been suggested are needed is not going to happen for free.

My own experience as a service user is not a happy one.  I get 15 minutes every 3 months or so at a clinic. Counselling is only available if I approach a charity. I cannot have a cpn because there is a shortage and my condition is not considered serious enough. It was not considered serious enough even on my discharge from hospital after taking an overdose. Twice over the years I have called the clinic during what was, for me, a crisis.  The first time I was put through to a member of the administrative staff as no one else was available and finally given an appointment for 3 days later and the second time I was told to go for a walk. Two or three times I have left the clinic extremely distressed. No one appeared to either notice or care very much if they did.  When I have tried to question both my diagnosis and treatment, to discuss symptoms, etc., I have been made to feel ridiculous and more or less told to stop reading or investigating and to accept what ever they say without question.  No treatment other than drugs has ever been either suggested or discussed. The only constructive and useful help I have received has been first of all through college and now university.

I used to think it was me.  That I was either failing to communicate or that the way I feel is so insignificant that I should really stop wasting every ones time and deal with it myself. It is only during the last couple of years that I have come to realise that this is not true.  Many truly caring people work within the mental health services, unfortunately they are overstretched, underfunded and the resources to do their jobs properly simply do not exist.

Maybe the sheer scale of mental illness in this country will finally jolt the authorities into real action. Maybe a service will evolve that truly offers choice.  Perhaps one day effective 'talking therapies'  will be available to all service users who want or need them as well as support, drugs, cognative behavior therapy and whatever other useful alternatives there may be.

Maybe, but I am not going to hold my breath.

When the Darkness Won

Tale of a Cardboard Box and other Stories...

I woke up very early this morning and could not get back to sleep.  How come that so often happens on days when I could lie in if I wanted to? I could, I suppose, have used the extra time to continue playing catch up with the household chores, but I didn't.  Instead I had a leisurely breakfast, read the newspaper and drank copious amounts of coffee.  Still in a non-working frame of mind I decided to do some 'blogkeeping'.  I had been thinking about doing a spot of redecorating around here, after all nothing has been changed for quite some time.  I played around for a while, but the thing is, I still like the design, so settled for a bit of tweaking instead. Little things like moving to a three column layout.  An improvement, I think.

That done I went for a wander and caught up on some of my favourite blogs.  Something John Bailey said over at Journal of a Writing Man made me chuckle and brought back memories. He commented on mothers struggling with toddlers in a supermarket and the age old cry of "If you don't stop crying I'll give you something to cry about!"  I don't think I have ever used that particular phrase, although I can't be sure, its all such a long time ago. 

My son was particularly prone to tantrums.  He was strong willed, determined and very bright. A combination that caused problems on many an occasion.  We tried all sorts of things to deal with his temper from threats and bribes to time out. None of which were particularly successful until he came up with his own variation on the time out theme.  From somewhere or other we came into possession of a large cardboard box that he appropriated. It lived in the corner of the lounge and whenever he lost his temper or was upset about something, he would climb into it and close the lid. There he would curl up quietly until he felt better. At which point he would appear at my side and say 'I feel better now, mummy'. The only thing I had to do was stay away until he was ready to emerge. I soon discovered that if I spoke to him, or peaked into the box to see if he was ok he would begin crying again and the calming down period would be extended. I still squirm at the expression on the faces of visitors who were told on asking where N was, that he was in his box!

Ultimatums have never worked with N. When he was around 3 years old I bought him a denim flying jacket. It had woolly type fur on the collar and in the lining and quickly became a treasured possession. If he wasn't actually wearing it, it was carried under his arm or tucked into his back pack. On this particular occasion the family had been out for the day.  When we got home, N removed his jacket and dropped it on the floor. As there were coat pegs at child height I was annoyed and asked him to hang it up properly. I asked several times, in fact, but the jacket remained on the floor. Eventually I issued an ultimatum.  Pick up the jacket from the floor in the lounge, hang it up in the hall, or I would  throw it away.  I was very pleased a few minutes later to discover that the jacket had indeed disappeared from the floor, thanked N and told him he was a good boy.  It was only later that evening, after the children had gone to bed that I discovered the said item neatly folded and placed in the dustbin! Talk about calling my bluff!

As for supermarkets, I can laugh now at my embarrassment at having to return a large cabbage that N had 'shop lifted'.  Neither I nor the cashier had noticed it as it sat, large and green on the lap of my small son.  And then there was the time the kids and my ex raced around playing Star Wars using the portable scanners supplied by 'Safeway' and intended for quick shopping rather than shooting trolley wielding aliens.

I feel sorry for young people.  They have so much more than we did, more freedom, more possesions, more choices, and so much less.  Very few things are 'special' any more. My daughter has so many clothes that I doubt  she can even remember each outfit.  I still own a couple of dresses from years ago.  They no longer fit, would no longer be appropriate, but they are rendolent with memory.  The time and effort it took to save enough money to buy them and the occasions on which I wore them.  These are the things one tucks away, to be come across accidently and find oneself smiling as a time long gone is recollected.

I still remember the pleasure I felt as a small child when the opportunity arose to wear my 'best clothes' . The excitement of a day out, an ice-cream, some special treat. Now every thing has become every day.  Children have so many toys that there is little time or room for imagination. I wonder how many little girls get the same  delight from owning a 'Sindy' doll as I did?  I wanted one so badly, but they were expensive and not that easy to get hold of. I saved my pocket money and then my birthday money before scouring the town with my grandparents in search of this illusive toy.  I finally bought one in Birmingham on a trip to visit relatives.

I would not like to go back to the time when even quite ordinairy things such as bubble bath, perfume, make-up, a bottle of wine were very expensive, but I do miss the sense of something special to be looked forward to.  I suppose 'treats' are still available by buying more up market versions... but...I guess I am trying to describe something intangible that I feel has changed.

It's the Easter season that has got me thinging about these things.  I am not a practising Christian (or anything else for that matter), so it is, as it is for most people, a secular holiday for me. Maybe my age is making me look back into the past with rose coloured glasses. I am well aware that I would not give up my life now for the way things were then. But, but, still I remember. I remember when Good Friday was an exciting evening to go out. Tickets for my favourite night club had to be bought in advance and nothing began until midnight.  I remember when Easter Eggs tasted so good because the only other time one got so much chocolate was at Christmas. Now we live in a 24/7 society and chocolate is not a treat but a taken for granted part of many peoples diet.

I think I am turning into a grumpy old woman.

Why can't life be simple?

I had an appointment with R at the Student advice centre yesterday.  She is a very nice young woman, good at her job and far more kind and supportive than she needs to be.  Each time I go to see her it feels like a defeat.  The days when I could run a business, bring up a family and enjoy a social life all at the same time are long gone.  These days the smallest additional pressure on top of the every day is like removing the base from a house of cards.

My mood has been fragile for weeks.  Easy tears, bouts of wide awake energy interspersed with the desire to sleep 24/7.  Difficulties with dealing with paperwork, phone calls or organising my life.  Moods that swing between optimism and despair.  I think I would probably be able to cope if it were just the pressure of uni and the final project.  It is the steady drip drip of additional worries that is weakening my coping strategies.

Money has been a problem this semester.  Extra, unavoidable expenses like the need to buy a new gas cooker ruined my carefully worked out budget.  The seemingly ever growing list of things wrong with the house and the lengthy process of getting my landlord to do anything about them is a constant headache.  Then there is the forms.  Forms to apply for next years student loan and to renew my DLA.  Pages and pages of them.  The constant, beneath the surface worrying about Daughter No2.  The events of last Thursday.

Thursday!  What a day!  I made the effort to go into university because I had a meeting arranged with H, my mentor.  While there I discovered that the deadline for the contextual studies essay was the previous day, not the next as I had thought.  I convinced myself that there was no need to panic.  All I had to do was to go home, print off the essay and hand it in on Friday.  A late submission, yes, but not very late.  How could I have guessed that the some mysterious fault had developed in my computer and it had ceased to function some time during the night?

My essays? Gone.

Daughter No1's university project? Gone.

Sons AS coursework? Gone.

The kids were understandably upset (with circumstances not with me) and the sense of losing control of events began to blossom and spread under my skin.  It exploded into full blown panic when I opened the one piece of post to have arrived that day.

Out of the blue, with no explanation, the Student Loan Company had written to inform me that I had been overpaid by £858 and that they expected me to pay back the full amount by next week.  In that moment I saw every thing I have worked so hard to achieve fall apart.  If this were true, my plans for the future would remain, merely plans.  I would not be able to finish this year and as for next year, progressing with my degree would be impossible.

That letter is the reason I had an appointment with R. on Monday.  She has checked the figures and cannot understand how the loan company can have come to the conclusion that I have been overpaid.  Phone calls got us no where, provided no further illumination.  R. says not to worry.  That we will sort it out.  I just have to be patient and wait for her to call me.

So I wait.

I do not know if I am worrying.

I merely feel defeated.

I miss MJ.  Even after all this time, almost two years, I still think about him every day.  Whent the phone rings in the evening there is often a heartbeat of anticipation before I pick up the receiver.  He does call occasionally.  Although it has been some time since I last heard his voice.  I sent him a text when I got a merit for my last project, but he did not reply.

There is no going back, I know that.  Last year thre was a moment - an opportunity - that I chose to turn away from.  I am who I am and who that is has changed to much to retrace my footsteps.  Something else I am grateful to him for.  He gave me the strength, the knowledge of myself, that meant I could refuse to compromise who I am, even for him.  There is something ironic in that.

Missing MJ used to hurt.  It still does although now it is a wistful ache rather than a crippling pain.  What unlikely  characters, he and I, for a love story.  But then not all lovers are young and beautiful and not all stories have a neat resolution.

Mea Culpa (I was born that way)

Guilt is a funny thing. An emotion we are supposed to feel in order to keep us on the straight and narrow.  In its right place it is very useful, helping to regulate human relationships and reminding us that we have a choice between right and wrong.  The problem with guilt is that it rarely stays in its 'right place'  It has virus like qualities that allow it to spread through out an individual infecting other emotions with its nasty after taste. Worse still, it can be manipulated by other people.

I am an expert on guilt. Whether I was infected by my family as a child or by social pressure (I was brought up as a Catholic, convent educated), is a moot point.

A Good Start to the Day

The sun is shining. Lighting up my living room and tempting the cats away from the radiator to lie in bright patches of light. The house feels cold but it does not seem to matter. An extra jumper supplies more warmth and I can pretend that the weather is warmer and more summer like than it actually is.

I have started neither housework nor artwork, spending the first few hours of wakefulness listening to music and catching up with emails. My in box is filled with special offers and cures for baldness and impotence. A couple of requests to take part in surveys and a digest from one of the yahoo groups I subscribe to. Amongst the spam is a real email. From a long time friend I have not spoken to properly for a long time.  When she had realised I was back on line she had dropped me a quick line, I replied briefly, now here was the beginning of a proper conversation. 

It made me smile and feel lucky in my friends.

Despite my disappearance, despite my long refusal to communicate, at the first chink in my wall she is there.

As I read, I logged onto Yahoo Messenger and almost immediately there was an IM from another friend. Someone I have known for even longer than the email writer. Another I have neglected.

It made me smile and feel lucky in my friends.

Add to that the comment left by a fellow blogger who, to my astonishment, has not forgotten me and my smile grew broader.

What a lovely way to begin a new day.

I usually find it easier to work at home than I do at uni.  Not this week, though.  Daughter No1 is lying on the sofa and chats to me occasionally, Son is in and out with questions and comments. Not to mention my awareness of all the housework that needs doing. It is difficult to concentrate. How I long for a studio of my own.  A place that is sunny, light, warm and private. A place where I could lock the door and forget about everything else except my paints.