Day 1: Self harming while at work. Stabbing myself with needles out of numbness and frustration. Vomiting from anxiety. Saw Les Miserables in gold class and had a mate stay over that night. I showered.
Day 2: Called in Sick. Spent the day on the couch watching DVDs.
Day 3: Back at work. Snapped at a coworker who has a history of not being able to help anyone, and argues about why does he have to do his job. Constantly. I called him fucking useless. Got dragged into boss' office and torn to shreds. Got told that I had an attitude problem, was argumentative, unhelpful, pushy, didn't see the big picture and didn't do my job. Got sent home, cut myself, showered to wash the blood off, and was catatonic for the rest of the day. I remember sitting on the floor crying, with a scalpel over my wrist, thinking I can't fight this disease anymore, but I didn't know if I could do it. I wasn't sure if 'it' was keep going or slash my wrists.
Day 4: Catatonic
Day 5: Packed my bags and flew back to Vic for a family do. Had to tell my mother wahts going on. Very difficult conversation. Did shower that morning.
WEEKEND
Day 6: Family do. Was nice to see everyone. Slept all arvo, got woken up for a bbq, then home and straight to sleep. No shower.
Day 7: Flew home again. Big hugs from sister as she dropped me off at the airport. Was tired, and got to bed early. But didn't sleep well. Woke up at 1, 3.30 and 5.
WEEKDAYS
Day 8: Called in sick. Couldn't face anyone. Got rung by the boss sometime in the middle of the day and told she expected me to not leave them in the lurch. I did train, and shower.
Day 9: Got taken to HR with the boss. We had a frank discussion, which involved them telling me I was completely out of line. My illness should not account for any behavioural differences. I am not to tell my coworkers if I am having a bad day, because it shows I expect them to deal with my shit. I am to be away if I'm unwell. I am a lowly minion, and am not to ask or tell anyone to do anything. I cut myself and then go watch the Melbourne Cup. I am unresponsive to my workmates when they try to talk to me for the remainder of the afternoon.
Day 10: Bad day. Struggling to even tie up my shoe laces. I don't want to go in, but have important work to do and have been told not to leave them in the lurch. I cry as soon as I get to work. Its tough to do the mindless morning tasks. I find a quiet room, and a scalpel, and cut myself and cry for half an hour, then go to work with blood seeping through my clothes. I am completely unresponsive to everyone, and look forward to my important work because its something I have to do alone, and I get to play with animals. Its the best part of my day, even if it is the most stressful. I sleep on the change room floor instead of going to lunch. I do not train.
Day 11: I call in sick. My coworker begs me to talk to her. I ignore. I am rung by the boss. Something has gone wrong and they don't know what to do. Spent most of the day reading boooks and on facebook. I try not to sleep during the day, but do pass out around 4. I do not shower, I do not train.
Day 12: Feeling much better. Meds seem to be kicking in. Back at work. I aplogised to cowrker for igniring her, and told her that I was under instructions not to burden anyone with my illness. I am still tired, but no need to sleep during the day. I train and I shower.
The moral to the story: Ill people are fucked in the head, and we don't need you screwing around with us. We need people to support and try to understand us. We will come back around. Just be patient.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Friday, October 01, 2010
Resolutions
So. Its no secret I've gained weight. I worked so hard to lose it, and have gained a buttload back. originally my first priority was to deal with my depression, but that's dealt with. So I feel like I can focus on my weight loss again.
This week I made a resolution. I decided no chocolate for a week. And I did exceptionally well. Wed and thurs I had a slip up, a total of 20 chocolate bullets. Not too bad I think. And today, after the resolution had ended... No chocolate at all. Little resolutions work. So, I resolve the following.
I will train at least there times a week. If, for some reason, I cannot do three times a week, I will do FOUR times a week the next week to maker up for it.
I will have 4 morning teas at work that consist of yoghurt and berries, ricotta cookie, or museli slice. I can have a cafe coffee if I need one, but preference for premium instant. I get one free morning tea a month.
Visits to the ice creamery near work... Limited to once a month.
I will have at least one lunch our diner per day that is low carb.
No chocolate at home, but no stressing about if I have it at work either.
Eat outs are to be one per week. Two at the utter max. This is more for financial reasons, but works here too.
This week I made a resolution. I decided no chocolate for a week. And I did exceptionally well. Wed and thurs I had a slip up, a total of 20 chocolate bullets. Not too bad I think. And today, after the resolution had ended... No chocolate at all. Little resolutions work. So, I resolve the following.
I will train at least there times a week. If, for some reason, I cannot do three times a week, I will do FOUR times a week the next week to maker up for it.
I will have 4 morning teas at work that consist of yoghurt and berries, ricotta cookie, or museli slice. I can have a cafe coffee if I need one, but preference for premium instant. I get one free morning tea a month.
Visits to the ice creamery near work... Limited to once a month.
I will have at least one lunch our diner per day that is low carb.
No chocolate at home, but no stressing about if I have it at work either.
Eat outs are to be one per week. Two at the utter max. This is more for financial reasons, but works here too.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Birdies
Ooh. Lookit. Blogging from my phone.
So. This post is for Ute. I'm pretty sure I've blogged it before, but I feel the need to share it again.
My Dad used to breed budgies for show. He must have had thousands of them over the years. I remember her had two side by side avairies at one stage. Each about 20 or 30m long. One for boys, one for girls. Plus his breeding room. I'm soo used to those little birds. Anyway. He bred all types over the years. Blue, green, grey, yellow, ones with funky hairstyles. In the later years he bred yellow ones. I thought they were boring, but he liked them.
This story is about a little white one he had, when I was about 10. He had a mate who swore black and blue, that If you fed a bird exclusively on beetroot leaves, it would turn red. So he got the beaut idea that if you take a white budgie, you can spray it with red food dye, and get a red bird. So that's what he did. Took a lovely little light grey bird, mixed up a spay bottle of red food colouring, and spray painted the bird. Dried poor birdie, then applied another coat. Repeat until bottle empty.
The next night he took pinkie to the bird show. Everyone there was in on the joke. And it went down rather well.
We had pinkie for about a year after that. Her colour faded over about a month. Her wing tips were the last to go. One night there was a massive wind storm, and the lock on dads aviary came undone. He lost all of his birds from that year, with the exception of one runty little grey thing.
Shame too.he had one bird with excellent potential.
***
Aggro was a bird dad gave to his mum. He was white. The bird. Although dad was white too. Nan wanted one she could teach to talk. Originally, aggro was named kimba, for the white lion. But we found that he was really a she. And true to form, she was aggressive. Hence the name. Shortly after nan and grandpa moved down to live with us, dad re acquired aggro to use as a breeder. and she was a fantastic mum too.
***
Guts was mums bird. He was a mop. A genetic deformity that causes extremely long feathers, and a short life span. he was a brilliant dark blue. Because of his condition, his mother decided to end his life. Which, according to nature, is what is to be done. She should spend her time raising young that would survive, right?
Dad interrupted her. And managed to save the poor bugger. her was a bloody mess. Literally. He had half his scalp chewed off and suffered brain damage. My dad, being the softie that he is, child not being himself to kill the poor fighter. So he saved his life instead. Kept him in a heat box, and hand fed him.
Guts was aptly named. He was always hungry. And he'd eat anything that would fit in his beak. He used to sit on mums shoulder and nibble her ears. He'd get out and run around the floor, shitting everywhere. God he was cheeky. On top of having thee mop defect, as a result of his injury he always had one foot splayed out behind him, and he dragged the wing on the same side.
After a few months, dad took him out to the aviary. We'd go down every afternoon to pay with guts, and another mop that ran around the floor with him. We'd pick him up and carry him on our shoulders. Occasionally, he'd come up and spend the night at the house, nibbling mums ears.
I remember the day he died. I remember mum holding him in her outstretched hand, sobbing. She had always helped dad look after the birds, but guts was the only one she'd ever attached to.
So. This post is for Ute. I'm pretty sure I've blogged it before, but I feel the need to share it again.
My Dad used to breed budgies for show. He must have had thousands of them over the years. I remember her had two side by side avairies at one stage. Each about 20 or 30m long. One for boys, one for girls. Plus his breeding room. I'm soo used to those little birds. Anyway. He bred all types over the years. Blue, green, grey, yellow, ones with funky hairstyles. In the later years he bred yellow ones. I thought they were boring, but he liked them.
This story is about a little white one he had, when I was about 10. He had a mate who swore black and blue, that If you fed a bird exclusively on beetroot leaves, it would turn red. So he got the beaut idea that if you take a white budgie, you can spray it with red food dye, and get a red bird. So that's what he did. Took a lovely little light grey bird, mixed up a spay bottle of red food colouring, and spray painted the bird. Dried poor birdie, then applied another coat. Repeat until bottle empty.
The next night he took pinkie to the bird show. Everyone there was in on the joke. And it went down rather well.
We had pinkie for about a year after that. Her colour faded over about a month. Her wing tips were the last to go. One night there was a massive wind storm, and the lock on dads aviary came undone. He lost all of his birds from that year, with the exception of one runty little grey thing.
Shame too.he had one bird with excellent potential.
***
Aggro was a bird dad gave to his mum. He was white. The bird. Although dad was white too. Nan wanted one she could teach to talk. Originally, aggro was named kimba, for the white lion. But we found that he was really a she. And true to form, she was aggressive. Hence the name. Shortly after nan and grandpa moved down to live with us, dad re acquired aggro to use as a breeder. and she was a fantastic mum too.
***
Guts was mums bird. He was a mop. A genetic deformity that causes extremely long feathers, and a short life span. he was a brilliant dark blue. Because of his condition, his mother decided to end his life. Which, according to nature, is what is to be done. She should spend her time raising young that would survive, right?
Dad interrupted her. And managed to save the poor bugger. her was a bloody mess. Literally. He had half his scalp chewed off and suffered brain damage. My dad, being the softie that he is, child not being himself to kill the poor fighter. So he saved his life instead. Kept him in a heat box, and hand fed him.
Guts was aptly named. He was always hungry. And he'd eat anything that would fit in his beak. He used to sit on mums shoulder and nibble her ears. He'd get out and run around the floor, shitting everywhere. God he was cheeky. On top of having thee mop defect, as a result of his injury he always had one foot splayed out behind him, and he dragged the wing on the same side.
After a few months, dad took him out to the aviary. We'd go down every afternoon to pay with guts, and another mop that ran around the floor with him. We'd pick him up and carry him on our shoulders. Occasionally, he'd come up and spend the night at the house, nibbling mums ears.
I remember the day he died. I remember mum holding him in her outstretched hand, sobbing. She had always helped dad look after the birds, but guts was the only one she'd ever attached to.
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