New Vibrators, Erectile Dysfunction and Crocodiles

So you can get hands free vibrators now. So what to do with your hands I wondered? I gave this some considerable thought because it didn't take much energy. Then I realised I can have a sandwich or get on with me knitting. Perhaps do the shopping list or even the shopping- especially now you can order it all online. Could be really useful this new hands free kit. Multi tasking at its best. Ordered one. Will have to let you know how I get on with that.

In Sagas problem page (yes I do occasionally inherit the odd saga magazine on account of mines mother being old enough to have a saga subscription- well I am too but I am too mean)- some old fella complains : ‘I am 85 and started suffering from Erectile Dysfunction. What is wrong with me?’- Well I think the answer is in the first three words of your question mate. You are 85 and lucky to have been keeping it up thus far. I will send you two lolly sticks and a bag of elastic bands (of the ribbed variety). Keep your pecker up or take up gardening. Or get your wife a nifty bit of hands free kit (see above) and ask if you can watch!

Apparently Irises are greedy things. So my advice is if you know an Iris, don’t invite her to tea.

Did some exercise this week- but mines Mr Husband said running late isn’t classed as exercise. Then I started Yoga but again mines Mr Husband chipped in with ‘getting in that funny position you do when cutting your in growing toenail is not Yoga’.

In this weeks Woman’s Weekly (well a few weeks ago given the late stage that I inherited it) titles included ‘Solo Suppers’ (back to the hands free vibrator and a sandwich I guess) and ‘Keeping it (your bush) evergreen’, (nah- does not appeal, although I once knew a woman who regular had hers dyed pink and shaped like a heart- and then made a point of telling all the men in the neighbourhood). ‘Cute Baby Patterns’ (I’ve picked two babies I would like to knit- well now I am a) over the hill and b) wombless I cannot go reproducing in the conventional manner- knitting a couple seems idea- maybe at the same time as I am using the hands free kit- strange kind of irony there!) Then when I fed up with them I can unpick them and knit a nice jumper for mines Mr Husband.

I read you can lead a cow upstairs- I have given this a go- I don’t think the farmer over the back has missed it yet, I did only take a small cow on the basis that I only have a small cottage. It is working well because I now have milk to go in my tea on a morning- well if one gets the one cup maker for the bedroom one needs milk. I am getting fed up with shovelling cow shit out of the window every morning but on the plus side in the winter it will be nice to put my cold feet into something warm. If ever it wants to go back to the field I will be at a loss cos you can’t lead a cow downstairs.

You cannot eat wild crocodile. I’ll say not- who’s going to wrestle with a wild crocodile in the hope of getting a bite!! And locusts and crickets roasted in a hot oven make a nice snack much like pork scratchings- but with legs! Doesn’t appeal to me I must say.

Given up wearing knickers- they only end up sideways and back to front then. Inside out is the least of my problems when they are on sideways.

Chicken Tonight and Tying them up

'Lets have some old people for tea' I said to mines Mr Husband. 'No need my little pickled pineapple- I have been shopping and we have chicken tonight'. Nevertheless we still had two elderly visitors. They enjoyed themselves I think. They looked liked they did. I certainly did. I chatted non stop for five hours. After we let them go I said to mines Mr Husband 'That was nice wasn't it?' He just glared at me 'was it, was it? Who were they?'. I laughed ' what you mean, who were they? Who were they? Didn't you know who they were? Wasn't it obvious who they were?'. He thought momentarily and said 'No it wasn't. That's why I am asking you who were they?' As confidently as I possibly could I said ' They were thingymajig and whatjamacallit form over thingymaflipsit whatsitdoodah. They were visiting she at number three when I met them'. He sighed. 'Well, you shouldn't lure old peoples in and tie them to chairs and gaffer tape their mouths just so you have some company, it's called kidnap!'.  Do ya know he was feckin right. I need bail money again I am afraid! And I was so sure they had enjoyed it. Think I will do something different next week.

Jean with the little white dog, not a little pussy

Jean

This is what happened the first week we moved in here when a real old Devonshire bloke comes looking for his friend Jean. He knocked on my door first. They all do. Its the perils of living at number 1. They knock if they are lost -mostly- from anywhere between here and Scotland. Is this the road to Amarillo? How the fecking hell should I know? I am lost outside the gate meself. No good asking me for directions. Is this house number 7? No it feckin ain't is it? Doh! Ye olde Devonshire Fellow was the first of many but far the most persistent and the most annoying.

Me: Hello

Him: Hello, Jean?

Me: No, sorry I think you must have the wrong house

Him: Jean with the little dog?

Me: No, sorry I am not Jean with a little dog (thought best not go into BizzyLizzie with the pussy to a complete stranger)

Him: Its a little white dog.

Me: Is it?

Him: Yes. Are you Jean with the little white dog?

Me: (patience wearing thin- although mildly amused and wondering if I really do have a Jean with a little white dog)- No I am not Jean with or without a little white dog. Sorry you have the wrong house.

Him: No I don't think so because she said she lives along here in a yellow house.

Me: Well, my house is not really yellow is it? Its more cream coloured.

Him: Well I think its more yellowy. So does Jean with a little white dog live here then?

Me: Nope.

Him: Do you have a little white dog?

Me: Nope. Nor anyone called Jean. Have you tried the other 'yellow' house a few doors down?

Him: Not yet because I thought she lived here. I am sure she lives here.

Me: No sorry, she doesn't, try three doors down.

Him: Does Jean with a little white dog live there then?

Me: I don't know. Its a good guess though.

Him: Do you think she lives next door?

Me: No- I haven't lived here many days but I do know that the woman that lives there is called Belinda. And she has a little black dog. And her house is pink isn't it?

Him: Oh, right so that won't be her then. So you reckon she could live further down?

Me: (really pissed off now)- Going by the clues I have so far I would deduce that myself. Its gotta be worth asking. (me thinking:Oh Lordy please, please piss off and ask someone else!!).

Him: Oh ok. Actually I think you could be right. I will ask there. I didn't think you were Jean because you got a different coloured carpet to her!!!

Me: Yes and a different name and no dog.

Him: Thanks, I will go now and ask her. See you again.

Me: Not if I feckin see you first mate! Not if I see you first.

Him: If I find her would you like me to come back and tell you where she lives???

Me: No thanks. Its ok, I have lived this long without a Jean with a little white dog- I think I can manage a little longer.

This was the point I shut the door before I hit him.

Me: (shouting)- it's ok Jean with the little white dog- you can come out from under the stairs now- he's gone!!

Lesbian and Cake shaped adventures

After the adventure at the dark and wet adventure in the bush mines Mr Husband thought it would a good idea to take me somewhere else. I like being taken in different locations. Variety is the spice of life. Why he thought this would be a good idea I have no idea. Nevertheless we headed to the river for a little stroll.

 Well we strolled along the bank of the river, not in the river itself because I had me new shoes on. We watched all the other people having a good time. Some people were sat on my favourite bench having a picnic. I was very annoyed to say the least. You walk all that way and are in dire need of a sit down on your favourite bench and there's a feckin family from yonder estate having a friggin picnic on it. Never one to let someone else having a picnic deter me I plonked myself in between an old man and a cake shaped woman- (actually that's my kind of woman is that - not in a lesbian sort of way-les be straight on that- but in a cake sort of way). 'Budge up fatty' I said in my most politest voice, 'and give us a bit of thee cake'. Mines Mr Husband looked a bit embarrassed so he just stood back and watched from the side lines. There was a little kid in front of me with a bottle of fizzy. I was sooo thirsty. So I asked him for some.  'Don't you know that's bad for you?' I asked him. 'It ain't' he protested. 'it ain't is it mum?' he said looking at the cake shaped woman sat next to me. She couldn't answer, she had a face full of cake. This was, I reckon so she wouldn't have to share it with me. Some peoples can be very mean with cake. 'It is too', I said. 'Its full of sugar. 17 spoonfuls in one bottle. More than twice the governments recommended daily dose. Your teeth will all rot and fall out and you will fart all night. Ye shall be a danger to thee candle'. He started wailing. Loudly. Touchy!! I tussled with him to get it out of his hand. But he had a vice like grip on that. Kids are like that from estates. (If you come from one such estate I am sorry to hear that. Also my publisher will advise I apologise if you are over sensitive and get offended easily. All I can say is move away from that bitch next door- don't let her pick on ye anymore). It's a survival technique they learn before they can even walk- they learn it at the same time as learning how to make a pot noodle and get crisps out of the cupboard. Then once that is achieved they need to learn how to keep hold of it before some nifty tealeaf haves it outta their hands. Eventually some old geezer who could have been the grand father or the uncle or even the father stood up and said 'c'mon lets go'. The cake shaped woman just looked at him and said 'feck off  you Merv, we don't know who you are'. She did know who he was- she call him Merv! Anyways he walked off on his own. Then she gathered up five or six kids, and a snotty baby before realising he wasn't even hers and promptly dumped the poor little sod back on the grass and he crawled off bawling, and she put her bottle of water (in a vodka bottle none the less-that be no way to treat water) in her Asda's carrier bag and picked up a dirty old leopard print jacket and stomped off, kicking up grass as she went. Mines Mr Husband came and plonked his weary arse next to mine. He looked shell shocked bless him. 'It be ok my lover' I said. 'I will look after thee'. Then after we had a rest and watched the world going by we wandered along some more. We saw Merv, he was sat chatting to a group of teenage lads who kept calling him grand dad. Then we found a nice spot by the river to sit down on my favourite tree stump. A tree surgeon was breaking off branches of a tree and throwing them down. Mines Mr Husband said he was not a tree surgeon but a thoughtless and uncouth yob who should not have been breaking the tree up. In hindsight I think mines Mr Husband was probably right. Lots of people were throwing sticks (that the tree surgeon had thrown down) into the river and shouting 'fetch'. Dogs were jumping in left right and centre and bringing sticks back. A dog brought me a stick. I thought that was kind of him. I didn't know he and he didn't know me. I threw it back it the water and shouted 'fetch'. Immediately without hesitation mines Mr Husband threw himself into the river and brought the stick back- after wrestling it from the jaws of the dog that had brought to me in the first instance. He did that several times more until he was exhausted. I was pleased because I think I have at last trained mines Mr Husband to obedience standard. Even my little dog Mitzi didn't go and get a stick when told to.  When we got home he said 'Oh I think I have caught the sun, my cheeks are aglow. They are burning'. After all  t'was very sunny and very warm. 'Well', I said 'Tis your own fault, you shoulda kept your trousers on- or at least applied some xfactor'. Think we shall go there again. I enjoyed that afternoon. Might even take me own cake.

Solving problems in the bedroom

I am sat here down stairs. Mines Mr Husband is sleeping off a night shift, upstairs. I can hear his snoring vibrating through the ceiling. Its no secret that mines Mr Husband is a fervent snorer. Always has been and always will be. With the exception of a small window when he went and had a 'nose job'. It stopped for a while, but has returned with a vengeance. It has driven me to distraction. I have worn the settee out where I slept so many nights on it. So much so that now we have to have separate bedrooms. I may even let him have a bed in his room one day. He tells me that it is natural to snore. Cavemen started the trend- they slept in the doorways to the cave and snored loudly to deter dragons and dinosaurs!

Have ye tried snoring remedies I hear ye all ask? Have I tried snoring remedies? Have I?

We know there are copious snoring 'remedies'.  Like millions before us and millions after us we have tried it all at great expense. You name it. Sprays and strips, jaw clamps and nose clips. He has gone to bed looking Hannibal Lector. Then I really had trouble sleeping I can tell you! He has countless e-books on the subject and has even posted articles on google. Nothing, works. I have suggested he gets hard back copies of the books, than I can make him up a spare bed made of them! Or hit him over the head with them. Either or, I am not fussy, just feckin tired. He has even tried a nifty little ring that you wear on your little finger. Someone suggested earplugs but still he snored. I even put a picture of Susan Boyle on the bedside for him and he just turned her round to face the wall.

We purchased a snoring pillow that came, I kid ye not, with a free full set of kitchen knives. I put the pillow on his side of the bed (naturally) and I kept the knives on my side. It worked like a dream. Not the feckin snoring pillow of course- the knives. Not that I used any on his throat - just yet. Just the fear of sleeping next to a sleep deprived, ever so menopausal and ever so slightly deranged woman with a full set of kitchen knives is the thing that keeps him awake. Staying awake equals no snoring!! However, one night recently I realised the knives had disappeared. This was the night I was woken by what I thought was a helicopter landing in my bedroom and turned out twas he, snoring. Knives still yet to be re-located but I strongly suspect he was involved in their disappearance. I tell ye, I should have been in the FBI.

Mines mother said 'well do ye know what I have heard?' Well I guessed. Is it mines husband snoring?'. She never said yay or nay because she is tactful like that. 'What I heard is that ye should sew a tennis ball in the back of his jammies. It be an old wives tale but it works'. So off I went and bought him some jammies. He doesn't own jammies because he likes to sleep as nature intended. Then I went to the sports shop. I had to have a pack of five tennis balls cos that is how they do come. (Not named like the plastic flies I bought to tempt damsels with- just plain un-named tennis balls). £89.99.They had a nifty little tennis racket for free with it. T'was a bargain I thought. I went home and stitched one tennis ball in the back of the jammies (don't ask me how- this ain't a feckin article on sewing -t'was magic). I put them in his drawer. For six feckin weeks they jammies was in the drawer. My mother asked if I done as she suggested. 'Aye,' I said. 'It hasn't worked, the jammies with the tennis ball is still in the drawer'.  'Av ye told him they are there?' she asked. I admitted that I hadn't. 'Maybe this is why tain't working'. Then she suggested I tell him to take them out of the drawer and get him to wear them in the bed. So when I went to bed that night I said ' I have been telling mines mother about the problems we have been having in the bedroom department and I have bought ye a present mines husband'. His eyes lit up. A present to use in the bedroom. Then I produced the jammies with the tennis ball. His enthusiasm for receiving said gift waned immediately.  'I am not wearing feckin jammies to the bed, end of', he said 'it's not natural to wear jammies to the bed'. I snarled at him. 'Look, I been to a great deal of trouble to incorporate sport into your night time routine by including a tennis ball for ye'. Again he said 'I am not wearing jammies to the bed with tennis ball or without'. I was losing patience with him now. 'Now look yer matey,' (cos I call him that sometimes), 'look yer matey' I says, 'jammies are not just for wearing when ye does ye shopping at Asda's you feckin eejit'. But this man wasn't for turning so I donated the jammies to the baffled, bewildered and knackered old codgers home.

Determined not to be beaten by a feckin man and not one to waste tennis balls (I had another four to use)  I had another brainwave. I painted the faces of each of his exes on them (well not all of his exes- I don't have that many tennis balls- just the ones who are on my 'and I can see why you are the ex' list). I got me serious glue, (none of that feckin silly glue) and I put a generous dab on each one and stuck them intermittently down his back whilst he slept like a baby. Fortunately he sleeps on his side so they wouldn't disturb him too much. Yet he still snores like a gun ship mid battle. However, when he starts snoring now I takes me tennis racket and gives each of his balls a good whack. He thinks I am very sporty in bed now. Not only do I get a kick out of whacking one of they ex bitches in the face several times a night I keeps mines husband awake enough to stop his snoring. During the day he looks like the hunchback of Notre dam, but hey its a small price to pay. And looks aren't everything. So they say!

My mate Dave, BJ, and Elvis

A few months ago I filled in a survey on what I thought of the Conservatives policies. Fair do's. I don't mind giving me two penneth and I ain't got much else to do have I? Anyways ever since I been getting emails from Dave himself inviting me to his party. I think he really likes me and we are getting well friendly. So I have decided to write back and accept his invite.
Alright Dave me ol' mate?,
I feel I can call you mate now seeing as how we been getting to know each other a bit better of late- due to all the emails and invites you been sending me. You are very good with the little heart moticons things aren't you? Anyway I have thought about it and I accept your invitation to come to the party- as long as there is jelly, cake and sherry trifle, balloons, party string and pass the parcel. (Please check the parcel carefully for explosives before I get there). I am supposing you want me to come because you know what fun I am at a party but I must warn you I do strip so I do not want any policemans there to arrest me or call me a naked pleb. Also I do like a certain type of music- I like Wrecking Ball and I do a bit of a party trick with one of them. You will like that. A space hopper will do if you can't get a wrecking ball or you are worried about your antiques (like some of them old peers you have there). But I will be careful. Promise. You know what one of thems is don't you? A promise. You make them just before an erection. I think that's what mines Mr Husband says. My promise will be as good as yours. Promise. Also I do like a bit of Elvis karaoke but I don't wanna see any of they old geezers squeezed into white suits with black wigs. I know what they old geezers are like for dressing up and wearing wigs especially at your parties. I have seen them on the telly whilst they been in your big house- the one with all the green and red seats. Also I don't want to see anyone in a white suit of any sort (they make me nervous). I don't want cheap booze or food either, none of that Lidl crap. I only like Tesco stuff Ok? Oh and I don't wanna a do agadoo either. Its outdated. Its all about wrecking balls these days.
I wondered also if you could send a car for me- not a white one with yellow lines and blue lights like they keep sending to me here either. If not send me the address and the post code and I will get me brother in law to give me a lift- he got one of they thems sat navs you know.
Will the funny chap with the blonde wig be there? I think he calls himself a clown or a mayor or something. He's a right laugh he is. I like him. I hope he is there. If you haven't invited him yet don't forget to ask him. Tell him I will be there. Also If there are very many old peoples there you might like to have a first aider there because some of them tend to have a stroke when I flash past naked. The last party I went to like this, two old men had a stroke and the other missed and hit the floor a bit hard and needed stitches.
Finally it might be a good idea to get the kids a babysitter for the night, you don't want them to be traumatised by my naked dancing. (But do try and remember who you leave them with mate, cos to be honest you aren't very good with this part of being a dad are you and it don't look good do it.) And no politics- I don't want a waste a good party talking politics.
Lots of love
Your mate BizzyLizzie
P.S.Just remembered the blond chap- Boris I think they call him- but I think thats not his real name. Do you mind if I call him BJ for short. (Big John!)

A Deep and Wet Adventure in the Bush.......

We went on an adventure to the pond. I love the pond. Tis often a very peaceful place to sit and watch the world go by. I love to see the moorhens and the grebe nesting and stuff and the terrapins basking in the sun. I love to see the koi coming up to the top to see what's going on. Usually me peering back taking their pictures. Last week we thought how nice now spring is here to spend some time at the pond and see what is springing up. It was beautiful. And spring stuff was springing up everywhere. Dangerous time spring- buds are shooting and the cow slips about! Here was no exception and it was busy with the usual strollers and photographers and the odd knob who thinks its ok to feed the birds bread (It's not). When suddenly all we could hear were the voices of two rather noisy old ladies coming from yonder bushes. They were quite excitable so we know they weren't being hurt or murdered- unless that was their particular thing. We didn't hear any whips cracking- just a few knee caps. We guessed Mr Gray was not in attendance. Although I think mines Mr Husband was very curious as to what two old ladies were doing in the bush. They got louder and closer and then we spied them. It seems they were exploring in the bush. With backpacks. They made a beeline for me. They didn't need to- I don't like beelines. It turns out they had just found this 'lovely peaceful place', they shouted for the world and his wife at the pond to hear. We heard how they had parked their car in the 'forest' (I am not sure if they meant to or are even supposed to- but who am I to judge- you gotta park where you can find a space these days) and how they had found this place by accident (despite having a leaflet in their possession telling them all about the place) and how thrilled they were to be here in this lovely 'peaceful place', full of beautiful things. Of course they were too be busy disturbing the peace to see the beautiful things. Mines Mr husband slipped into tour guide mode and pointed out various things of beauty around the pond and this seemed to excite them further. It's quite like him to excite a old lady or two. And he so loves to help old ladies. It's a flight safety thing. I think they are trained in it. Also he likes people to know he is quite knowledgeable. Then they mentioned what a lovely 'peaceful place' this is. 'Well it was' I said- 'then you two loud mouth gob shites appeared'. Mines Mr Husband carried on with news of the koi carp and the king fisher.  But they weren't really listening. Good job he was. I asked them if they thought the pond itself looked nice. 'Very nice' they enthused, 'Very peaceful'.  Then, I am sorry to say this guys, (but not very) I said 'Yes it is and very deep and very wet' and then my hands slipped and I pushed them in. On the way down into the water I told them all about the shark who was just waiting for feeding time. (I am sure I saw one in there one day and it is a place where people abandoned unwanted pets- fact). Ye never seen two old ladies swim so fast in all ye life. They clambered out the other side covered in pond weed and as they stood there gasping for air and looking a tad confused I called across the pond- 'and look out for ye old bear lurking behind that tree'. (I know he does because I found ye old bear shit there and ye old bears always shit behind the trees- that's how you can tell the front of the tree from the back- fact - mines mother told me that). I do hope they had spare knickers in thems back packs. Mines Mr Husband stood there with his mouth open for the longest time. On the plus side he didn't need feeding when I got him home. 'Shut thee mouth there's a bus coming' I said. 'Now that', he said, 'in a nice peaceful Devon location- I don't believe. I can swallow the bear and the shark but not the bus'. I said 'With thee gob open that wide thas can swallow all three'. I wonder if they two old ladies ended up with a parking ticket?

Big Tits, Little Tits, Muffins and Surrey with a fringe on Top!

We all have one boobie bigger than the other apparently. Men, put your fingers in your ears! That's better, now you can this read in the peace and quiet! I have often bemoaned the fact that we have one boobie bigger than the other and what a nightmare it is to get a decent bra. So good old Gok Wan to the rescue. What you do is buy the bigger bra so that you comfortably accommodate the larger boobie so it doesn't spill over the top and instead of leaving the smaller boobie to rattle round like a pea in bucket in the other cup. You then put a chicken fillet underneath the smaller boobie to prop it up! I thought brilliant .I will try this. So off I nipped to Sainsburys. I thought chicken fillets were too expensive so I have ended up with some diced turkey and some ox's liver. I am not yet sure if this will be as good but on the plus side this will double as next weeks dinner and to boot it's getting a bit of slow cooking! This week Gok is dressing Pear shapes and Apple shapes- again no cake shape! Although my ears did prick up when he mentioned topped muffins! Or words to that effect.

After having the job that mines Mr Husband has worked so hard for for the past ten years whipped from under his nose by a creep who has only been there 5 minutes he come home somewhat gutted to say the least. 'Plan B' I enquired gently? 'Plan B' he said. 'Which is?' I asked- he always has lots of plan B's because Plan A's are usually crap anyway. 'What about the Oklahoma job? Do you still like the idea?' Well I liked that idea long before plan A actually. 'Oh yay, I like it' (feck all to keep us in this lousy dump of a country anyway) 'I could have a surrey with a fringe on top'. And without missing a beat he said ' Oh No mines little fruitcake- not a surrey with a fringe on top- you would only take the scissors to it and cut it skewiff'. Anyway I am going to spend the morning looking houses and surreys in Oklahoma. x

Doctors visits, Driving and Cake

Mines husband has brought the shopping list back saying he couldn't get half of what was on the list I gave him. He couldn't find thingys, ooojamaflips, thingmajigs and whotsitdoodahs. Excuses, excuses.I shall have to go myself. Men!

Shopping for an internet password book for moi little sister. Can have a new one or a used one. The used one sounds ok. Someone's passwords -cheap at half the price. Lets hope they got a healthier bank balance than mine.

 The trip to the nurse was quite uneventful this time but I do realise that I need to get out more often because I drove all the way there and I mounted the pavement at least three times but I tell ye on the way back I got smack bang in the middle of the road and put me foot down. I wasn't making that mistake again.  Also the traffic coming the other way was on the path and on the grass verges I noticed. (true story). I also remembered to change gear a couple of times on the way home. That nurse said to exercise more often so I walked around Sainsbury's and treated meself to cake and Yorkie chocolate buttons. I forgot me walking stick (sorry Maggie) so I was struggling a bit by the time I got to the checkout. I thought sit down that's what I will do. Then I got told off by the manager for sitting on the conveyor belt. Something to do with hygiene. I told him straight 'look yer mate,' (I call him that), 'look yer mate' I said, ' Don't talk to me about hygiene I got knickers on I have. I been Doctors and I have worn me best going to the doctors knickers'. (I had to go about me asthma- but you never know if they will want to see your knickers or not- Fact!). So I showed the manager I had me best going to the doctors knickers on. Anyway, they have told me not to go back again unless I am with mines Mr Husband because he keeps me under control. They thinks!!

I learned that there is something call slow mud up on the road to Ottery. I didn't get behind it thank goodness.

The Dr is still advising that to stop your child being hot and itchy all night rub in some moisturiser twenty minutes before bedtime. I did this. I have not any idea if any of my children itch all night but I have lovely soft skin- you my children should not be itching at night because momma is using her moisturiser.

Anyways I am off to sit in the sun and have me crisps and me cake and me chocolate and me coke. (This is the liquid variety called Cola).

From Socks to Insanity, Suicide and Superheroes

I just finished reading from Socks to Insanity by Patsy Scott. She isn't a best selling world wide author. Just an ordinary gal like me who has been to hell and back. I bought this little E Book a couple of weeks ago whilst in a suicidal mode. I don't know if I was looking for some kind of reason to go on living or one to completely end life. Not that her book is either. I was curious how other people who live with manic or clinical depression/bi-polar live or why they kill themselves. Patsy didn't kill herself, although she gave it a go and she was lucky to find a man who supported her and watched her. Personally I think her first husband was part and parcel of the original problem. She probably never saw herself as victim of domestic abuse by him and people don't if they are not physically battered. The emotional abuse along with trying to do too much, running a home and keeping a job down and then her husband 'needing time alone' takes it's toll on you. Sometimes as women, we try to be super heroes. Society expects us to be super heroes. We are expected to be everything to all people and keep the house and the kids in order and do a job of a work and be a social creature and end the of the day be life and soul of the party and make love to our husbands. We are expected to be great parents, grandparents, daughters and aunties and sisters and friends- the list goes on and on. Years and years of this doesn't work well for all that many of us if we are really truthful. The survivors are the ones who can say no to people. The ones who can take time out just for themselves. The ones that fall apart are the YES women. The women who take it all on and try to solve all problems for the world and his wife- even sometimes neglecting time spent with our own husband and children- then this causes another problem of resentment. I am speaking from experience. Patsy was one such woman. Then they wonder why we crack. Patsy cracked. I did. I didn't self harm- I am too much of a coward- I don't like pain. Its maybe why I have still not killed myself - I am like everyone else I guess. I want to die painlessly and quickly. Just slip away. Pills don't usually do that they- they rip you apart with excruciating pain and they make you sick. I hate being sick. And if someone finds you they will probably get you to a hospital and get your stomach pumped. Then you fail at something else. Because I believe that's partly why we crack. We can't do it all and we feel like we are failing everyone. Now I sit here day after day. No-one wants me for anything or needs me anymore because I learnt to say no after I cracked. Sure I keep husband number two's home tidyish and cleanish and I cook for him. But he pays the rent and keeps me fed and clothed- and fair exchange is no robbery. I don't think I am much good at any of it though. I am always feeling poorly and I am always in pain. I struggle daily. I am a failure at everything. Although he seems fairly satisfied with his dinner everyday. And I haven't given him food poisoning yet.

So What about Patsy's book- from Socks to Insanity?. It made me sad really to think of her struggling and everyone trying to figure why she cracked up. She ended up in mental hospitals. She knew she was in the wrong place- she wasn't getting the right help- not a useful psychiatrist in the place it seems. All with different ideas and methods and little interest in Patsy or anyone else. One even seemed more mad than the patients. Some of the patients seemed very well aware of what they were about and very clever and very crafty. And the nursing staff knew that. By the time I had finished the book I found I seen a little bit of some of the people she encountered in there in me too. That frightened me. I am not normal. I am afraid of becoming like them. I am afraid for my husband. I would hate for him to see me like Patsy's husband seen her. Patsy's husband was a very special man who was sent by an angel I am sure to be her support when she needed it most and we all need that. I felt the same about my current husband when I had my breakdown. I don't think he would have been as strong or as patient as Patsy's husband though if he had come in to find me self harming with razor blades and broken glass. He, I am sure, would have had me committed himself. But then if I had been like Patsy then maybe the angels would have had to have sent a different person to get me through. Patsy's husband sometimes despaired and didn't know what the next thing would be- but to be fair neither did Patsy. He stuck by her, he married her, he loved her. I would have loved to have read the story from his perspective too. I know my husband doesn't know how to help me sometimes. I am doing this without drugs to fog up my head. I am doing this without psychiatrists and doctors. I don't want to end up in a mental hospital. I want to get over the bad days and enjoy the good days. I don't want my husband to see the bad days. I don't want him to add to them because over the years he has and he knows he has because he has his own idea of life and likes to do things his own way- even if it frustrates and hurts me. He is much less selfish than he used to be but the easiest thing would be to let him just get on with it. But that's harder said than done. I am not a baby. I don't want or need constant attention but some is nice. I wouldn't go as far as to self harm to release anxiety or pain unless it was a permanent end to my misery. My husband gets it. Patsy's husband never saw Patsy's death as an option. My husband can see why I feel I would be better off. He says he doesn't like the idea of it but that he would understand it if I did it. He doesn't watch over me. Even real suicidal days he goes off to work and leaves me to it. He probably thinks I won't do it. I sometimes think it would be a release for both of us. I picture him heaving a big sigh of relief. I also see all my children doing the same. Just like Patsy and countless other suicidal people- you see your friends and relatives all being relieved of the burden of having someone they don't really understand or don't really want to be close to being gone. I know people who have killed themselves and I see the pain in the remaining relatives. I see them in anguish. I see mothers and fathers daily tormented by the fact their child has been so bad they have taken their lives. Some say how selfish it is. Don't be so silly. (That hurts sooo much- when you are in torment you don't want the self righteous know it all ass calling you silly when you need love and tenderness.) Think of what you are leaving behind. Think of ME! Well I say how about you think of ME! I say maybe the relatives could spare a thought or several thoughts for the sufferer and his or her anguish. You truly have to be a sufferer to understand. I read stories about people have been to that point and survived and are glad because their lives have now turned around- Patsy being one. Of course no-one really wants death. We want a quality of life that others enjoy. When I am out in the country or down by the beach, the sun is shining and I am looking at beautiful things, or when one of my kids tell me they love me I want to be alive. I want to enjoy life. When I see other people enjoying the family life I had always hope I would have - their kids coming to see them for the weekend with their kids in tow I feel a deep envy and sadness. That was what I wanted for me before depression took a hold and swung me round by the balls. My kids will never know of this sadness or even care I don't expect. They won't read this, probably not until I am long gone. And if they did they won't do anything about it. I have a son who doesn't speak to me or let me see my grand children. I have a daughter who barely speaks because her alcoholic controlling freaky boyfriend is oversensitive and knows I know about him being a total whatnotpot. The youngest is a very busy chap and would be here in an instant but again its been a very hit and miss relationship since I left when I had my original breakdown in 2003. It is my own fault. I failed them. I failed me. I failed my family. I fail my new husband. Even being on a spiritual path is considered part of being nutty. Is it any wonder I and others like me don't know where to turn- really? Is it any wonder our partners leave and find comfort elsewhere? Is it any wonder they all switch off and pretend we aren't there? Is it our faults or theirs? We need superheroes.

Sex Pests, Flashing and Iced Buns

This Weeks at the Mad House!!

Its funny the things you find out about your siblings when you grow up. I never knew my little sister (the one with the issues) couldn't swim until I pushed her in the river when we were on holiday. What she didn't know was that I can't either. Well not in the deep end. Hard Luck!

Mines Mr Husband has been banned from Tesco too now. Since I been banned for various things I gave him the list to do the shopping. He was doing all right until he got to flash (in the cleaning aisle). He thought it was an instruction. Feckin eejit. He would have got away with it an' all if that old lady hadn't just been to specsavers and picked up her new bi focal variables...............And I still have no bathroom cleaner!

I read that sex empties our mind and increases our inner energy. Really? Well I suppose when us girls finish planning the next days meals and writing the shopping list its possible...... And as for inner energy I have already been told off saying leave me to sleep in the after math. Mines Mr Husband says 'it's the after glow, not the after math'. I said to him 'I know what I mean. At our age it's definitely aftermath.'

I was across the bedroom this morning and mines Mr Husband says 'Iced Bun?' I thought mmm where has got iced buns from this early hour and he knows I am partial to an iced bun. 'Bit early' I replied. 'What for?' he asked. 'Iced Buns' I said. 'Also cruel because you know I love Iced Buns and that I can't have them for I am Lack Toast and Tolerant'. He rolled the floor with laughter and then said ' Oh my little fruit cake- it was a compliment- I said Nice Bum'. I felt stupid. Then he said 'Stop feeling me and help me up off this floor'.

I dreamt I bought a birthday card and when I got it home it said ' Happy Birthday, well done on getting this far in life without having half your leg bitten off by a crocodile'. Mines Mr Husband said it will only do for a niche market will that. I haven't decided who to give it to yet.

I wish Facebook would stopping asking me to like Michael McIntyre. I can't. I just can't. I have tried but his voice gets on my tits. I would also like to like Kevin Bridges but I truly can't understand a man the word says. Leave me a feckin lone!!

I read A sex pest has been banned from sitting next to women in public. I never sit next to women in public- cheek of it.

Finally much chuffed, my first book is on the way to being finished for publication-the three little pigs (for adults). You heard it here first my friends- you are my inspiration.

Oh and one more finally, mines Mr Husband is taking me on an adventure today. It better be happier than the last. He had a face like a long wet weekend in Margate. It's no pleasure for a girl when her Mr Husband doesn't want to join in the adventure. I am not taking him to the graveyard again- not until he is at least deaded.x

Think I may start designing and selling my own birthday cards!

The Stripper, The Telegraph Pole and Rickets

You know what I hate? I hate this house in the summer. And in the winter. In the summer its always warmer and brighter outside than it is inside. So today I have donned the beats and subjected my body to copious amounts of sun whilst lounging on the lounger. 'Come outside mines Mr Husband' , I shouted. 'You shall get feckin rickets sitting inside all day.' He shouted back 'I ain't got enough hair.' 'Rickets' I said, 'not feckin crickets.' I was singing my little head off (the neighbours should just be grateful I sold the drum kit so we could move in here!) when 'the stripper' came on my player.. Well what more can I say- within minutes mines Mr Husband was saying 'put your clothes back on or you will be having the same problem as Amanda Holden (see earlier post) and your lips shall be sunburnt.' I told him 'I can't, there is still 2minutes and 58 seconds left of this music!' Yep that's how quick I can strip I tell ya. I have had lots of practice now. Mines Mr Husband climbed the telegraph pole outside the garden to get my shorts back. I told him it's ok. No-one can see in our garden now we have the new fence unless they climb the fence (or aforementioned telegraph pole). 'Or' he said, nodding towards next doors bathroom window, 'unless someone is leaning out of his bathroom window.' I gave HHMH a little wave. He threw my socks back. I thought as it was a nice day I may as well leave the clothes off now. I completely forgot about the airport at the back and the fact we are on a flight path. Doh!! Now she at number at 3, number 4 and he number 5with the new cock have lost their chimney pots. Damn silly pilots oughta look where they are going! And that was a damn silly thing to do to stick his head outta the cockpit winda and ask for his solo beats back- he can't prove they are his! Mines Mr Husband got these fair and square so he did. Tis' his own fault that branch struck him in the eyeball. Pilots should look where they are going! (May have to call some hunky fireman in a while to get Mr Husbands back down from telegraph poles-but not until he has got some vitamin D in him- no need to rush!!)

How it really is..................

Whilst trawling the web, well I didn't need to trawl far, to find articles about links between Aspergers and Depression I chanced upon the following article by Nomi Kaim on http://www.aane.org. I have pasted in part the article so maybe you can understand a little more about the issue. Nomi seems to have it sewn up perfectly for the condition. I couldn't put it better myself.

It all but describes my feelings- although I do feel the absolute need to be loved and I do like to be held by- but really only by the one person I truly trust with body and my safety, my husband. Not connecting with those closest to me is the hardest part of all.

"Asperger's and Depression:
 Inside a Common Paradox

By Nomi Kaim
A large proportion of people with Asperger’s Syndrome–perhaps especially those who are higher functioning–suffer from some form of depression. It is unclear whether this depression emerges as a result of the struggles, exhaustion, rejection and failures so often present in a life with Asperger’s Syndrome, or whether the mysterious neurology of AS somehow invites, or includes, a hard-wired affective disorder. What is clear is that people with Asperger’s Syndrome can end up particularly entrenched in their depression, and be difficult to treat or “cure.” Like many of the viewpoints and needs of individuals with Asperger’s Syndrome, this depression can be extremely rigid and hard to budge. To use the sensory terminology of Autism Spectrum Disorder: the “weighted blanket” of despair is immobilizing, smothering, paralyzing–and it most certainly does not provide deep pressure relief!
My own personal struggles with Asperger’s Syndrome and depression have also revealed some seeming paradoxes in the juxtaposition of these two conditions. It seems that many of the thoughts, feelings and impulses associated with depression are practically incompatible with the definitive mindset of Asperger’s Syndrome. Depression arouses desires that the person with AS does not need or want–and vice versa. And yet the conditions do coexist, and often; so I, like many with AS, am forced to live the paradox.
Below are some of the contradictory forces I find myself battling daily.
The Dissolution of Special Interests. Since early childhood, my Asperger’s Syndrome has endowed me with powerful, engrossing “special interests” that I turn to for comfort and de-stimulation. But anyone familiar with depression knows how it can suck the pleasure out of interests, hobbies, and just about anything that was once enjoyable. Specifically, when I am depressed, I do not want to do anything fun; nothing seems fun or worthwhile any longer. It is hard to go from having strong interests to having none at all; it leaves an empty space where I don’t know what to make of myself, who I am. What used to intrigue and engross now bores and even repels me. Yet behind this apathy and this despair hides the image of something essential being walled off: my interests are still an enormous part of who I am, but I cannot get at them.
Sacrificing Ideas for Feelings. As a person with AS, I’d rather focus on ideas than on feelings. I have traditionally held the realm of feelings to be wishy-washy, cheesy, “touchy-feely,” frustratingly indefinite and imprecise. But as depression overwhelmed me, I had to alter this stance. I have had to face the unfamiliar, sticky feelings that crept in to dictate my daily experiences. I have had to isolate and put names to these emotions so they would not isolate and put an end to me. And, often, I have had to abandon my ideas and theories by the wayside. Now, I do not regret having learned to speak “feeling talk;” it tempers my annoyance with our highly emotionally oriented world. Still, when I pause to remember the person I was before depression first hit, I sense a loss beyond the dissolution of easy happiness: I miss my theories, my ideas.
The Loss of Constructive Solitude. I value my solitude. Time spent with others often feels awkward, anxious, and disingenuous. In the quiet of my own mind, my calm, true self emerges. But when I am depressed, that true self is obscured by thoughts of self-loathing and destruction. So I need, and seek out, the company of others–if not for comfort, at least for distraction. Solitude becomes painful, even intolerable. I love my solitude and miss it horribly, but sometimes I just can’t have it–not for a moment. When I am depressed, the very aloneness that usually sustains me threatens to destroy me.
Compromising Self-Sufficiency. I want, and have always wanted, to be intellectually and emotionally (if not materially) self-sufficient. I strive to be a self-contained, self-controlled unit comprising my unique values, ideas, and overall world-view. I do not always like the world that surrounds me, and do not wish to become too deeply enmeshed in it. Of course, on the other side of this self-reliance is a profound, if conflicted, desire to connect with other human beings and even–can I write it?–love. Depression compounds this longing with terrible impulses to share my pain, to be validated and nurtured and consoled and comforted, and to surrender my prized individuality to the care of another person–because caring for myself becomes just too burdensome. These impulses feel foreign to my true self, and I am uncomfortable having them.
Physical/Sensory Conflicts. Along the same lines, depression arouses in me an inescapable yearning to be held, rocked, and comforted like a baby. But I basically hate being touched. Even a light tap on the arm can overwhelm me with a convulsive horror, and hugs feel like forced drowning. Often I come away from experiences of touch feeling disassembled and violated; I want to ward off, to retreat. This conflict persists regardless of how depressed I am feeling, but the depression introduces an additional urgent, helpless (and foreign) need for physical nurturance which confounds me more than ever. "

Death, Loaves of Bread and Wondering what happened

Why are people afraid to talk about death? I am not. It's part of life. An essential part of life. Without death we would be overrun by people and animals. I am not afraid to die either. Mr Husband and I discuss it a lot. We have to because I am bi polar and days are so bad sometimes I cannot see anything else in front of me. I feel so alone most of the time that I think death would be a pleasant alternative. I have told Mr Husband I want to be a tree when I die. Not a nut tree or a fruit tree- or a little tree. I have spent all my life being short. I want to be a big tree - the biggest in the forest. It would be nice for a change not having to reach up to get the beans off the top shelf in the cupboard. Anyway, according to mines Mr Husband trees don't eat beans. How would he know? Just because you have never seen something happen doesn't mean it doesn't.

Mines Mr Husband indulges me in talking about death. I think about it a lot. I don't think he is terribly comfortable with it. But in event of my death I need to know someone will ensure I become a tree. He asked if I will send feathers from heaven to assure him of my presence. 'No I won't' I tell him. 'I shall send feckin fire crackers to ensure you move your arse out that chair occasionally'.

I told him he doesn't have to tell anyone when I die. Obviously he will have to tell the authorities- but lets face it no one is going to notice if I am dead or alive. Eventually someone will do their family tree and discover my name on the BMD indexes. And you can imagine the conversation can't you?

'Oooh there's our Beth. She died it says here in 2015. Well I never knew that. I wondered why we never had a Christmas card from her the last few years. I thought it was cos she was too tight to buy stamps. Well blow me, I wonder what she died from'. (Well I tell ye now it will be a feckin overdose of loneliness and misery.)

Then they will continue with this: 'Oooh I wonder if that bloke she was married to is still alive, whatshisname? Oh feckin hell what is?. Little chap with a bald head and a limp. Did he have a limp? Well he used to make a nice loaf of bread. And he could do wonders with a computer. Wonder what happened to him. Now where did they live? Was it down South somewhere.? In Devon or Cornwall. I think she may have sent me the address one time. Don't know what I done with it. Went that way quite and few times and went past their house I think. I wonder if he still lives there. Didn't he used to work at that airport? Oh that's gone now though. They pulled that down ages ago. I bet he is remarried now- he is bound to be remarried by now. Oh yeah look here it is (looks at BMD indexes again)- yeah he remarried three weeks after she died. Well he didn't let the grass grow under his feet did he? I wonder why he didn't tell us she died. Or did he? We could have thought about going to her funeral if only we had known. Although we probably wouldn't have. She was a nice old thing. Funny Old stick. Won't speak ill of the dead mind, but she was a bit of a misery ass. Not a lot of use to anyone. Bit sad really. I wonder where she is buried. I could put those details on me tree if only I knew!

The worse thing about the above conversation is that it isn't a million miles from the conversations we have all had about people in the past. The saddest thing about it is that this conversation will take place between the closest people to me because they won't know I am dead unless My Husband tells them. I have instructed him not to tell anyone. So if you don't hear of it happening you probably won't know. That way everyone can get on with their lives just as they are with no interruptions. Part of me would like to say to them- think about the part you played in my life- and think about the part you played in my death but cos you all surely have. And make sure no one else dies in loneliness like I because you have neglected them.

Cocks, Cassocks and Candlesticks

THIS WEEK AT BizzyLizzies
I've been banned from the dry cleaners. Clean whilst you wait doesn't apparently refer to what you happening to be wearing at this moment. I think they over reacted- at least I had undies on this time. I only wanted 'la orange' removing from the top of me dress- after I spilled the 'la orange' from my duck whilst dining at the three legged dog and gun down yonder village. Simples request really. No need for all that argy bargy and name calling. I am not perverted. Just someone who needed 'la orange' removing from my very expensive frock.

Him at number five with the ropey cock has, it seems, replaced the ropey cock that sounded like it was being strangled when it cock a doodle dooed, with four gooses and a much finer, more upright specimen of a cock (that's apparently mute- never heard it cock a doodle doo yet). I have been out trying to get photographs of them - not much success yet but hold the front page- I am working on it. I am also trying to photograph her at number threes bush in the back garden. Its beginning to flower. You have to be sneaky about this kind of picture taking because some people don't take kindly to sneaking round their back end taking pictures of thems bushes all out in flower.

HHMHND (Hot Hunky Marine Husband Next Door) is home on holiday this week. I must say he is keeping himself mainly hidden from view. Can't see the point in being home if he doesn't come out of the shadows for me to drool over. Last Summer he did his work outs in the garden, topless. Then mines landlady put in a new fence and now I can't see him easily. I thought about poking a few spy holes in it. But then I found out if I go into mines bathroom, stand on the loo, take down the blind so I can open the window wide and perch precariously on the window sill I can see him clearly. All was well until I lose me balance and end up head first in the loo. And I don't wanna be doing that again in a hurry. Mines landlady got really upset and said we was to stop blocking the loo.
The Vicar in Whimple has left me a leaflet inviting to me church to give me hope. 'There is no hope for me I tell ye' I told him on the phone. 'There is hope for every asshole' he said.. Mines Mr Husband said 'he probably said hope for every old soul' and that I should get that hearing test done. But I know what that vicar is like. I didn't even think I would be allowed back in the church after admiring his candles stick when the wind blew his cassock up over his head. It wasn't the admiring of the candlestick that caused the furore- it was my trying to blow the candle out apparently. And it wasn't a candlestick apparently. Well you lives and learns you do.

This week I learned that Bonny Langford is to join the Eastenders cast. That should knock that silly grin off her face- if she turns up smiling she be sure to have her jiggle balls nicked and someone will most likely hit her over head with an iron or an ashtray- or even worse a picture frame or a music box. Beware of little Bobby Beale is the only advice I should give her. Had half the nation on tenterhooks for a whole feckin year he did. He be worse than feckin Putin.
Note to self: (Reminder)- Do not clean teeth with Radian B.

Dawns of Mist.

I have had a bar of chocolate for breakfast. The sort with pink coconut inside. Normally I would have something healthy- ish. Fruit, coconuts-Oooo- yep there was coconut in it, that's a brownie point for me then- or  I may have a yogurt or porridge laced with maca powder and topped with fresh cream obviously. However, due to lack of fruit and fresh cream and the mood I am in I had a chocolate truffle bar. Even chocolate is good for your health- good for your heart, raises serotin levels (an essential constituent of any depressives diet) and better still good for your memory. I eat lots of chocolate to ward off depression, heart attacks and dementia. Win Win. I just wish it would ward off the spare tyre I seem to have acquired. I am writing this today though because I am having a bad day. A really bad day. I am showered and I am dressed- I don't do PJ days, or duvet days unless I got the flu. And I am talking real flu. Not that man flu crap. I don't understand PJ days or duvet days. I can't go through the day without having a wash and getting dressed. I don't like sitting unwashed in my PJs under a duvet watching Jeremy Kyle and the great unwashed part of society airing their dirty laundry for all the world to gaze upon. Some people laugh at it and some enjoy it. I only tut and sigh and wonder what the world is coming to when I am unfortunate enough to catch snippets of it during a channel change.

What kind of a mood are you in BizzyLizzie? I hear you ask. Low. How low? Mr Husband asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I told him no because I don't want my coffin awash with tea. No ones their coffin to resurface and float because its filled with tea. That's how low my mood is.

We went for an adventure yesterday. A day of Mists. Some adventure that turned out to be - Mr Husband did say we could go the day before. It was his idea. I was up at half six ready and waiting by the door in me hat and gloves and socks. In the excitement all I thought about was keeping me extremities warm. At nine o'clock I was fuelling Mr Husband with coffee to revive him from his slumber. He didn't seem to keen to take me out as he had promised. Poor soul was tired. Eventually he emerged showered and dressed but still seemed like he may be ready to start the day. I had been raring to go since six thirty. You know how I like an adventure. And the Maca powder has been doing wonders for my energy levels so it seems. Not seemingly Mr Husband. We decided to go to Seaton Marshes- I love to be near to the birds and the wildlife- its almost always a quiet and fascinating hobby to have. Mr Husband was very quiet and I began to wish I hadn't been so keen to go. I don't  like it when he is quiet. I told him he could turn round and go back if he wanted. But he didn't want. Or so he said. I was my usual chatty self. He never answered or indulged in conversation. I took the hint. I am a bright lass. We found the bird hide. There were no birds hiding in it. I did see some outside though- and despite having a fall off the seat in the bird hide I enjoyed myself. Mr Husband never said a lot. We found a nice grave yard. I love graveyards. I took some photos. We did the graveyard in silence almost too. Well Mr Husband didn't have much to say really. The residents weren't too chatty either. A rather chilling and menacing mist descended. It rolled behind us and chased back to the car where it sent its brother to wait for us. It was too cold and eerie for our liking so over a cuppa and a biscuit we decided to leave Seaton. Then I took Mr Husband to our favourite place in Exmouth for fish and chips where he suddenly became very vocal about the raised prices in the fish and chip shop. At least he truly is still living I thought. We sat in the car looking at the estuary and ate our fish and chips reflecting on the large increase in price and whether we would be able to afford to have fish and chips anymore. We watched the menacing mist rolling over the sea and up the estuary. It was coming to find us again. Mr Husband put the radio on. There had been an bad accident on the road we had been on only half an hour since. I turned to Mr Husband and I said 'It's been a day of mists- menacing mists across the sea, we just mist that accident and we just mist that pheasant that flew in front of us on the way down'. 'Indeed' he said. I suggested home. I had wanted to have a proper day and a proper adventure and see the sunset. But the mist was going to make sure I mist that too. On my evening reflection I just didn't enjoy the day because I knew Mr Husband didn't either. I didn't even get to collect anything from my adventure even though I spied a dead thingymajig and a couple of hub caps.

That's only partly why I am down though. You see sometimes I can pinpoint something that makes me low and sometimes it seems nothing makes me low. Just as I can pinpoint why I have highs and sometimes I can't. The last couple of weeks, since mothers day when my youngest son came and seen me, I have been 'up there'. I thought I was seeing light at the end of a tunnel of what seems to have been months of darkness. But all good things must come to an end so they must. And this period of being 'up there' has peaked and then plummeted at an alarming rate. It started with my guilt over a failed adventure and my dragging a poor husband on an adventure when all he wanted to do was rest his weary body. I finished a book I had been reading on my kindle. I wasn't ever keen on the idea of the kindle. I love my books. I love to feel a book in my hands and I love to turn pages. I love the smell of a book. So I resisted the kindle. Mr Husband, well he wanted a kindle straight away so I bought him one. It goes everywhere with him. He has it so full he has to often delete books in order to download more. I eventually relented and bought one because I needed a particular book at once and I would have had to have waited an age for it to come from America. So I bought the kindle and had the book downloaded in seconds the same day. Some time after that Mr Husband bought me a better kindle. So I use both. There are not many books on either. I tend to always pay full price for a book whereas Mr Husband likes to download hundreds of freebies. Last night I realised why and this morning I found an even more important difference in us. Why I pay for a quality book and he downloads the free stuff. The differences I discovered between us in our relationship and that is why I feel I don't want to go on living right now. Everyone thinks I won't kill myself but I don't see many, if any alternatives some days.

When I finished my latest book last night I wanted to download another in a series of books I hadn't read. So I went to Amazon and picked the book and tried to download it. For some reason it only wanted to download to the older kindle I have. I had to go into the settings and make some adjustments. There was a little message in there from Amazon giving me the option of sharing my library with my family. How annoying is it to find with these E readers that you cannot share your books. With a real book you can share. I ran the idea past Mr Husband- I don't really think for one minute he will want to read anything that I read. I did think however that given he downloads so many books I may find one or two of his interesting. He agreed and we began to 'share' libraries. I waded for an hour or more through his lists of books. Past all the science fiction fantasy- his idea of escapism but not mine. I don't get it. It maybe just the aspergers but I am not perturbed that I don't get it. It's not a hindrance to my way of living. I went on and I waded past the copious amounts of 'internet racketeering, get rich quick without moving off your fat lazy arse and then still die poor' books. Books on snoring and high blood pressure- unread of course. I found one or two on Reiki that I think may be ok- his attempt at trying to understand what I love. For that I take me hat off to him. And anything he else has asked. I was somewhat disconcerted to find in the collection a book called 'How to shoot anyone'- apparently though this is one of the many digital photography books he has also downloaded. I spied the complete works of Shakespeare in one book- but I guess this was his attempt at getting a little of Shakespeare under his belt for that damned quiz show he went on a couple years back. For a man who never downloads or has an interest porn there was an awful lot of lesbian porn and aerial porn (for those like him who works in the air industry- I guess this is his fantasy about the female fraternity of the air industry- he once admitted some them caught his eye- I blame Berlei bras myself), written by mere children. Then I chanced upon a tome or two of 'How to get any Woman you want'! This kept waking me up  in the night. So I have long since realised I am not a spring chicken in the full bloom of sexy youth anymore. Sex Kitten is now more like Saggy Old Bagpuss- although I retain a grip like a bulldog clip. I have not let myself go to the dogs entirely you understand. But the bedroom is lacking lustre somewhat and I blame myself entirely. I will never live up to his ex-wife in the bedroom. So who can blame a man for thinking outside of one box and wonder about different boxes. There is no point in a man telling you that you are the only woman he wants but then downloading books loaded with advice on how to get another one. And on top of that a constant need to engage with women all over the place month upon month by any which means shatters the confidence of any wife, let alone one who is bi-polar. I don't blame him. I am a nightmare to live with,what with all my ills. Oh and my expecting fidelity. Then the realisation also dawns that there is a difference between intelligence and intellect. A difference between filling your head with cultural stuff and pure shite that doesn't stimulate the brain but maybe parts that other literature can't reach. And then to top it all he declares he feels like I criticise him all the time and it is hard to live with. I agree and so I realised I cannot let the man live like this. It is unfair. My standards are too high. I am wrong to expect fidelity and cleanliness of a man, any man, that obviously doesn't want to live this way.Am I? Am l wrong to expect fidelity and devotion. And no Miss Freisen I don't want hypnotising by him for his erotic pleasure like he is with having to have you on his Facebook account or other women whose egos are boosted by luring married men into their grubby little paws. I bet none of you would want to keep him if I was giving him away. The last twelve years have been sheer hard work I will tell ye. And I have reached the end of the road now. All I want is a hardworking, faithful and honest man. Seems too much to ask though. And no man need think I can or will put up with that crap forever. It's too mind bending and no hypnosis involved!

So now I have a dilemma. My children don't want me there- I no longer belong in their world. I can go back there but they will only pass me from one to t'other like a punctured football.No one really wanting to keep me but no one feeling they should get rid of me because I have been kicking around oh so long.I clearly don't belong in My Husbands world. I won't shut up and sit pretty whilst he does what he pleases. My parents are frail and elderly and I could never go and live with them. I won't get help from the stupid Welfare system that I and my husbands have paid into for years because I don't fit the criteria and anyway you have to have money to find somewhere else to live to even begin to claim anything. Unless you have the gift of the gab. All things considered death is a far better option. I will be out of the way of everyone and finally have some peace. No nuisance, no burden and no no love required. Today I want to die and now you know why! There is nothing left to do but find peace in another place where true love exists.

UNDERSTANDING ME Part 2

UNDERSTANDING ME PART 2

You can't address my depression or bi polar state without taking into account my Aspergers. I think a lot of my depression stems from having Aspergers. I have spent many years trying to work out why I feel like I do. Sure enough I had plenty of stress and plenty of dramas to last me a life time but it doesn't count for how I felt as child. The eldest of six I grew up in a fairly normal and typical household of the sixties and seventies. We never had much but neither did anyone else. My father worked long hours and my mother worked longer hours looking after the house and myself and my siblings. I always felt different. Probably I felt a tad superior to the others because I was my mothers 'right hand man' when my father was at work. I was always deemed 'grown up and sensible and an invaluable help' to my mother. I could easily do (accompanied) a full grocery shop when mother was busy or having a baby or whatever. I knew exactly what she would buy and what she wouldn't. And my father wouldn't have gotten away with adding anything to the basket that my mother wouldn't have bought. Not on my watch. It was always my mother and I versus them- my father and my siblings. I learnt early on that I had no trouble in taking control of situations and indeed harnessing any emotion. I hated noise, squabbling and silly little girl giggling. I did enjoy role play with my siblings, but I was usually in command. The leader. Mummy or Teacher. I was harsh and tolerated no under disciplined child. My sister and I played with our prams and dolls for ages - I would be Christine, my middle name given to me when I was christened, and she would be Maureen. No reason - she liked the name Maureen. But I liked to keep things relatively real. I was always the controlled one even though she was bossy. I would always achieve my objective without nonense whereas she would cry frequently. She, even now, is oversensitive and more loving and giving to the point of stupidity. She can manipulate and tantrum to have her own way. She is openly defiant. I am opposite. I just say what I want. If I can't have it, well so what? It's not the end of the world. I think she has some of my emotion. I can do emotion. People with Aspergers are often accused of being devoid of emotion. I am not. I just don't see things the way others do. I don't over do the gushy love. I just can't. I can be romantic with my husband and I can tell my children how much I love them. I am just not demonstrative. I don't feel comfortable with it. I think this makes it hard for other people to love me because they think I don't offer enough love in return. Then it seems people shut me out because I am to difficult to love. I think that's how it works. It hurts a lot and I should be used to it. But I am not. Its harder when your own children reject you and people you have invested a lot of time in. Then when I think about that I am suicidal. You can't make people love you or care about you. But you can take yourself out of the world and then it won't matter either way. Not that I advocate suicide you understand. I just understand why some people do it. Others don't. But I do. It seems more of a practical solution than something that is emotional. Sometimes. When one of my children, on a rare occasion visits or tells me that they love me I am on top of the world.

For one reason or another, I guess in a bid to make sure we had the best they could provide, we moved house and schools frequently. I hated it. I loved learning. I have a quest for knowledge. But I didn't want to do it at school. I didn't like the crowds, the closeness of other children. The noise. The smell. The stupid childlike qualities displayed by the other kids. Being part of a big family I should have been used to a busy household, a noisy household. My mother didn't allow uncontolled noise either. But we played out a lot. We didn't have indoor technology to distract us. When the world got too much I took myself off with a book or pen and paper. I was happy just to sit on the kerb and write down registrations of passing cars. Or do some colouring. Anything where I could escape to my own world! I think sometimes it frustrated my mum because she had to drag me out of this world. My even younger sister has had the same problem with two of her children. Of course I now know that this typical of people with Aspergers and I felt like someone had switched a light on when I found out that was what was wrong with me. My entire life my sense and I felt like a weight had been lifted from shoulders. The guilt has gone. The one that says 'you are a miserable so and so and people don't like you because you don't go to them'. I do go to people if they really need me. I am good in a crisis. I don't panic. I stand back, I weigh up the situation and make a cup of tea. Then I work it through it my head. Of course if emergency services are required I call them but not until I am 100% certain that it's not something I can deal with. So please don't rely on me if you are at deaths door because I will need to assess it first over a cuppa tea or two. I just can't deal with people who flap. But watch me if there is a slime or a squirm in my way! Thats the only time I panic. Oh and maybe fire- but only if I can't put it out myself first.

Each time I went to a new school I was thrown into chaos. I fell apart inside. Every time I walked into a new school a little part of me died inside. I didn't mind sitting and learning. As long as no-one looked at me or spoke to me. This same thing applied even if I had been a long time in the same class. I stuck to one friend. It always had to be a loner. Someone with no other friends. I didn't want to be part of a group of friends- I couldn't cope with that. I was happy to speak to some other children but I didn't want to join in and play their games. I didn't get games. I was happy to find a corner of the playground and just sit and wait alone for home time. I understand now but I didn't then. Only when I got to the age of eleven did I truly get the chance to stay at one school. I was settled there. I didn't like having to go - a bigger place, lots of different teachers and different kids and different lessons. I hated things like drama and Physical Exercise (not because I didn't  like exercise. I played out at home, I cycled and skated and played football and badminton with my siblings), I just didn't like group activity. I was often punished for not 'getting' netball at school. I didn't understand it. So I would be made to stand outside the court and send the ball back if it left the court. I was happy with that. I had space of my own that I controlled. But on the whole school, not learning, but the institution made me miserable because of not being able to cope. I wanted to be able to just walk away when it got too much but I knew I would be dragged back. I only did it once when I was attacked by another girl and I had been hurt. I cracked my hip on the hard floor. But I jumped up and screwed her stuck up nose round and whacked her head against the wall. I suffer with my hip to this day. I hope her nose still hurts sometimes.

My world fell apart big time when at the age of 15 my parents decided to move away from the home we had lived in the longest - 5years. The school I had been to for 5 years. My only friend of 5years and there was a boy I was very fond of and he of me and had been for 2 or 3 years. We were moving 150 miles away, for all of our benefits of course, but for me my world fell apart. The week before my move I thought of just refusing to move, running away or even killing myself then. I couldn't face the changes ahead and that for me is when my world truly fell apart and my real depression began.