Tag: Health

Fringe Diary #6

Fringe Diary #6

Omg who’s pumped for a blog post about me being sick ???

Because that’s what you’re getting !!! Give it up for your host, Josie Parkinson !!!

[crowd goes wild]

[I am rolled out on a sofa]

My guests tonight are: a plastic bowl, for my vomit! and: a lukewarm glass of water!!!

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(I’ve been alone in the flat for a while now.)

Everyone has different approaches to feeling sick; my parents told my brothers and me early on that sometimes we might be feeling ill because of something psychosomatic. That’s a cool thing to learn early on, but it also means that I don’t so much get sick as I do fall into a crisis of what’s real and what’s not. Am I just feeling ill because I am ill, or am I feeling ill because I’m … feeling … ill?

So yesterday I thought I might just need to sleep it off. Instead I lay down for three hours, slept for 25 seconds and then thought “where does the word ‘spate’ come from?” and got up to find my laptop. By the time I needed to leave for my gig though I was so nauseous I cancelled it and then immediately threw up a lot. I timed it perfectly so I could change out of the top that Hetty had lent me for the gig, because for some reason I thought “no matter what, I am not puking in a chic black rollneck.”
But it was a bit nostalgic, to be sick, I was like “oh yeah! That takes me back.” You know? Yeah!

I’m a bit gutted not to have performed last night, especially since like, in and around the vomiting, I was actually quite good at making jokes maybe or Hetty was just humoring me oh dear she’s a good friend.

Lol um there’s really not much more to say on the previous day unless you want to read about dry toast and podcasts I like? Because dry toast – I’ve had some! And podcasts – boy am I listening to them! But boy – do I need a nap now!

Oh, I’m going to try and hobble over to my gig tonight. I feel sort of bad but I think in maybe a 24-hours-y kind of a way? Hopefully?
Do I look too sick to go on stage? Let me know in the comments !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Et tu, Cabernet*

 

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Me and wine, back in the good times.

I have to give up drinking.

EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER SEEN ME DRUNK: Yeah, we know!

NOT FOR THAT REASON.

E.W.H.E.S.M.D.: So, not because Drunk You will casually spend 20 quid on a full meal and then eat it from a plastic bag on the dance floor?

NO.

E.W.H.E.S.M.D.: And not because Drunk You is a terrible flirt, as in, all you do is either lurk around the poor bloke or LITERALLY SAY THE WORDS “oh my god I actually got lost in your eyes!”

Mmm. Well, not not that.

E.W.H.E.S.M.D.: Because you realised that you were using alcohol as a social prop that really, as a generally self-confident adult woman, you really shouldn’t need?

Of course not!

No, my brain does this thing every so often where if I have too much to drink, either a) I wake up with a hangover and eat a lot of breakfast and think about the terrible decisions I made, or b) I wake up with a hangover and then have an epileptic seizure and black out and come to with a room full of hunky paramedics and all my loved ones standing around me looking very, very upset.

Option b) is pretty rare but having happened roughly three times in three years, I think enough might be enough.

It’s tricky though, because I have zero memory of any of the seizures, just their aftermath, and what anyone nearby at the time has said, so the idea of changing my behaviour because of something I can’t at all remember, and which forms no part of my experience, is like if your friends said “hi, we just watched Psycho and we’d rather you never took showers again, please, we’re very frightened.”

Okay maybe it’s not quite like that, at all. But it’s still a hard habit to kick when all that you really remember is a mad and dreamlike day; the last one was here in Berlin, at my still very new boyfriend’s place, and most of the day I was just left on a trolley in a hospital in Neukolln with my boyfriend not allowed to come in with me, and I had to explain everything in German even though my head was really foggy and no one had even the slightest sense of humour, even though the seizure happened while we were having sex so at first BF thought that he was just crushin’ it before realising something terrible was going on, which is objectively hilarious. You know what, it was actually a rubbish day, seizures aren’t at all up to the hype and aren’t worth the visit really.

Anyway, it means I have to give up drinking, pretty much forever, unless I find myself jonesing for a seizure for some reason. So I’m searching for a brand new vice, everyone! Please suggest a new guilty pleasure in the comments below, ideally, lo-to-no cost and legal. I need to stay fun somehow.

 

*okay so I captioned this one Et tu cabernet like et tu brute because the first time I went in to hospital after having had a fit my brother was like “maybe you should eat something light, like a Seizure Salad” and I thought it was hilarious and so was going to name it something similar but then went for a Caesar reference even though on a second look that makes zero sense unless you are me. GOOD

Single, unemployed, and vegan.

suv
phwoar look at the mug on that

“Fucking January!” is something which my very wonderful and talented housemate Temi has been given to scream every so often over the last few weeks. She has been suffering through a pretty gruelling Veganuary experience – because, as she has reasoned, being single and unemployed is bad enough but being vegan on top of it all is just far, far too much. And since we’re apparently facing the end of Western civilisation as we know it (thanks Nigel, thanks Donald), now more than ever we should take pleasure in the simple glory of a very cheddar-heavy plate of cheese on toast.

As for me, I haven’t gone in for Dry January or an arbitrary health kick like that.

Instead, I thought I’d try to just completely change my life.

You know that feeling at Christmas and New Year’s parties, when you’re catching up with people for the first time in ages, and even before you leave the house, when you’re still working up the courage to use the confusing new toiletries you got as presents from a distant aunt, you’re anxious about answering the question: “what are you up to these days?” I’ve been in this very terrible and uncomfortable and very un-me shaped rut which, because it was not at all shaped like I am (sort of like a smallish pork chipolata, incidentally), it meant that I was starting to forget how to be who I am. And being miserable, but finding it hard to register any of it as my experience because it just was not me.

So, I thought it would be best to maybe extract myself and search for greener pastures. Unfortunately, when you have spent a long, long time not really concentrating on yourself, it gets quite hard to work out exactly what and where these pastures are, so I suppose what I’m saying is that I lumbered off in the general direction of what might bring me some sort of joy besides Meridian Crunchy Peanut Butter (the official peanut butter of this blog). It was always kind of obvious, hindsight being 20:20 and all that, but after some soul-searching I realised that this was quite clearly going to be directing films. This is terrifying, because I don’t know how to do it yet. But I also didn’t know how to speak French or make a curry or write a dissertation or design a set, at some stage, until I learned how because I really wanted to. And I really, really want to do this (when I am not being afraid). I want to make cool weird things like Obvious Child and Flight of the Conchords and everything Agnes Varda has ever done, which is why I can, and why I will. This might sound a bit childish and simplistic, but that’s because desire is often childish and simplistic, and it’s easiest to formulate them in that way.

This blog, newly renamed Making Of, is about this kind of focused wander in the direction of what I want to do and who I want to be, as is, I guess, everything ever written by everyone. Great. But when everyone else is starting their 2017 by depriving themselves of what they enjoy, why not begin my year by letting myself go after what I want?

Body Call

bodycall

My body called up one morning.

“Hiyaa! Just wanted to see if you were free for a chat? I know you’re busy, so don’t worry if not, but I just really think we need to have a think about how you’re doing?”

I was really busy at the time – I was working more shifts at the cinema, about four or five times a week, and I had people to catch up with outside of that. I said I’d call it back.

A couple of weeks later, it rang again.

“Hey gurrrrrl, how ya doing? Free for that chat yet?”

Oh my GOD. No, no I wasn’t free! I was up to my eyeballs in a film project which meant I was getting four hours’ sleep a night and having a daily freak out about what had inevitably been forgotten or hadn’t been done, and all I could do was keep myself standing with a potent combination of instant coffee and Ritz biscuits.

“Okay ladyfriend, I get it, I understand. Just, uh… just let me know when you’re about. Look after yourself.”

I found a missed call from it a couple of weeks later, but no message. The film project was done, so I was back at work, and volunteering in an art gallery, and catching up with everyone I’d had to ignore during filming – so I was going out every night I wasn’t working past 9pm, whether with close friends or vague acquaintances. Yeah, I was tired, but I’d take it slowly next weekend, or stay in with my parents, or something.

And one day, when I had had yet another night with four hours’ sleep, after getting drunk with my family, I took the bizarre and extreme decision to begin my day with 100 squats before getting into a cold shower. That’s when my body really lost it.

Holy f*cking sh*te!!! What are you trying to do to me?! What did I do to deserve this, you sadistic freak?! What in the hell is wrong with you?!”

Turns out, you can only put off these things for so long, and I had the novel experience of a seizure that morning.

We’re in the habit now of ignoring our bodies. They’re fleshy and embarrassing. They’re cumbersome. They’re pretty much the opposite of all Apple products. But we’re depriving ourselves of sleep, we’re depriving ourselves of food, and we’re working ourselves into the ground. When we can be up for work and for play 24/7 thanks to the almighty Internet, and the fact that no one is allowed to actually turn their phones off anymore (when did this happen?), it means sleep is kind of a weekly treat. This is especially the case for twenty- and thirty-somethings, who are now expected to balance early career efforts, with looking for partners, with going out, with exercise, with working on Project Self.

In all of this, the body becomes a hindrance. It’s already too fat or thin or weirdly-shaped, so it’s normally either problem or a suffix to the word “bikini”. But then it makes these boring demands of you to feed it plants and protein and carbs (you can’t actually go without those). It wants to be left alone, to do nothing, for 33.33% of your life. Think of all the TV you could watch in that time! 

After my seizure, I chilled out for two weeks, got a bitch of a cold, and then more or less went back to normal, going to follow up brain scans and appointments around shifts at work, often in my uniform. But clearly, I still am not quite okay, because last week I was told by my neurologist in no uncertain terms that unless I make a real effort to get the amount of sleep and consume the amount of drinks that a normal human should, or I will get another visit from the Seizure Fairy. In short – I have to listen to my body.

Because really, even if you can ignore it for however long, it does know best. It tells you when you’re hungry and thirsty and hurt and horny. Your body knows, and tells you in your own language, not your friend’s body, or your mum’s body, or the freaky digital body on WebMD.

It’s not like your phone – it has to be switched off at nighttime. But you do have to listen to it when it rings.