The Anti Dwelling Post
I've been out with Ruthi twice in two days and I'm seeing her again tomorrow Ruthi I hope you're not sick of me yet
Yesterday I went to the hospital and please don't ask me about this because it is the most despiriting and NHS-typical experience and every single time I go I come back with a renewed desire to both starve myself ("I wouldn't trust these scales," said the nurse, when I expressed dismay at somehow having acquired 4kg in a week, "I don't know why we use them." She pointed out that there was nothing wrong with my blood pressure or heart rate or breathing; later a different nurse responded to my "I do about twenty minutes of exercise in the mornings when I haven't buggered my shoulder and I aim to walk about five miles a day" by saying "Oh, so you're really quite fit then", which was a bit of a record-scratch moment for me - everything I read suggests I'm doing the bare minimum to avoid immediate death, whereas she said: "look, you get out and you can climb stairs without passing out and run for a bus - you're not watching Jeremy Kyle on the sofa all day, you're fine") and possibly commit suicide because nothing will change ever (tl;dr no surgery date just more putting me off and waiting).
On Friday I go to the other gender clinic and I think I'm going to ask them to refer me to the private surgeon. If I get seen by the NHS before then I can at least cancel with him.
HOWEVER understanding that Monday was going to suck shit through a straw, I'd already made plans for therapeutic cafe visiting and commercial indulgence with Ruthi; in time-killing fashion I mooched around in Paperchase and found a teapot in the shape of a bunny and a glasses case in the shape of a clamshell, both of which very likely to appeal to the aforementioned. Also I was fucking freezing. Constantly.
Had for lunch all the vegetables I've basically failed to eat for the last week.
i finally made some progress reading a music theory/neurology book i gave up on five years ago; unsurprisingly it is slightly easier to understand now with the music production qualification under my belt but not that much easier as i am still Not A Musician and do not understand ANYTHING about music. but i can tell you how your brain processes it and i can make you record it slightly less awfully
... which was unexpected but pleasant, because being able to understand something I couldn't before makes me acquit some of my psycho terror that I am constantly becoming more and more stupid and incapable and useless.
Ruthi & I went to Attendant. It's a cafe in a Victorian men's toilets, set below the street, it's awesome and adorable and in between reading This Is Your Brain On Music and crapping out another couple of paragraphs of test writing for the book (still struggling to find a voice, panic boke, etc), I accidentally got offered a job as an attendant for the toilet at the Attendant (in a toilet) due to having to tell various customers whether there was someone in the loo or not and how to open the door (I was sat next to it). Quality. Maybe I can quit my night job and wear a nice uniform with shiny buttons and help people to use the Conveniences.
When the cafe closed we capered away to a Scandinavian food store/cafe and divided our time between childish laughter at brand names like Plopp and Spunk (yes of course I bought both of these things), and delight at bizarre food (I also bought A TUBE OF PRAWNS), and in my case also having a sudden rush of nostalgia because I FINALLY FOUND THE ONLY CHEESE I WOULD EAT AS A CHILD THAT WASN'T EDAM: gudbrandsdalsost, or brunost, or "brown cheese" (or as it was known in my house, Norwegian Sweet Cheese). I bought some so I can inflict it on my household but also so I can eat slices of it in private while crying.
... I'm normal.
Still couldn't get Jess's Christmas present because aosudcj yiasshasuavsavhjofbhodbhefdobfsd but did manage to finally get the Lush bath bombs Amy has been taunting me over! WE HAVE THEM IN THE UK NOW. SUCK IT. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BATH OF BLOOD AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.
(Even retail therapy becomes impossible because I just panic off down a hole about how expensive everything is going to be soon).
Dragged Ruthi to Tombe again - a wonderful place because everything is green and also contains absolutely fuck all calories so I can have my Meal Out without also having a screaming internal meltdown: withness my DIY poke bowl. Also Matcha. Not Matcha latte. Not a flat green. Just plain ol' Matcha, containing SHIT GET FUCKED NONE WHATSOEVER calorie. None.
Then I kind of progressed from "blip" status on Stoptober to "no" status by walking into Balans and drinking a bear. This might have been because there were bears in the window. The other kind. Bear. Also alcoholic spunk.
[Look I went ... like... 12 days without drinking. Baby steps. Also I'm not drinking at home. Which limits the AMOUNT also].
TBH I probably ought not drink in public either because I keep becoming incredibly belligerent about my levels of invisibility to gay men when I ought to be consigning myself to low-blood-sugar celibacy. (I ... think I slightly disturbed Ruthi by explaining at length the important calorie window between Eating So Little That I Become More Suicidal and Eating Enough That I Start Wanting Things That Aren't Food And Therefore Become More Suicidal).
And tomorrow I'm going out for dinner aaaaagain so honestly it's not even like deprivation is a particular worry. I just have to keep myself hungry and sober.
Yesterday I went to the hospital and please don't ask me about this because it is the most despiriting and NHS-typical experience and every single time I go I come back with a renewed desire to both starve myself ("I wouldn't trust these scales," said the nurse, when I expressed dismay at somehow having acquired 4kg in a week, "I don't know why we use them." She pointed out that there was nothing wrong with my blood pressure or heart rate or breathing; later a different nurse responded to my "I do about twenty minutes of exercise in the mornings when I haven't buggered my shoulder and I aim to walk about five miles a day" by saying "Oh, so you're really quite fit then", which was a bit of a record-scratch moment for me - everything I read suggests I'm doing the bare minimum to avoid immediate death, whereas she said: "look, you get out and you can climb stairs without passing out and run for a bus - you're not watching Jeremy Kyle on the sofa all day, you're fine") and possibly commit suicide because nothing will change ever (tl;dr no surgery date just more putting me off and waiting).
On Friday I go to the other gender clinic and I think I'm going to ask them to refer me to the private surgeon. If I get seen by the NHS before then I can at least cancel with him.
HOWEVER understanding that Monday was going to suck shit through a straw, I'd already made plans for therapeutic cafe visiting and commercial indulgence with Ruthi; in time-killing fashion I mooched around in Paperchase and found a teapot in the shape of a bunny and a glasses case in the shape of a clamshell, both of which very likely to appeal to the aforementioned. Also I was fucking freezing. Constantly.
Had for lunch all the vegetables I've basically failed to eat for the last week.
i finally made some progress reading a music theory/neurology book i gave up on five years ago; unsurprisingly it is slightly easier to understand now with the music production qualification under my belt but not that much easier as i am still Not A Musician and do not understand ANYTHING about music. but i can tell you how your brain processes it and i can make you record it slightly less awfully
... which was unexpected but pleasant, because being able to understand something I couldn't before makes me acquit some of my psycho terror that I am constantly becoming more and more stupid and incapable and useless.
Ruthi & I went to Attendant. It's a cafe in a Victorian men's toilets, set below the street, it's awesome and adorable and in between reading This Is Your Brain On Music and crapping out another couple of paragraphs of test writing for the book (still struggling to find a voice, panic boke, etc), I accidentally got offered a job as an attendant for the toilet at the Attendant (in a toilet) due to having to tell various customers whether there was someone in the loo or not and how to open the door (I was sat next to it). Quality. Maybe I can quit my night job and wear a nice uniform with shiny buttons and help people to use the Conveniences.
When the cafe closed we capered away to a Scandinavian food store/cafe and divided our time between childish laughter at brand names like Plopp and Spunk (yes of course I bought both of these things), and delight at bizarre food (I also bought A TUBE OF PRAWNS), and in my case also having a sudden rush of nostalgia because I FINALLY FOUND THE ONLY CHEESE I WOULD EAT AS A CHILD THAT WASN'T EDAM: gudbrandsdalsost, or brunost, or "brown cheese" (or as it was known in my house, Norwegian Sweet Cheese). I bought some so I can inflict it on my household but also so I can eat slices of it in private while crying.
... I'm normal.
Still couldn't get Jess's Christmas present because aosudcj yiasshasuavsavhjofbhodbhefdobfsd but did manage to finally get the Lush bath bombs Amy has been taunting me over! WE HAVE THEM IN THE UK NOW. SUCK IT. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BATH OF BLOOD AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.
(Even retail therapy becomes impossible because I just panic off down a hole about how expensive everything is going to be soon).
Dragged Ruthi to Tombe again - a wonderful place because everything is green and also contains absolutely fuck all calories so I can have my Meal Out without also having a screaming internal meltdown: withness my DIY poke bowl. Also Matcha. Not Matcha latte. Not a flat green. Just plain ol' Matcha, containing SHIT GET FUCKED NONE WHATSOEVER calorie. None.
Then I kind of progressed from "blip" status on Stoptober to "no" status by walking into Balans and drinking a bear. This might have been because there were bears in the window. The other kind. Bear. Also alcoholic spunk.
[Look I went ... like... 12 days without drinking. Baby steps. Also I'm not drinking at home. Which limits the AMOUNT also].
TBH I probably ought not drink in public either because I keep becoming incredibly belligerent about my levels of invisibility to gay men when I ought to be consigning myself to low-blood-sugar celibacy. (I ... think I slightly disturbed Ruthi by explaining at length the important calorie window between Eating So Little That I Become More Suicidal and Eating Enough That I Start Wanting Things That Aren't Food And Therefore Become More Suicidal).
And tomorrow I'm going out for dinner aaaaagain so honestly it's not even like deprivation is a particular worry. I just have to keep myself hungry and sober.