Tuesday.
Since someone pointed me in the direction of the BDI, I thought I'd take it as the result would either show that I was a foolish and melodramatic corvid who should stop arsing about and get on with her life, or it would show I was a rather broken corvid who should go to the doctor before her moping and melodrama got any worse.
(Old test can be found here, newer versions are under copyright. http://counsellingresource.com/quizzes/beck/Beck_AT_1961.pdf ) The BDI results are as follows: 0-9= not depressed, 10-18= mild-moderate depression, 19-29= moderate-severe depression and 30-63= severe depression. I got 41. I know there are times in my life when I've rated a solid fifty something, but still, not great.
I have now been a productive corvid and looked up how to register with a GP, what surgeries are in Shamblyland, if they're accepting patients and if anyone thought they were any good. I do so like the internet and the information it contains and the fact it can tell me all these things without me having to feel nervous and unhappy in my obvious glaring ignorance =P
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I had a clever thought to buy old woven cotton throws of the thick and textured kind to make my pirate coat from as this would cost a hell of a lot less and be far cooler than buying meters of fabric. I've been about half successful in this endevour. Hm. I'm wondering if there's a throw in the Shamblyland pile of guest blankets I can steal. The one at the Oast is all waffle-textured, which really isn't what I had in mind =P
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After my mother came back from the day center today I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep because I was just too damn tired to be of use. I woke up anytime my mother was crying (or whistling, gods that's disconcerting that she can't string three words together but can whistle like she's calling a pet or pretending to be a Clanger) or was calling out random things from the hallway and talking to lampshades.
One of the things that she called out I wish she hadn't: "Em... Emma... Emma? I do love you very much..."
What is that? Is that proof that enough random words thrown together will produce something meaningful? Is that a memory from a time she said it to me years ago? Or is it the equivalent of a message in a bottle: one lone neuron using a rare sliver of clarity to say something it feels is important before the tide rises and drowns it again? Gods I fucking hope not. I'd far rather she had no damn idea who I was and didn't care either. The idea that there may yet be a tiny lock-box of clarity in the utter wreck of her mind is unbelievably fucking horrible.
And on that note, I must go make supper.
(Old test can be found here, newer versions are under copyright. http://counsellingresource.com/quizzes/beck/Beck_AT_1961.pdf ) The BDI results are as follows: 0-9= not depressed, 10-18= mild-moderate depression, 19-29= moderate-severe depression and 30-63= severe depression. I got 41. I know there are times in my life when I've rated a solid fifty something, but still, not great.
I have now been a productive corvid and looked up how to register with a GP, what surgeries are in Shamblyland, if they're accepting patients and if anyone thought they were any good. I do so like the internet and the information it contains and the fact it can tell me all these things without me having to feel nervous and unhappy in my obvious glaring ignorance =P
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I had a clever thought to buy old woven cotton throws of the thick and textured kind to make my pirate coat from as this would cost a hell of a lot less and be far cooler than buying meters of fabric. I've been about half successful in this endevour. Hm. I'm wondering if there's a throw in the Shamblyland pile of guest blankets I can steal. The one at the Oast is all waffle-textured, which really isn't what I had in mind =P
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After my mother came back from the day center today I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep because I was just too damn tired to be of use. I woke up anytime my mother was crying (or whistling, gods that's disconcerting that she can't string three words together but can whistle like she's calling a pet or pretending to be a Clanger) or was calling out random things from the hallway and talking to lampshades.
One of the things that she called out I wish she hadn't: "Em... Emma... Emma? I do love you very much..."
What is that? Is that proof that enough random words thrown together will produce something meaningful? Is that a memory from a time she said it to me years ago? Or is it the equivalent of a message in a bottle: one lone neuron using a rare sliver of clarity to say something it feels is important before the tide rises and drowns it again? Gods I fucking hope not. I'd far rather she had no damn idea who I was and didn't care either. The idea that there may yet be a tiny lock-box of clarity in the utter wreck of her mind is unbelievably fucking horrible.
And on that note, I must go make supper.