Springy sprungy. No really, it have. Unlike virtually every other first official day of summer in England since history began last year, today did not sneer at the concept of human seasons by raining and raining and raining. Oh no, not a bit of it. Quite the opposite. It sunned and sunned and sunned.
(I’ve got bits of paper what do allows me to take total liberties with grammar, so there)
I am still not great in terms of coping with ouchy fuck ouch faceache pain but it receded enough today to permit me to drive through glorious spring sunshine into Somerset and spend some time with my mum and my brother. We ate foodstuffs and talked nonsensicals plus sensicals a bit. We did not go for a walk. Sunny is nice but windy and sunny isn’t nice round the chest parts of folks with stupid chest part defections.
Fresh cut grass. Such a spring smell. Manure. Also a springlike stench. Tweet tweet birds. They weren’t singing, they were on social media telling other birds “Fuck off! This is my tree. Mine!”
And that’s all I need to say. Apart from the obvious – I liked today. Apart from other people in cars – they’re all arseholes. Apart from me – scientifically unproven fact.
Posted in Family, food, health, Life, weather
Tagged birds, daffodils, dental pain, driving, England, grammar, grass, manure, rain, spring, Springtime, sunshine, toothache, Twitter, wind
I haven’t really been very good at the week just gone. In fact I’ve failed it. Face ache, fuckhead, grumpy bugger – those are the things I’ve won at. And now it is the weekend and…I’m sucking at Saturday so far too.
Chores that were abandoned yesterday on account of ouchy fucking ouch of ouchery in the fucking face needed to happen today. Only I didn’t wake until almost two in the afternoon (didn’t sleep till dumb ass o’clock so that’s fair). And then my car wouldn’t start because (I very much hope) it’s out of gas. Had been running on fumes for a day or two anyway but no longer fumes enough to get me to a filler upper place.
Ha ha ha. And some more ha ha. With added ha ha on top.
So fuck it, I thought, I’ll walk into town and do my chores. The sun is shining, my face is slightly less ouchfuck. What could possibly go wrong? You know where this is going, don’t you?
Everything. Everything could possibly go wrong. Everything, including World War Nine and an accidental vasectomy. Ok then, not everything, not World War Vasectomy. But some things. Some things can possibly go wrong with that plan. Like my face going all ouch to fucking fuckety fuck within ten minutes of home. Like a billion people jamming up the streets because it’s sunny and they all think nothing can possibly go wrong. Like the painkillers in my system containing codeine which enables a middle aged wanker to blithely step out in front of oncoming traffic as though it isn’t there. They had good brakes, I’ll give them that. Hooray for good brakes. And for the very inventive swearing from the driver. You win at foul mouthery today, madam.
So I’m hiding. I’m cowering from reality in a shitty cafe, the only upside of which is that it is conveniently close to two of the places I needed to do chores. In ten minutes I can collect a thing (nonyabusiness what it is, I don’t have to tell you everything) and I can go away from town. I can go away from people who all think nothing can possibly go wrong. I can go back to my bedroom where I keep the bed. And I can cry and pretend this all happened in a dream. To a fish. But not a nice fish, a vindictive fish who totally deserves this kind of shit because they didn’t even care when Nemo got lost.
Posted in Blogging, Film, food, health, Life, mental health, television, weather
Tagged car, dentist, Finding Nemo, fish, gasoline, health, Homer Simpson, pain, petrol, The Simpsons, toothache
So guess what? No go on, guess?
Not even close.
Oh ok I’ll tell you. The day after having a tooth extraction a person’s face REALLY FUCKING HURTS!
Who knew? You did? Well why didn’t you tell me you swine? But it’s going to be fine, I’m going to channel the spirit of Woodstock and bend the universe to my own will. No more rain. No more rain. Gah! Face still really fucking hurts. And now it’s raining too.
It’s cold out. I won’t get mine out later. But I have had to come out into the cold. Sort of the opposite of Richard Burton. Actually it turns out I didn’t have to come out into the cold, sort of the opposite of Richard Burton at all as the errands I wanted to do can’t be done. Not if I don’t bring the necessary paperwork and whatnot. Which I didn’t. I’d be a terrible spy. Sort of the opposite of Richard Burton.
I am taking refuge in a cafe. There is warm in here. My face prefers warm. It prefers warm even when it isn’t really fucking hurting.
I swear a lot. I’m a swearer. So fucking what?
Posted in Art, Family, Film, health, Life, Music, weather
Tagged dentist, fuck, pain, rain, Richard Burton, swearing, The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, toothache, Woodstock
Are there people in the world who enjoy a visit to the dentist? Even when it’s just a routine check-up there is always a nagging concern that the man or woman in the mask may tap at your teeth for a moment or two before saying “Well they’re okay but the gums have to come out.”
Having had to have a lot of work done in my early twenties, including extractions and nasty root canal fiddlings, I’ve never quite become an adult about my visits to the dentist. I go – if those formative years taught me anything it is that a man who has a past history of caning cheap amphetamines and who still likes sugary foodstuffs can never afford to take the health of his teeth for granted. But I always go with a sense of foreboding.
Today’s foreboding was accurate but I knew it would be from the pain levels I’ve felt the past few days. Extraction time. Fortunately what has been removed is the small, mostly dead root of a tooth already largely killed off by my aforementioned history of speed freakery. Still, it’s not that it doesn’t hurt when a small root is removed from your jawline. It DOES hurt. It hurts many. And plenty.
And yet it hurts less than the ouching great fuckery of pain I’ve been suffering this week. I write this while anaesthetic is in my system so when it wears off the crying and the wailing and the gnashing of…oh not quite so many teeth might begin. It’s not bleeding which, if I remember correctly from way back when, is a good sign this quickly. Tomorrow I get the bonus joy of sluicing round my mouth with salt water three times a day. Gosh, you’re really spoiling me with the after extraction treats, Mr Dental Man. He was a man, by the way. Or she had an extremely plush beard and a very deep voice.
None of this is as important as the Westminster stupidity yesterday nor is it the worst medical experience anybody will undergo today. I’m just venting. You knew that though, right? Great. No homework for you today.
Posted in health, Life, Politics
Tagged amphetamine, dentist, Gollum, gums, health, Lord of the Rings, pain, root canal, sugar, Teeth, terrorism, The Mighty Boosh, Tooth extraction, Westminster
Toothache. It would be polite of toothache to just affect the teeth, right. But oh no, it’s a defiant bastard and seeps into the skull, the ears, the sinuses and ruins sleep for the whole world. Well, for me and that makes it seem like the whole world has gone to shit because I’m totally self-obsessed when I have toothache.
I’m aware that other things are happening in the world, things of more import and gravity than my raging tooth pain. Some kind of insanity happened at Westminster today that was nothing to do with politics and everything to do with a person of murderous intent acting like human life has no meaning. Thoughts and prayers, people, thoughts and prayers.
I’m also aware of the things in life I have cause to be grateful for: friendships, connections, support, a roof above my head and about two thirds of my health on a good day. And, of course, family. This weekend, if a trip to the dentist sorts my tooth out tomorrow, I shall be spending some time with my brother and my mum which will be good. We’ve not all three been together for quite a while now. And today I saw my son and we booked our trip to Dublin which will be three days and two nights in July.
So really the whole world hasn’t gone to shit, not for me. I’m just exhausted from pain and a sleepless night but can count blessings too. Plus the therapy guy phoned me today to say they’ve already had a meeting and they’ve decided to bump me up to next level therapy straight away. This will mean a wait and then another introductory session but at least it’s moved pretty swiftly from Monday.
Did you look up ‘didactic’ yet?
Posted in Family, friendship, health, Life, mental health, Politics, travel
Tagged Dublin, Family, friendship, health, Ireland, mental health, Palace of Westminster, Politics, Therapy, toothache, world
Tuesday. As good a day as any for being miserable I suppose. Yesterday’s events concerning further therapeutic delay may lead to more successful and suitable results in the long run but my short term emotional reaction is to plunge into the kind of despondency I was feeling last November when this latest round of assessments began.
My mood is not being helped by a storming toothache. Yup, I did eat too much candy in America and on my return. Yes, I do know sugar is a bastard. No, I doubt I’ll ever fully conquer this last lingering addiction. Fuck’s sake, most folk have vices like dogs have fleas; I just have this and killing traffic wardens. Can’t you let a man have some simple pleasures in life?
Guess I can’t be that depressed if I can make jokes, eh? Wrong. You don’t know much about human psychology, do you? Black or gallows humour serves a darker purpose than the sort that makes us all connect and roll about in giggling fits. It’s a defence mechanism, okay? It puts a tiny, paper-thin layer between me and the shit that is threatening to fully engulf me today. Didactic? Yes, I’ll grant you that one unless you have to look the word up in which case it sort of proves my point.
Tuesday, then, grumpy, miserable fucker day. Oh and merry equinox to you too.
Posted in Film, health, Life, mental health
Tagged addiction, Depression, didacticism, dog, fleas, gallows humour, Jeff Bridges, Spring Equinox, sugar, The Big Lebowski, The Dude, Therapy, toothache, traffic warden
Well that escalated quickly.
I knew going in to today’s therapy session that I was more heavily burdened by my stupid crap than I was last week because I’d spent the weekend wading thigh high in it all trying to work out what is ok, what is reasonably well managed and what still creates problems for me. I wasn’t expecting miracle resolutions in an hour which is just as well because my therapist wants to take a step back again and consult with colleagues to make sure his kind of help is exactly what is required for me.
He’s not passing the buck or trying to give someone else a hot potato (oh yay, cliches, I must be mentally tired) but genuinely wants to ensure that the work he has in mind is the most suitable route through the stuff he and I are now both painfully aware of as being my shit.
So in one sense I feel I am getting the right sort of response from the mental health services as they try to work out the best possible way forward for me but in another sense I feel like I’ve taken a step backwards today and have to hang on while the new consultation process takes place. I am lucky in that I can go see my GP and talk with her in the interim, even if just for a few minutes to check in and clarify that I’m coping ok while waiting. I know my processes well enough to understand if my risk factors have just increased and, despite deflation and frustration, they haven’t.
But hey ho, this fucking stuff is complex and tiresome, isn’t it? Or is it me that’s complex and tiresome? Quite probably, which is why they’re needing to take extra time to find the best way of helping me. I was frequently referred to by one teacher at school as a problem child. Looks like the cap still fits. (And another cliche.)