chiller: (Default)
Welp, here I am. I'm going to be crossposting some of what I put up here on various other blogging sites just as soon as I can figure out how any of them work. In the meantime this is my ground zero.

I feel I need to catch you up on some stuff, since my last posting date was 2017 - early in 2017, to boot. Matters developed shortly after that post. Plans were well under way to move me out of London. Then dad got very ill and died. So everything was on hold for that. And then after that I carried on, and bought myself a little house by the sea, which I promptly moved out of and built an extra storey on top and then moved back into. So now it's a slightly less-little house by the sea (LHBTS, henceforth). I've been living here with my extremely wonky health ever since. My beloved cats died and I was (ok am still) devastated about that, but I'm not well enough to get another cat, so that's that.

Well, that's it, in a nutshell. As has been the case for the last 17 years or so, the pattern of my life is that I get stupidly ill, have to lie down for weeks or months, and then have to somehow recover my strength. Which I slowly manage before the next wave hits me.

Fortunately I am a 24 carat motherfucker, so this does not get me down. I just ride the waves.
chiller: (Default)
/This post crossposted from - and about the end of - LJ

Well, I kicked off the import from Dreamwidth on Friday afternoon and at time of writing this, the job's done.  The only bit it choked on for any significant length of time was the comments. Which is kind of touching. Thanks GUISE.

I am sure you know this chapter and verse already, but in case nobody has shouted it in your face yet, our literal new Russian overlords on LJ are banning any queer discussion and any political discussion that paints Russia - which frankly I used to love and now have no time for at all - as anything other than the overbearing restrictive shithole that psychotic repressed queer, Poot'n, is making it. (The only good thing about Poot'n is that the Americans pronounce his name as if they're describing a sally of farts. Well, that and his comedy face, obv. Fuck you Dobby.)

I won't be posting here again. I haven't got any time to feel sad about the actual end (oft predicted, never reached, until now), of Livejournal. Life moves forward, let's go FORWARD. Other, better shit awaits us. I end with the icon I began it with, in April 2001: mole, having discovered sunshine for the first time, and frolicking in it with gay abandon.

I urge you to get out of here if you can, and if you DO go to Dreamwidth, please - if you can bear to - add me. x

 
chiller: (Default)
If you can't see the post I did immediately preceding this, please let me know. I'm groping through DW's security settings and I'm pretty sure I'm not getting it right yet. Suffice to say if we were/are friends on LJ you SHOULD be able to see the preceding post.

PS if you can't see it, leave a comment on this post to that effect, obv.
chiller: (happy frolic)
So, weirdly, my uncle died today. It wasn't particularly on the cards so the first inkling I had was a tearful phone call from Mum. And of course he's in Ireland, and the Irish consider themselves to be in some sort of funerary race with Jewish people, so she has to rush over there for a funeral this Thursday. And it's giving me a lot of difficult feelings. First, obviously, I'm very sad that my Mum is sad. And secondly, I'm sad that I'm not well enough to go with her and support her, and I don't know if I ever will be. Which makes me feel pretty useless. And thirdly I didn't really know him, and that's a consequence of my weirdly exploded family, and that makes my Mum sad so it makes me sad, and it's the first time it has ever made me sad.

Funny isn't it. I've spent 8 years now really disengaged from the world because of illness and a few days ago I thought "come on, bird, you need to get your tentacles out in the water again." So I reconnected in a few old directions. And then restarted this - and suddenly it's like the world goes "Here you are! Since you're trying to human a bit, try some difficult feelings on and see if you remember how to do that shiz."

I do. I mean: I'm sad and there are things I would change, but I know it'll be fine. Sadness is a bit rubbish. But it's ultimately a very alive feeling, and one we all understand, so it kind of, in a strange way, reminds us we're the same.
chiller: (happy frolic)
Watching Everest taught me:
-white men make crappy decisions.
-then expect brown men to rescue them.
-all men with beards look the same.

One star, do not watch.

Gaslight

Jan. 18th, 2016 11:49 am
chiller: (happy frolic)
When we switched from incandescent bulbs to halogen/led/wevs, did all the manufacturers get together and decide to just pick random numbers for wattage equivalence? I picture them all around a big table saying things like "Eau! Most lamp fittings will take a 60w bulb, so let's make bulbs that produce the equivalent of an old 55w bulb and like literally gaslight everyone."
chiller: (happy frolic)

Ok people, what's the least-shit LJ Android app? Does such a thing even exist?

chiller: (happy frolic)
There is a small, rather cunty subsection of people who work with children, who do it because they are SO much easier to impress than adults.
chiller: (happy pants)
Following an EPIC wrestling match with John Lewis's website (which, with hindsight I think was down to the fact I had Silverlight running, which always fucks up my browser - anyone else get this with Chrome?), the last loose threads of Christmas are SORTED, in the form of wrapping paper and bows and things.

It's just as well, because I am so lamentably not-ok at the moment it's almost funny. Managed to get out on Friday to see everyone, which was brillz, but I'm out again this Friday, which is only going to be achievable if I spend the intervening time lying down. Tiresome. No, literally, I think I slept 15 hours yesterday. And then it's December, which I sort of secretly dread a bit because there's no getting out of my own birthday and Xmas, though ha! - with the latter I now have only the cooking left to do (or at least, that will become true once the wrapping paper arrives).

Plus I have some insanely spanky new undies. Yeah. Why not? If I'm going to lie about being wooed by TEH MENS, I might as well do it in fancy pants.

Haven't been to the allotment for about two and a half weeks now - I've just been too flattened to, but I did manage to get the back garden tidied away for spring, so that counts on the gardening front. Found a lovely frog while I did it, too. I have until March or April before the allotment really needs to be up and running, so there's plenty of time for better days.
chiller: (Default)
So, ok, it has been another interesting week. I don't even ... I just ... uh. Anyway yeah. Hi.

The allotment is trotting along nicely. I received the wood I need to create the beds, and now all I need is a day when my health (still so fucking patchy! Body! Why you so shit?) coincides with the weather, and I'll lug the first plank down there. I'm going to have to take them down one at a time, so it will take me a while. But I've got the whole winter before anything really happens, so so what. In the meantime I'm editing.

My cats are all:

Untitled

And I am looking a bit like:

Untitled

And I probably feel how I look. That's not to say "somewhat aghast" (although that wouldn't be entirely inaccurate). I am a whole rainbow of things at the moment. Happy, nervous, sore, tired. Mostly tired. Actually, that's the one thing I don't look in that photo, but that's probably because I used the tired-b-gon Instagram filter.
chiller: (Default)
I don't miss you, I miss ever having thought it could all be alright. Like living in the Garden of Eden with no fig leaves. Like that, that's what I miss.

***

I've been working feverishly on this fucking edit. This is massively facilitated by the fact that my coccyx injury (it's much better, thank you), makes it impossible for me to sit on the sofa, so I'm holed up in the kitchen on a special broken-arse cushion on a hard chair, which is bearable, tapping away, and being variously invaded by a never-ending series of cats. "HELLO," they go. "FUSS MY HEAD." And I go "Not now dear, I'm busy," and then fuss them anyway.

Whatchoo up to, elljay?
chiller: (Default)
It is peculiar that I don't get any spam through LJ at all, except via this one entry.
chiller: (Default)
1) We want the rich – both individuals and companies – to be taxed on the basis advertised to and applied to the rest of us. In other words, if I cannot have my wages paid directly into an offshore account to avoid paying UK tax on it, then Starbucks, Virgin, David Cameron and Amazon should have to follow precisely the same rules and fulfil precisely the same expectations I do.

2) We want questions asked in Parliament to be answered in the spirit in which they were asked. ie: if the leader of the opposition asks “have we got fewer police on the front line?” the answer: “a higher percentage of our police are now on the front line” should not be considered to be an appropriate answer. Because if we had 1000 police, and 500 of them were on the front line, and now we have 10 police and 6 of them are on the front line, we are worse off, even though we used to have 50% of our police on the front line, and we now have 60% of them on the front line.

Get onto it, government, you useless, self-serving shower.

***

ION, I have completely fucked my back. I wouldn't mind if I had done anything to cause the problem, but I haven't: no fall, no twist, no awkward-picking-up-of-heavy-object. It just started aching a bit on Saturday night. Sunday it was a bit dull-achey, but nothing terrible. And on Monday morning I was unable to get out of bed. Even the tiniest movement of my head on the pillow threw all the muscles around my lower spine into spasm. I have had pain that was more unendurable by dint of being unchanging, but I haven't ever had pain more acute than this - it was on a par with the moment when I tore all the ligaments in my left leg. Except that happened once, and this happened every time I moved. It was worse, by a pretty huge margin, than the few times I've broken bones. I'm not sure how I got out of bed in the end, but I do know I had tears absolutely streaming off my chin and my teeth were chattering, and the crying wasn't an emotional reaction, it was just something my body was doing, without any form of engagement from me. I've been completely unable to sit down for the last two and a half days, although it has eased considerably now, I still cannot sit, reach, or bend. I managed to hobble out to the chemist and get a big box of every strong anti-inflammatory painkiller they had, and a combination of Nurofen/Codeine and max strength Ibuleve gel seems to work a bit (or at least, puts me to sleep).

Being me, it hasn't stopped me much and the place has still carried on being hoovered and washing-up has been done. Yesterday I managed to deal with the cat litter by dint of using an azada, duct tape, and a yard rule. In fact I have to give it up for the azada - a flat blade on a long pole - without it I would have been completely unable to pick up the cats' food bowls off the floor and should have had to call someone to come and help me. And I think we all know how I feel about THAT.

Anyway, I still have no idea how I've done this to myself, but I advise you in the strongest possible terms to never experience this.
chiller: (Default)
LIVEOURNAL! I have had booe,. Boozes.

I went out this evening for my bi-monthly "get to see people's actual faces" outing, and it was very, very gay and marvellous. I don't know how many caocktails I had, but it was "some", and before that, there was champagne. I thought I'd just slump in here and give you all a BIG WET KISS RIGHT ON THE FACE.

Right on your stpud face.

Because it is late and all those htings. xxx
chiller: (Default)
Damian Thompson has recently used the Daily Telegraph to highlight the difference between blogging and journalism.

"... medical science has no great difficulty explaining what’s wrong with most people diagnosed, or self-diagnosed, with ME. Their brains create a debilitating fatigue and pain that often correlates with certain personality traits. For example, there’s an overlap between ME and eating disorders."


I habitually avoid reading editorial pieces about ME/CFS by people who have no expertise in the condition, and this entirely poisonous and ignorant piece from the pen of a man whose specialist subject is religion, not medicine, is a very good example of why.

"This is a tricky subject for me, because a colleague has been diagnosed with ME. He’s seriously ill: the breakdown of one part of his body after another cannot be explained by psychosomatic fatigue. On the other hand, I suspect that his condition has only been described as ME because doctors haven’t pinned down what’s going on."


Yes, Damian. What you have just described is ME/CFS. Your friend has been diagnosed with it because he has the same thing the rest of us, who have also been diagnosed with ME/CFS, have.

That is what it is like. Nothing works. Your muscles don't work. Your blood pressure doesn't work. Your guts don't work. Your immune system doesn't work - or it is in hyperdrive and trying to eat you. Your eyes don't work. Your ears don't work. Your brain doesn't work. Your hair falls out sometimes in handfuls. Your skin comes off, sometimes. Your muscles shrink as your body cuts back absolutely everything it might have to use energy to maintain. I piss blood pretty regularly, but since it's not the sort of thing you drop into polite conversation I have no idea whether this is common. And you are in a lot of pain.

The whole point of ME/CFS is that "doctors haven't pinned down what's going on." A diagnosis of ME/CFS means, very precisely: "We see this list of common symptoms in some people. We don't know why." The name for that list of symptoms is ME/CFS.

In order to get a diagnosis of ME/CFS you will have been subjected to a battery of tests over a long period. It is not unusual for people to wait for years for a diagnosis. Every standard test will have been run, and will have come back somewhere in or near the "normal" range. Thyroid, diabetes, liver function - if you get a half decent doctor they might do a full adrenal function run-up on you. I've been for ECGs (which came back odd, but not odd enough to warrant any action). The only thing that has ever come back as unusual from all the blood tests was "signs of a massive recent viral infection", with broken and damaged blood cells. But that isn't consistently the case and only appears after a massive flare-up. Nobody knows what it means. Nobody knows whether the virus in question is Epstein-Barr, or whether the Epstein-Barr flares because of some underlying other condition.

Welcome to the reality of life for anyone who suffers from this condition. There is no cure. The prognosis isn't good. There is no palliative medicine, though many sufferers, with their spirits crushed flat by the brokenness of their bodies, their future wrecked, their ability to work or do anything which engenders self-esteem apparently ended, unable to maintain their relationships with family and friends, and usually in pain, DO take anti-depressants. I don't myself, but I have every sympathy for anyone who does. This condition is a kind of hell.

If you scale your life back so you're doing virtually nothing, you can pass for "healthy-looking" on the one occasion every couple of months when you manage to totter out and see someone. But that one trip out will likely cost you a fortnight or more of not being able to do anything. When I say "anything", I include things like "wash your own hair", "cook food" or "properly digest food".

The World Health Organisation classifies ME/CFS as a neurological disorder in the ICD-10, under Diseases of the Nervous System, just like Multiple Sclerosis and Epilepsy. The classification code for ME/CFS is G93.3.

It's worth pointing out that both Multiple Sclerosis and epilepsy used to be classified as "hysterical" illnesses, back when we were ignorant about the physical causes of the symptoms. So did stomach ulcers, until it was discovered that stomach ulcers are caused by a simple bacterium. So did Porphyria. In fact the human race has a long and colourful history of classifying anything it does not yet understand as "madness" or "lies", on the bizarre basis that illness is somehow a disorder of the soul or the will.

Well, we need to move the fuck away from that kind of pomo-witch-doctor thinking. A more lazy and self-indulgent response to people being ill is hard to imagine. Yet we see it indulged time and again in the press.

In the UK, the definition of ME/CFS was presided over by a psychiatrist named Simon Wessely, who made it his life's work to define ME/CFS as a psychiatric illness. That's psychiatric, not neurological.

The definition of our condition hinges on this point:

From the excellent Scot.ME:
There are over 1,000 institutions around the world designated as Collaborating Centres, the Institute of Psychiatry, London is one of them. These Collaborating Centres are allowed to make adaptations to WHO publications but have absolutely no authority to alter/modify classifications."

and

"In October 2001 it was discovered that CFS/ME had been ‘unofficially’ reclassified as a mental disorder in a U.K adaptation of a WHO publication, the ‘WHO Guide to Mental Health in Primary Care’, developed by the Collaborating Centre of the Institute of Psychiatry, London. It was included under the classification F48.0 relating to mental, behavioural and neurotic disorders (neurasthenia).

"Despite numerous complaints being made to the Collaborating Centre of the Institute of Psychiatry, and ICD-10 classifications being mandatory in the UK, sales of the book were allowed to continue unabated for years until almost all 30,000 copies had been sold. Then and only then was an erratum slip issued. This misclassification also led to CFS/ME being wrongly classified as a mental disorder in the NHS Mental Health Data Manual. It is noteworthy that CFS/ME has once again been included in the 2nd edition of the ‘Guide’. However, the title of the book has been (conveniently) altered to include both mental and neurological disorders, and a few neurological disorders added."


There was an obvious benefit to Wessely in doing this (who doesn't want to be a country's "pre-eminent expert" in something?); but the therapies he prescribed - Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and the dreaded "GET", or Graded Exercise Therapy - have caused a lot of patients more problems than they cured. GET has a dreadful reputation among ME sufferers, as it demands that the sufferer does precisely what they are unequipped to do - exercise. This approach has pushed many people from a workable, but very limited "norm", back into full relapse.

I am assessed once or twice a year myself, by GPs who do not know me and are often not expert in treating ME/CFS. My worst nightmare is encountering a GP who has had no hands-on experience with ME patients, because they always toe the Wessely line, and insist on GET. Which I know puts me in relapse, because I faithfully tried it for the first three years I was housebound with this condition, and spent the entire time yo-yoing in and out of relapses. Yet I kept trying. I am not unusual in this. People with ME will try anything that might help them get better. We are - and I make no apology for this - desperate to get our lives back. All of us.

Wessely is pretty much a hate figure among ME sufferers[1]. His work may have been well intentioned, but what it has done is slap a huge mental health stigma on a condition which is unquestionably physical - Thompson's article underlines this point. The friend he KNOWS who has ME - he is properly ill. The rest of us, whom Thompson does not know, are malingering nutcases.

Thompson's view IS the public view, on this condition. In fact, we're all suffering the same thing Thompson's poor colleague is suffering.

This is the legacy Wessely has left us with.

There's more to the anger: the fact that this condition is largely thought of as a psychiatric problem, both among the public and by GPs, has knock-on effects.

Firstly, there isn't very much research into the physical symptoms. Where there is research and another theoretical cause is disproven, there is always a rash of editorial pieces taking (often with glee), the line that this effectively proves that people with ME are malingerers. This, and the desperate need people suffering from this condition have for there to be an answer, is why articles about ME are often met with vitriol from campaigners. Those articles are telling people who have no hope, that they still have no hope. It's pretty soul-destroying, when it's your life being written about in those terms. Some people react angrily to the news.

Secondly, many of us end up seeing GPs who have swallowed the UK definition hook, line and sinker, and who recommend courses of useless CBT and damaging GET for us.

Thirdly, our own friends and families often write off our physical suffering as something which, if we pulled ourselves together, would simply stop. As a choice. As something annoying we are doing to them. I don't know anyone with ME who hasn't lost most of their friends as a direct consequence. (Although the ones who stay are priceless, the best, the very best of humanity.)

So the fact that there's a very vocal, bitter element in the ME/CFS community when it comes to poor journalism should come as no surprise. All those things we cannot do, you can do: you are free. You can walk about, eat what you like, you can have a love-life, you can pick up your children or go for a jog. You can go on holiday. You can take up a new hobby. You can read a book. And you can work. You are paid for your work. And what you choose to do for that money is further stigmatise us, for whom all those doors are firmly closed?

You bet we're angry.

[1] Hardly surprising when you actually read what the man has said and written about ME/CFS sufferers: "Most CFS patients fulfil diagnostic criteria for psychiatric disorder. Other symptoms include muscle pain and many somatic symptoms, especially cardiac, gastrointestinal and neurological. .... Do any of these symptoms possess diagnostic significance? The answer is basically negative... The description given by a leading gastro-enterologist at the Mayo clinic remains accurate. 'the average doctor will see they are neurotic and he will often be disgusted with them.'" - Wessely S: "Chronic fatigue and myalgia syndromes", in N. Sartorius et al (eds), 'Psychological Disorders in General Medical Settings', publ. Hogrefe & Huber, 1990.
chiller: (me july 2012)
Tried on some rust-coloured superskinny jeans the other day.

Looked as if I were either a badly made chorizo, or my legs had developed enormous foreskins.
chiller: (Default)
Well. How bloody brilliant was THAT?
chiller: (me june 2012)
A successful day. The floors were washed, much to the resentment of three of the cats, while Henrijk, as ever, fell upon the moving mop like George Galloway on an ego trip.

Speaking of: DEAR GOD THE INTERNET HAS BEEN DRIVING ME INSANE for the last two days. With Akin, Galloway and fucking Julian fucking asshat Assangefuck[1], it's like rape apology central out there. As I observed on Twitter, the only good thing to come of this is the number of straight white men of a certain age who are suddenly sitting around in a stunned silence at some of the things their friends are saying, as all the closet-Galloways (which women were always aware of, but men rarely encounter and generally comfort themselves that they're a tiny minority, or possibly don't exist at all), creep out of the woodwork in their true plumage and numbers. I mean: did you see Craig Murray on Newsnight, last night? Everyone is making a big deal of the fact that he named one of the accusers (illegal under UK law), but what strikes me is that he did so in preparation for "telling you a thing or two about these women." That is what he was saying when he named her.

This issue throws an interesting question into stark relief. Is it better to have opinions like the rape-apologist men out in the open; or is it better to have those men simply too afraid to voice those views? I'm pro this stuff coming out so we know who to aim the bricks at (which is why I am pro the existence of organisations like the EDF/BNP); but suspect that the apologist view will simply go back underground now it has been highlighted. How can it be eradicated? It seems as prevalent among younger people as it is among these dinosaur fuckwads in government and other high places.

Anyway, that's the sand in my oyster at the moment. But like soothing er ... oyster ointment ... or something ... my lovely Mum's coming tomorrow - can't wait. The garden's looking lovely, the cats have all been combed and given neat central partings and clean shoes, and the rugs are beaten. Cross fingers for a fine couple of days' sunshine.

[1] I don't have an opinion as to his guilt or innocence, nor is it anyone's business to form such an opinion. But I DO have an opinion about the fact that this brouhaha is entirely to do with his avoiding facing extradition to Sweden to be charged, and that that has nothing whatsoever to do with any genuine fear of extradition to the US (no European country bound by the Human Rights Act can extradite anyone who may face the death penalty. That is the law, and thus far the US has made no move whatsoever to request extradition).
chiller: (Default)
Isn't it HOT THOUGH? Isn't it?

I basically spent today with my feet in a bucket of cold water (pink, matches my piggy varnish), looking at this:

The actual most beautiful cat that has ever existed.

He's not hard to look at.

So yeah, right, anyway, hi.

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