Angel of Destruction.

I was 12 when I first saw her. I thought nothing of asking her to sit by me, I thought nothing of her accepting the offer. For months, we sat together in our French lessons. She didn't talk. She was so shy. Gradually, she opened up. We became friends. I knew her better than anyone, and she knew me. Each of our lives was the other. We existed for and because of each other. I could watch her, and find delight in the way her legs crossed, the curl of her hair, the texture of her skin.

I told her, in a rush of emotion, what was happening to me. I told her, that she meant the world to me. She told me, that she felt the same. And it was wonderful.

Until, that is, it fell apart.

She didn't seem attracted to me like I was to her. It took a long time for her to kiss me back. We never kissed properly. Sexual encounters were few and far between, and less than easy. I lay awake at night, imagining the feel of her skin on mine; she didn't. I turned to her in times of hardship; she shied away. I promised her my love and support; she shied away. I asked her to be honest with me; she destroyed me.

We tried to remain friends, but every time I saw her, my head span, my heart raced and I felt like I was drowning - My lifeline was right there, I could reach her, but I could not have her.

I cut all ties, but I watched her. I had reports from reluctant friends, I followed her MySpace. I knew when she wanted to be with a guy, and the pain was fresh. I ran to her rescue when something horrible happened to her, hurting myself, but out of control.

Now we are friends. But she has her boyfriend, and I have this never-ending pain. She came back into my life recently, nothing dramatic, but like nothing had changed. After a long time of stability, I fell apart. And yet, yet I worry about her. I try to look after her. I lecture her and care for her. I can't help myself.

Is it my fault for getting in too deep?

WD-40

This is the last portrait I drew. I drew it in March of last year. So, it has been almost one year since I sat down with a source image and did some serious sketching.
What with exams, depression and pain, I just haven't gotten to doing it again.

So, tonight I take out my old sketchbook, take an Ann Summers brochure, and try to draw. (I tend to use the many girl's faces for practice.*)
Awful. Absolutely bloody awful.
First, I find myself staring from the picture, to my paper, to my pencil (repeat) and wondering how the hell I can get those layers of graphite to create a pattern on the page.
Then, I put pencil to paper, and find that I have completely lost the knack for translating an image in front of me into a motion of the pencil.
The result, a lopsided face with a half dodgy smile and one good eye.
I compare that picture to the one here, and I know - KNOW - that all I need is practice, and it won't take so long this time as it did in the first place.

But, when you first start trying to draw, when you've never believed you can draw and you see yourself progressing from this:



























to this:
























And then to Holly above, you feel impressed. You feel proud of every drawing you do in which the nose is slightly less skewiff, the eyes a little more real, the hair a little more three-dimensional.
But when you know you can do good things, but you can't quite get it down because your talent needs a good squirt of WD-40, every step forward is just as depressing until you surpass the point at which you stopped.

And so, like with everything else, I'm thinking I might quit, because I'm not strong enough to go through the learning again.

Grief

Grief sounds like a strange word to connect to chronic illness. At least, it does to healthy people. To chronically ill people it makes perfect sense.

As far as I can see there are three main factors to why chronic illness (& pain) sucks:
1. Pain. Which leads to...
2. Limited mobility/lifestyle changes. Which tends to encourage...
3. A change in other people's attitudes towards you.

Pain is difficult to deal with. You can get by when you twist an ankle, break a bone, or suffer some other acute injury, but when you have constant pain, day in, day out for weeks - months - years - it gets harder and harder to deal with. It sucks the life force out of you. Everything becomes harder. It leads to depression. Depression makes it worse again, because you lose the motivation to take medication and do physio and exercise.

People's attitudes are important, but you soon learn who are your real friends and who aren't worth bothering. It's still a challenge, though.

Right now, I am finding the most difficult thing point number 2. I am 17. I used to go on camps with my girlguides, and I loved it. But now I know that a night in a tent would screw me up so badly I'd barely be able to walk. We used to do hikes together for charity - can you believe I used to walk 13 miles through the Cotswolds? No, I can't either, but I have certificates to prove it. I actually used to be the fittest of my girlguides. I used to power ahead. I went on a walking holiday in the Aeolian Islands just three years ago. I've climbed volcanoes.
Now, walking to school in the morning can leave me in tears. Writing a few sentences can make me cry. Hell, even sitting still I can be in too much pain to focus on my work.
I'm 17. All my friends are turning 18 and throwing parties. Tonight is my oldest friend's 18th. I'm not there right now, because my hips scream at me for walking from the study to the kitchen, let alone across town.

My body sucks. It really, truly does.
Now, I'm going to get drunk.
And when my doctor tells me to have a more positive outlook, I'll bite him.

Psh, MEN!

I have issues (there's that word again!) with GENDER IDENTITIES. Mark the phrase for me, mark it please.
I could spend a long time exploring the Why, going into how my father was the primary parent for me, working from home whilst my mother ran her business, talking about my mother's love of sport and my father's hatred of it, but I won't. I'll simply list the main factors: I'm female, and always identify better with men. When I imagine myself in the future I see a man. I spent two-and-a-half years with another girl. I have an amazing male friend who is very effeminate.

So, what does that make me? Gay? Transgendered? Probably.
But what I don't understand is why... Why must we have categories? One is either male, female or a freak.
Can't we all just be who we are...? Lizzie can be as effeminate as he likes, but that's just Lizzie. I can wear a three-piece suit and wingtip shoes, and that's just me.
A naive and teenage view, I agree. But I firmly believed that it should be that way. There should be no 'gender identity', there should just be people, being who they are, and loving who they love. I knew it was impossible, of course, because people are conditioned and that conditioning will never stop, it is self-perpetuating.

However, in light of a recent (messy) relationship with a boy, I'm doubting myself.
This boy, we'll call him Alex, because that's his name and he doesn't know I have this blog, cannot accept me as a person. I am... A Girl. Yes, Yes, he's a teenage boy, his mind is ruled by testosterone, and so on. He wants to get close to me, he wants to get under my shirt, into my pants, he wants to see what I have got. When he realises that - ain't gonna happen - he withdraws, and 'sleeps', gets all miserable. After these episodes, he avoids me, doesn't speak to me much, and then gets his claws out. When I make an innocent remark he retorts in a very worked up manner. Then, a little while later he apologises, says he just needed a let-out. The cycle starts over.
I feel used - This is no way to treat a friend. I am not his scratching post, or his whore. I am his friend. I feel like I am being treated like an object.

So, yes. There is a fundamental difference between girls and boys (not just the obvious!), although I am not sure what it is. But when they clash, something goes horribly, horribly wrong... And I don't think that is down to conditioning.

What is this?

I've had joint issues for as long as I can remember.
I say joint 'issues', because I use the word 'issues' to mean almost anything - last year in maths I had polynomial issues, I have rejection issues, I have drug issues (not the ones you think!)
I also say 'issues', because I have no diagnosis.

I first visited my GP on the subject in 2007. He thought there was nothing wrong, but ordered a blood test. The results showed positive anti-nuclear antibodies (ANA), and I was referred to a rheumatologist.
The rheumatologist prescribed Naproxen, which made me sick, and did not help with the pain.
Then, I was prescribed Meloxicam/Mobic, which didn't make me ill, but also didn't help with the pain.
A visit to my GP resulted in a repeat prescription for codeine, and that's the way my medication has remained since.
My rheumatologist initially gave me a diagnosis of Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, but after the NSAIDs did nothing for me, and my bloodwork failed to show elevated C-reactive protein or SED rate (inflammatory markers) he retracted that diagnosis, and washed his hands of me.

The problem I now face is that the pain is getting much, much worse. It is beginning to limit my mobility and ability.
I do not go a day without pain.
The codeine does not take the pain away, it barely takes the edge off, and the side effects are too bad for me to take much of it - constipation, nausea, drowsiness, rebound headache.

So, here I am. I deal. I realise that because my bloodwork shows nothing of consequence, my rheumatologist is a first-class dick and my family does not support me, visiting my GP would not improve my situation.

However, I have support. I have friends, and I have the Hypermobility Syndrome Association (link to the right). I have chosen to accept that I have what my friends and I refer to as 'Wonky Joints', which is accepted amongst all the people who matter.

Empathy

When one monkey yawns, all the other monkeys yawn.
We're all monkeys.

My friend's grandmother is dying. It's very sad. It sounds very distressing. She thinks she's 28. She's been talking to her husband, who died 10 years ago. She doesn't recognise her son.

We all know that people reach their natural end at some point. Be that when they are 50, 60 or 103. We all know that it has to happen, and that it is good, in a way. If there was no death, life would not be valuable and love would mean nothing. Forever would actually mean forever and no one can handle that.
We know this, and yet... When someone we know dies, even if they're 88, 99 or 103, it is still terribly sad.
But why is it that I am sad about this lady, whom I have never met, dying?
We're all monkeys.

I can't stand to see my friends cry. It tears at me to know that they are suffering. I want to hug them and hold them and tell them that it will all be ok.
But there is a problem with that - it won't be.
The pain is inevitable and inescapable. It will grow less, but not quickly, and it will never quite disappear.
I can say nothing to help. I am aware of this and yet... I cannot stand to sit here and do nothing. I can't let her feel that no one cares. But if I am to show that I care, I shall only make it worse.
Would that there were some way of conveying my sympathy and - yes - empathy without appearing condescending, depressing or belittling. I fear that it is not so.

No one can understand what she is feeling: We have all felt it, we have all been there, we have all lived through it... But still we don't know. It is harder for yourself than it is for anyone else, ever. It is not possible for anyone to comprehend a pain that size, even when they are feeling it for themselves. It is never the same, for any two people, and your own grief is always the worst. Always. It's not going to go away easily. It's going to take time, and tears, but it will happen. And whilst it goes on, you don't have to be alone. You have us, to talk to, but we can't help. Nothing can fix this, and no one can understand.

Do I really think that would help?

Doctors Remixed

I'd hate to put across the impression that I hate doctors regardless of who they are, what they do, or how they present themselves. I don't. I like doctors, I'd like to be a doctor, I admire what they do and how hard they have to work and had to work to get there, I admire their intelligence, and their strength in facing death. I admire their ability to deal with people day in, day out. Sick people, unhappy people, bitter people, pushy people, dying people, paranoid people... etc. I realise that when a doctor is seeing hundreds of patients in a week it is inevitable that there is one patient he upsets or disappoints. I sympathise too, because most patients do not realise that they are not the centre of their doctor's world, that their doctor will not remember the exact problem they were having when they last saw him in 2005.

I've got some very good friends who are doctors, and I adore them. Mylem, who died in January, was a nephologist with a double specialty in feet and cosmetic surgery. Bizarre. But absolutely lovely. Perfect, in fact. If it weren't for him and his GP expertise I'd probably still believe that my joints hurt because I'm thin... And that my father is right and sexuality is a choice.

As I see it, there are three reasons that people choose to become doctors. Fascination with the human body, medicine and life; a desire to help people, save lives and be useful; and pure, unadulterated arrogance.
There is a fourth - parental pressure - but I feel that is irrelevant at present.

Those doctors whose primary interest is the physiology of it all, are likely to become very good doctors (assuming they have the intelligence) with wide experience and the ability to spot 'zebras'. They might not, however, have the most amiable bedside manner and thus may cause upset to patients who feel they are not listening, not paying attention, not caring enough. But, they'll get the job done, done well, and done right.
Those doctors whose primary interest is caring for people (assuming they have the intelligence)
are likely to be a hit with their patients, by view of their cheerful, caring manner, their interest in the people, and comfort. However, they might be more cautious in their diagnoses, more likely to spot a 'horse' than a 'zebra', and whilst they'll be wonderful for typical cases, could cause immense aggravation in the more peculiar cases.
Both of these 'sorts' will get on just fine for the majority of their patients, but there will always be a few people who don't get on with them, don't feel listened to, don't feel satisfied. But that's ok, it doesn't matter at all. The doctor cannot be blamed for that, because it's just the same situation as meeting a lady at the bus stop and finding that she infuriates you. One doesn't get along with everyone, and doctors are no different.

The third sort, however, are where the problems arise. There is a chap in my chemistry class at school who is going to be a doctor. He's arrogant, he's unkind, he is a megalomaniac. He is better than the rest of the class, because he is going to study medicine. He's already got a "that's Doctor Bloggs, actually" air about him, and he's still in sixth form. If anyone outside of him and his equally stuck-up friends is asked a question, they are laughed at. Regardless of whether their response is correct or not. He's going to get the best marks in the class. "I got 33!" he shouts. Awe on the teacher's face... "Did anyone get higher?" "Yes, Julian got 35!" says my loud, rather annoying friend. What I have is modesty, whilst what this chap has is arrogance. I digress (frequently). The point is, that this chap is a horrible, horrible person. He doesn't have any special interest in health and disease. He certainly doesn't care about people excessively. He scarcely cares for anyone. What he wants is to be a doctor and as a result, to be better than others, because that is what being a doctor is about, clearly.
It is these doctors, the ones born of arrogance and ill-spent intelligence that truly disappoint. They are, I believe, in the minority, but it is and will always be these doctors who are ranted about on the internet, moaned about in cafes, and complained about to PCTs. They give doctors a bad name. They give doctors the bad name that I gave them in my previous post. The post was a jibe at bad doctors, inconsiderate doctors, stupid doctors and arrogant doctors. All other doctors were not considered. As always, there are generalisations for doctors, as there are for blacks, homosexuals, and goths.

And so, for the record, my GP is lovely. He's awkward and socially... awkward, but he is always sweet to me, always listens, and has always taken me seriously. My rheumatologist is polite, quiet and again, awkward. A friend had an unfortunate experience with him, but I try not to judge him on that because I know she can be difficult and inarticulate, and it's nothing to do with me! He's been good to me, even though I know I infuriate him through being sullen and shy. Mylem, Trent and Braham are all fabulous people, wonderful friends, and I'd love them to be my doctors, but I know that each of them have had problems with patients who were not satisfied with their treatment, thought they weren't being listened to, or felt shunned. Because, and I'll say it again, all doctors have some patients with whom they do not see eye-to-eye.
phew.