Friday, 7 November 2014
Anyway, I didn't go into details on several factors of my experience with this horrible disorder that have caused me untold stress.
Now I still live in the family home with my dad and brother. My dad, 67, has been a heavy smoker since he was barely old enough to crawl - because, I can only imagine, his mother was some old whore who never found any time to bother with any of that boring "parenting" stuff.
Throughout his life he has been the most dedicated smoker and his - and our - fate was surely sealed with some kind soul introduced him to roll-ups. Anyone who says these are somehow better or healthier is an out and out liar. They have wrecked my dad's lungs, body and mind to a murderous degree - although true to the c_nty smoker mentality, he has no idea there is anything wrong with him at all.
It was around ten years ago that he found rolling up was better than merely lighting up and in that time it's no exaggeration to say my life has been turned into a never-ending nightmare. His tickly little smoker's cough that was unremarkable in its formative years is now a chronic, severe cough - a constant HURK-HURK-HUUUURK that permeates the whole house at least five times a minute, all the while he is here.
I think it's the loudest, weirdest sound I have ever heard another human make. Fuck you, Golden Virginia.
At best he might be able to go twenty seconds between sputum removing episodes but that's pushing it. It's like I've been living in a cancer ward for over a decade.
When he takes a bath is the weirdest, it's like listening to someone projectile vomiting all their internal organs. You can hear it at full volume through the tracing paper thin walls all over the house and it's like "Jesus, is tonight the night to call an ambulance?"
Because presumably it's not going to end well, though I often think it can't get any worse, there must be a limit to the amount of noise one person's throat can make, and boom. The weather gets warmer, it gets worse. Winter comes, it gets worse still. Right now it's like he's got a litre of phlegm in his lungs.
When the cough started it was dry, unproductive. Nowadays it's all too productive. It's loud, sharp, barking. I know he's going to do it but it still makes me jump out of my skin all day long. It's like my nerves have been wrecked.
When he gets out of bed, which is often (day and night), he does the whole "throwing up" routine for a good ten minutes, then has a fag, chokes on it, gets a bit of phlegm in his throat, the cough goes apeshit, reaches for another fag. Repeat. Hardly the way to live.
Smokers are by far the worst drug addicts of all, I guess because it takes so long for it to kill them. The heavily addicted ones, I don't think they think about anything but when they can have their next fag.
Sometimes I wonder WTF the neightbours make of all the coughing, not to mention WTF a doctor would say if they could hear it. I imagine most people would feel deep pity for me for having to live with this for so long.
Quite honestly, it has brought me to breaking point so many times that being in a permament state of high anxiety is my default now, and I can't imagine what I'd think about if I didn't have someone coughing in my face for hours every day. Merely writing a blog post can feel Herculean when you are undergoing sound torture.
It's difficult not to sit there Googling and obsessing over it. When you look at the lung cancer symptoms it's like "if you've had a cough for 2-3 weeks..." and I think, Bitch Please. 2-3 weeks is for pussies - try over 500 weeks.
Using Google as my doctor's manual I've narrowed it down to:
Take your pick, they all sound like tremendous fun. I can just picture my dad say there on an oxygen machine...with a fag in one hand. I just know that image will become reality one day.
There's not much online for people like me who live with chronic coughers. It's mostly people with work colleagues who cough the shit out of themselves all day long and that must be awful. But there's something about living with it in my home that feels extra unfair and horrible. I wonder why I have to live with this terrible thing, and no one else I know does. It's like my home has been taken away from me and it's all because of tobacco.
(I didn't want to make this post too depressing, so I didn't even get into what it's like living with the smoke of 50 roll-ups a day.)
If you work or live with an annoying cougher, please feel free to vent all to me in the comment section. Lean on me, babe.
May your weekend be quiet and the air fresh.
Thursday, 16 October 2014
But some gals take it a step further. They go all out to get their man; fully native, even.
This one girl I know - let's call her Ann - is crazy for black dudes. It's probably racist to say bitch got jungle fever, but she's craving big dark donkey dicks like I crave mac'n'cheese. She actually went and lived in Italy for a while when she was about 22 with the soul intent - it became obvious - of hooking up with one of those African refugees who just doggy-paddled across the Med on a shipping crate with ten of their friends.
Not joking, this actually happened.
I'd love to have been a fly on a palm tree when she paraded past one of those gangs of skanky, idle young Africans you see on Donal MacIntyre exposes. You know the ones that live in encampments made of people's old trousers on some industrial wasteland in an Italian port city?
In a matter of weeks she'd picked up a Nigerian who was supposedly about 30 but, to put it politely, he had obviously seen a lot of life and must have been pushing 50. He doesn't know exactly because he never had a birth certificate.
A month after her arrival in the Big Boot they were married - legally bound for all eternity. El oh el oh el.
After a visit home to the Motherland, where the locals had never seen white flesh before, constantly harangued Ann and corn-rowed her hair, they came back here to the UK to live. They are still together eight years later with a growing son who has a name that sounds a lot like Ibrahim - so everyone thinks he's a Muslim. He just had to have an extra special name because he wasn't extra special enough already, haw haw.
The really weird thing in all this is how Ann now behaves. It's like she's had a personality transplant or, should I say, a nationality transplant. She would actually appear to believe she is an African.
She's lived in the same tiny English village as me all her life, is a bumpkin, small-minded, ignorant. God knows where this lust for black men came from, it's all white as snow in these parts. But she obviously feels she was wrongfully displaced from some Nigerian village.
She gets her hair done in an Afro salon even though she's got fine European hair. In her work as a sewing lady she now only uses African fabrics. All her Facebook posts are pictures of jollof rice and plantain. She sends her son to primary school in traditional robes and a turban on non-uniform days. She lives by African proverbs and speaks the way a noble old Nigerian lady might - "My husband presented me with a rose on this day".
Soon I fear she'll be using an umbrella to shield her from the sun and carrying the shopping in on her head.
She gets freaked out when Hubby boils a whole pig's head or nibbles on chicken feet but accepts it and loves it all 'cos it's so darn foreign and cute.
This has all been quite embarrassing to watch from afar - as Scott Mills would put it, I've got goosebumps on my cringe glands.
Another woman I know, Sharon, is exactly the same only her husband is from RRRoma, as she would say, so she has had to become totes Italian. All her FB pics are of pasta, she can only accept friend requests from people called Giuseppe and Anna Maria, and she called her son Matteo, which sounds really stupid when you say it with a Wiltshire accent.
Her speech is littered with Ciao and Grazie and in general she has found a way to exude an amount of faux Latin spirit.
Similarly my brother, who prefers Eatern European women, now lives happily as a Ukrainian with his wife and two kids, who amazingly somehow escaped being called Artem and Oleksandr.
These three examples all have common traits. Utter deperation to be married to anyone, anyone at all. Such a total insecurity and lack of self-esteem that they have failed to hold onto to their own culture, eschewing it for another that seems foreign and therefore better.
People also seem to fetishise foreigners to a startling degree; perhaps there's something colonial in it.
Look, ladettes and geezers, it is possible to retain your own culture, dignity and sanity when you marry one of those sexy foreigners. Their language, food and everything else is not superior - just different. Get over it and be yourself.
Friday, 5 September 2014
To begin, think of people you're totally comfortable around, with whom you can be yourself. It might be one or two, or even none. Count these types of people as zero.
Now move up the scale to the people who freak you out and push that anxiety button the most. These people score a full ten.
All the other people you know can be rated and fall somewhere in the middle. They might make you a bit nervous, or freak you out but not cause your worst anxiety.
You can add detail for why each person makes you feel a particular way. This can help you to look at your negative thoughts objectively and understand why you see the people at opposite ends of your scale as so different.
For example, on my scale the people who score a zero are calm, quiet, non-judgmental, undemanding. They also happen to be family members whose unconditional love I can count on. If I mess up, I know they won't reject me.
The tens are all type A personalities who tend to get right in my face and bellow their conversation at me, asking rude questions, making me explain myself and generally making me feel ashamed of myself.
There is one woman in particular I'm thinking of here, a family friend I am sometimes forced to deal with, who has what might be the world's LOUDEST voice; she always looks right into my face for minutes at a time as she regales one of her lengthy anecdotes.
It makes me feel utterly uncomfortable and has done since I was a child, but like a lot of these people, the more scared I get the louder and more ridiculously animated she becomes. Sometimes I have literally been cowering at the back of my chair during one of these ordeals.
I think she knows I'm terrified of her and is desperate to make me like her. Um, awkward?
If I'm honest, I try as hard as possible to avoid her company at all costs which I know is the veryt hing that makes anxiety worse. That's what we're continually told, right? It's just that mine has only ever got more extreme every time I face a trigger situation.
Ok, so I'm still working on ways to feel comfortable around the people I score as tens on my anxiety scale, but I now know I'm happiest around reserved, non-confrontational types who don't make cutting remarks, do sudden things or carry any kind of agenda.
Give it a try and let me know in the comments what sort of people cause your worst anxiety :))
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
This is my coming out post - not as a lesbian (this time).
From this day and for all days to come I proudly announce myself with enormous pride as a life-long sufferer of Misophonia; a Misophone; une misophonique. Je suis.
Misophonia, if you don't know already, is the neat Latin name for members of the official We Hate Annoying Noises Club. To clarify: the word literally means hatred of noises and boy do we have a lot of that.
Next we must pick our poison as to what sort of noise is the offending nuisance. In my case, it is sharp, loud sounds - doggies barking and old people coughing, those currently top the list. Either could have me reaching for a loaded revolver after ten minutes any day of the year, even if was promised £10m just to sit there and listen to it. I know it's nutty but I am a slave to sounds.
TBH though, just about any repetitive noise can take me there. Sneezing. Yawning. Dance music with a really annoying sample looped for its entirety. A child shouting the same thing over and over. Alarms. Radio 4 through my bedroom wall (more of later). Pitbull.
I feel much more disgusted than the average person by farting and burping. Breathing and blowing your noise is pretty rank. The confident jet of someone urinating (ick). Metal on metal; blackboards; felt tip pens; the sickening sound long nails make. Ew, ew and ew.
Sometimes I trigger my own Misophonia. It's that bad.
A lot of Misophonics centre their obsession on the noises people's mouths make when they eat. I've only had this a few times but I'm sure if I had to frequent a canteen every day, I'd soon be going bat shit. Comprendo, amigos.
I think I first knew I was a bit mental in the audio depratment was when we used to visit my dad's family every Sunday. They had this horrible aggressive Collie that would follow you everywhere and bark. Sit in front of you and bark. Make like it was going to bite you and bark.
That smelly miscreant just wouldn't stop barking and it made something in my mind go utterly cray cray. And it was absolutely impossible to think of anything else all the time we were there. The barking wasn't so regular that I could let myself relax with the loud noise going continuously right in front of my face.
It was spordaic and made me jump out of my skin with frightening intensity each time. Every bark would set off deeper waves off panic and the obsession grew and grew within minutes of our arrival at that awful place, like a monster in the back of my head that I couldn't even begin to describe to anyone.
I did try but they just didn't believe how truly overwhelming the experience was for me every week. Only fellow Misophoncs can understand how debillitating it is when you get stuck in a particularly bad episode; when your mind hears something that it simply can't accept.
When I tried to explain all this to my family though, they'd just be like, "What barking?" or "Just ignore it." But sadly my ears never ignore anything. I'm fairly convinced they're supersonic.
One of the most prominent emotions is rage. Oh how you would love to slap that person or thing stupid and stop them from ever making that noise again. From looking at Google, it doesn't seem like anyone's actually committed murder in the name of Misophonia yet, but surely it's only a matter of time and it's certainly one of the more understandable reasons for harpooning someone through the head.
Anyway, I have waaay more to say on this subject but this post's getting kinda long so I'll just leave it at this for now and bid ye a (quiet) adieu :)
Read this Daily Mail article for a bit more info on Misophonia.
And if you have Misphonia, please share with me in the comments what really grinds your gears. Let's cover our ears and sit rocking together.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
"Zombie accounts can gobble up savings. Watch out if your savings account is no longer on offer because interest can plummet - some pay just 0.03% a year. As inflation is currently 2.8%, that's effectively £97.23 for every £100 invested, so check rates regularly to stop your savings shrinking."Yikes.
This made me beat myself up a bit. You see, I've got three accounts with Nationwide: two Flexaccounts and one Cashbuilder. One more Flexaccount than I need because it's hard to make them understand what you want sometimes and I ended up with a new account when I asked for a debit card on my original account. Le sigh. Of course I've been too busy procrastinating ever since to close one. Ruminators FTW.
The sad thing is that none of these accounts have any interest on them. It's a bit of a nonsense given its name but the Casbuilder gives a paltry 0.10%. Perhaps that tickles Nationwide HQ but me not so much.
So after I read the RD's tip, I thought I'd get off my arse and find some better interest for my pounds, especially as I've recently got quite a bit more money. Well, dear reader, the Nationwide savings guide might as well be written in Cyrillic. It uses doublespeak, misinformation and cunning withholding of certain facts* (*terms and conditions apply) to blind you with technicalities and draw a veil over the fact that there is no interest. Rien. Nada. Niente. Or at least, about 1% if you're lucky. And that's only good if you're a Russian oligarch.
Any semi-decent interest rate I thought I found was quietly bracketed with "variable". Half of the accounts it's only what you pay in that month that attracts the interest. Most of them it's what they call a bonus interest rate for one year which slips to sweet FA thereafter. Rude. It was one of the most devious Mensa puzzles I've ever attempted.
My essential conclusion from all this is that unless you don't mind your pennies being squirrelled away in Nationwide's underground grotto and fiddled with for five years, 1% is about your lot.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
But it's been a good while since I saw any MKs featured in magazines or on the arm of some slaggy-looking fashion blogger. So did the PR freebie machine stop to give the watches a more high-end feel, or are they just dunzo in general?
A quick search reveals they are still being sold in newer, glitzier, gaudier designs than ever (above), still at wince-inducing price of £200+. That may be one of the biggest mark-ups ever for a product that must only be worth a couple of quid. You don't need to look at many watch forums to learn of the shoddiness: the thin gold plating that rubs off after only a few months wear, and the lack of any sort of design or engineering credibility is hardly appealing.
For a time I got a bit obsessed with buying one myself, but never quite grew the balls to actually pay out two hundred big ones. For once my cowardliness served me well and I'm really glad I didn't spend that on one of MK's vulgar Rolex imitations. Fashion has moved on to other things now: backpacks, yadda yadda. Whatever else we are commanded that we simply must consume this month. And I wouldn't want to still be wearing a rattling mansize watch with all the gold rubbed off.
The trend has died but taken with it a heck of a lot of money. Ultimately Mr Kors has only damaged his own brand with his unpleasant tactics. Sales don't lie and quality always sells. His watches are but a fading memory while the prestigious brands need to do little marketing. They certainly wouldn't go gifting random PR girls. Also worth noting is that Americans were charged roughly half of what UK customers were for one of his watches. Pfff.*
*Oops! I take that back. Having just checked Amazon, all Kors watch prices are way down on what they used to be. Pile 'em high, flog 'em low ;)
Thursday, 1 May 2014
And if you feel really creative, you can even make your own! Here's the deets:
Be sure to put on goggles and rubber gloves as the first part is quite dangerous. Put 900ml of water in a bucket and add 295g of caustic soda. Whisk. There will be steam and weird science stuff happening but try to brave it out. Take 615g of coconut slab and melt in a pan with 800ml of sunflower oil and 800ml of olive oil. This mixture is added to the bucket mixture and stirred for 40mins until the colour and texture change. Now add essential oils and/or food colouring.* Put the mixture into plastic tubs. Put a blanket over them for 24hrs until they set. Leave for six weeks in a cool, dark place for saponification to occur. Cut into blocks and use.
*For lime and parsley soap add a handful of parsley and 20g of lime essence – whisk. It’s really limitless but some other nice ideas are oats and honey or cinnamon and orange. You can also set things in the top – little roses, pieces of orange – to make it look all pretty.