Mass Disasters You Say? Nope, I've Never Attended One!

The lecture tonight at my CPD Forensic Science & Medicine Course was fantastic:


MASS DISASTERS AND HOW TO PUT AN EMERGENCY MORTUARY TOGETHER


However, I think the tutor forgot that none of us had ACTUALLY been at the site of a mass disaster or had put an emergency mortuary together in a field/ice rink/football stadium.  


He would speak and then ask a question and get a little bit agitated when a) we wouldn't answer straight away or b) we answered wrongly but with conviction.

• Raw: "do you know what, I'm not sure, but I'm going to answer with conviction and stand by it; yes, I think you should do a post mortem" 
• Forensic Pathologist: "I like your conviction. I like it. Not a lot. You're wrong". 

*class laughs* 


Fuck sake - Paul Daniels impressions...any need??


However, he was brilliant.  


There is no getting away from it.  What this guy doesn't know about mass murder scenes, multiple killings or horrendous natural disasters is not worth knowing.  He was just very funny in his dismissiveness when we answered wrongly in class.


The fact that he was so knowledgable forgave the fact that he was abrupt and short (in every sense of the word).  He went from telling us about the 540 body bags at Lockerbie containing thousands of body parts of unidentified victims, to the woman who made him spam sandwiches on site, like it was totally normal.


This guy spoke about PTSD like it was something that only affected other people.


What made this guy immune?


I don't think he is immune.  


I just think he has found a way to cope - humour and teaching a class of eager students are the ways he does it.


He really was an inspiration and I thought he was brilliant, even though, for a split second, he made me feel like a twat.


If I ever know as much as this man has forgotten, I'll be happy.


I'm loving this course and am now off to start my next essay - crime scene analysis :-)

Happy Pill Update

So, I'm still on them.  My doctor thinks another few months would be good!  'Specially cos I'd taken myself off them for a week! Oooft, that was me getting a row!  Ach well, it could be worse!  I could be on weed and not have a clue what was going on!!  OOft is all I can say!!

Fucking Doctors!  Fucking happy pills!

Valentines Day - It's Not The Plague You Know!

Well, my first V-Day as a divorced woman has passed without a hitch:


i) I woke up at 5am and watched an episode of Alias.  


ii) I wrote up my dreams - both of which would make good short films, god knows what goes on in my brain but let's just say that bodies hanging on walls, a pirate ride, tap dancing and Meryl Streep all featured!


iii) I got up and emptied my new 'Argos £11.99' mini-case from my London weekend and sorted the washing.  


iv) I put the dry washing away and set the dishwasher to have a wee rinse.  


v) I changed my bedding.


vi) I sorted through my 'wedding box' and realised that the only person not to sign my 'wedding card' from my (then) husbands work was the woman he is now with.  It's funny I never spotted that before!  Perhaps he just didn't have the balls to call it off before it got too far - what a twat!


vii) I read over my lines for The Vagina Monologues, before rehearsal at 6pm ish.


viii) I put a facepack on and did my emails.


ix) I phoned Scottish Power to bitch about the shit service and my stupid bill


x) I had a secret text message conversation


xi) I recorded myself reading my monologues


xii) I sorted out Equity stuff


xiii) I left for rehearsals


xiv) Had an awesome time with the ladies talking about fannies and laughing at Dennis reading in parts and me doing Manleens' Indian accent


xv) Gave Emily a lift home


xvi) Ran a bath


xvii) Made my V-Day dinner

Lovely V-Day Dinner

xviii) Typed up this fairly dull blog


xix) Got in the bath after thanking the universe that I didn't have to stress about:

• presents
• mothers-in-law
• holding my stomach in whilst wearing a corset
• wearing stockings
• burning the dinner
• liking Magic.fm
• enjoying Debbie Gibson & Glen Madeiros when the need arises
• liking wine and beer and vodka and Irn Bru
• not enjoying sport and Jesus conversation
• pretending to like what someone else likes
• pretending to be an uncomplicated, dull and boring individua
• embracing the mentalness that is ME!

HAPPY V-DAY ONE AND ALL xxx

it's better to be alone and happy, than in a relationship and miserable :-)

I'm Not Mental, Am I?

 
This is dedicated to all the fabulous people out there who have, at some point, been on happy pills or are still taking them.  You're awesome and you know you are, just wait and you'll soon see that for yourself :-)


I'm not mental.  Am I?

Well, apparently I am.

In July 2009, I moved to a new home, in a new part of town.

Just 7 months earlier, I was married and defrosting haggis for my husband's tea.

I was still married but no longer defrosting*.  I was now eating spaghetti out of the tin standing over the sink, drinking wine straight from the box.

I didn't really want to leave my new flat.  Ever.  I was quite happy being by myself.  However, I was starting to wheeze like an old man so I had no choice but to register with the doctor round the corner.  I needed my inhalers dammit!

Now, I'm not really a sick person.  Okay, I'm asthmatic, but what I mean is, I'm not often at the doctor.  I get by on Vic, Benylin and paracetamol when I'm feeling a bit pants.  Don't get me wrong, I've had my moments of proper 'been in the hospital' illness.  But not 'pop to the docs every 5 minutes' illness.  I just crack on with it when I'm not well.  I work from bed if I'm too achey to get up.  I'll do my emails whilst doing a menthol inhalation.  I'll take my iPhone into the loo if I'm being sick.  It's just the way I roll.


I just crack on.


I've been to the docs a few times since registering for the usual - 'anti-baby' jag in the arse, flu jag, repeat prescriptions, the occasional round of antibiotics for a nasty rash, the nazi inspired female inspection with the cold steel duck lips that once your feet are strapped up you feel like you could be in either a 'Jeremy Beadle sketch' or a 'SAW death trap' depending on your nurse - anyway, you get the whole 'visting the doctor' drift.

I don't go very often.  I just crack on.

I just crack on.

Then one day, quite by surprise, I cracked up.  At the doctors.

I didn't really see it coming.  Although the brolly in the fridge and the house keys in the shower caddy should have been a good indicator.

I was still working, still trying to keep the business afloat; the business that I started just a few months before IWADD (I Want a Divorce Day).  I was still cracking on.  Then my divorce decree came through.  But still, on I cracked!

A couple of months later I walked into the doctors office to get my usual 'jag' and she asked if I needed anything else.  She looked at me like I was mental when I asked for some Vic Vapourub and a shotgun.

"Helen, do you think you need help"

"No, don't be ridiculous, I was just kidding, I'm fine I can do it myself, I'll just crack on" I said, laughing off my stupid joke.  Then I made a sound not unlike Eeyore and cried till my face was so puffy I looked like a Moomin.

Only then did I tell her about the divorce.  And the start up of my new business.  And my house move.  And my office move.  And the court case against my ex-employers.

She listened.

She asked again:  "Helen, do you think you need help, that's a lot for anyone to have on their plate all at once?"

"I don't know.  I just can't be arsed with anything.  I just want to go away and never come back every again.  I just want to punch everyone in the face.  But sometimes I don't.  I don't really want anything.  I just want everything to fuck off."

She prescribed anti-depressants (I call them my happy pills) and I started taking them, that day, in June.  I was to see her every 4 weeks.  Great.  Now I'm spinster AND mental!

I didn't feel they were making a difference at all.  She told me to be patient and that I would have to be on them for at least 9 months.  9 twatting months!  Any need for that?   I thought I would be fine after a couple of weeks like when you take antibiotics or Lockets.

I persevered and I got worse before I got better.

My friends were really worried about me and thought I should come off them because I would often just sit and stare into space and not really join in.  Smiling was sometimes the hardest and most sick-inducing thing I had to do.  Don't get me wrong, I still did it in meetings and teaching my classes.  I am an actress after all.  No-one ever knew what was really going on underneath the 'fabulous, bouncy, mental, have a laugh' Raw exterior.

I had panic attacks and made excuses not to go places.  I would get faint in shops.  I stopped going to my acting group.  I stopped going to see friends in plays.  Sometimes, if I was on a bus, I would start sweating like a pig wishing I could just be at home in the bath, away from everything.

My 9 months is up next week.

I no longer feel numb.  I actually am getting excited about things.  I'm excited about my new business website.  I'm excited about the performances I have coming up this year.  I'm excited about the meetings I have set up for next week.  I'm actually WANTING to get out of bed in the mornings and crack on with work stuff and actually build my business rather than watch it 'tick over'.  I'm excited about going on safari with my mum and sis this year.  I'm no longer getting out of bed just because it's 'etiquette' to do so.


I'm due back at the doctors net week to review my 'happy pill' intake so we'll see what she says but I think I might get to come off them.

The Raw has been on a very slow simmer for quite a little while, but The Juggernaut is back.

I'm not mental.  I was just a little bit lost for a while.

People hear 'anti-depressants' and automatically think you are: a loon, a drunk, crying all the time or all of the above when the truth is, sometimes you're just dead inside.  If a little pill can help bring you back, crack on I say.

I'm still cracking on but in a different way.  I'm not doing it to cover up what's really going on inside.  I'm cracking on because I want to and, now I know the signs, I'll know if/when I start cracking up again and I'll know to ask for help.  Ha!  The Raw asking for help.  Wonders will never cease!

I'm not mental.

I'm totally fucking crazy.  And lovin' it!

*  mainly because I hadn't been back and nicked the fridge freezer out of the flat yet


"Depression is not sobbing and crying and giving vent, it is plain and simple a reduction of feeling.  People who keep stiff upper lips find it damn hard to smile" Judith Guest

Rats Tails, Shit Theatre and A Car In A Bag!

Got an invitation to pop round to a pals house cos she was having a few folks in.  All of them had babies and I met my new nephew who was actually 7 and it didn't seem weird that I'd never met him before or that my sister hadn't told me he existed!  He was 6ft tall!


Bridget (my smart car) had transformed into one of those kids cars with mini engines and I was zooming about on her - she came with a fold up back pack so you could carry her around when not driving her!


After my pals house, I went to meet the girls as I was performing a rehearsed reading with them.  I'd left my script at home so someone printed me off a new copy.  However, just as I got onto the stage, I realised that all the pages were in the wrong order and I had to make everything up, everyone else was pissed off but I knew it had been done on purpose.  In between scenes I kept trying to sort my script and was getting very stressed, then I realised my back pack with my car in it had gone.  I went looking for it in the basement of the building and was accosted by my ex husbands new woman who put rats tails in my hood and down my back.  I was fuming cos I had to get back on to the stage.


I finished the show (which was total shit but got a standing ovation?!) and then went looking for 'rat tail bint'.  I found her outside the building having a smoke (she doesn't smoke).


I told her she was childish and a cow and then my ex and all his pals came outside.  I felt a bit stupid (considering I had bunches in) but I stood my ground anyway.  I made my ex cry by reminding his what a complete cunt he was and that his new stylish moostache made him look like a paedophile.  He was smoking too!  All his mates told me that they were on my side but I just told them all to get lost and that I didn't need them in my life.  After a few home truths, I spun round with a swish of my bunches and told them all to fuck off. I then continued looking for my car-in-a-bag.  I found her and all was well.


I went back into the nightclub/theatre space and found that all my mates were there and had organised a 'BOO-YA' party for me for finally telling my ex what a shit he was and standing my ground with his gang.


We had an amazing time and I only cried a little bit.


Then I woke up cos a chav was playing chap door run at 2 in the twatting morning!  Am still awake so thought I might as well jot my dream down!