antoniakelly’s blog

I know I haven't updated here at all recently... we were sans internet for ages following a flat move (new flat rawks) and mostly I just blog at Drama, She Wrote now.

Also, got me a Twitter: antoniajane if anyone's interested...

And er, that's it. How're YOU?

Where I've been blogging:

Drama, She Wrote - personal blog

Three Cats In A Flat - cat blog with products reviews and anecdotes and blogs from the three cats

Emerald blogs in their new homes:

Talking Ballots - politics blog.

Impotent Fury - Paul's rant blog

New Emerald sites:

Emerald French Services

http://www.justgiving.com/paulkellypdsa

Yep, Paul is throwing himself out of a plane to raise money for the PDSA. Please donate if you can!

And I am totally okay with this.

And by "totally okay" I mean "totally terrified" but he wants to do it so... yeah. 

It's occurred to me that most of the people reading this blog now didn't really know me before I had OCD, which is an odd thought. To me, my OCD is still a new thing, I'm still not used to having it. But you know what? It's been nearly four years.

My OCD started suddenly and violently on August 8th 2004. Before then, I was your standard 19-year-old girl. I'd been going out with my boyfriend Paul for eight months, I was living with my parents in Lutterworth and spending nights at Paul's new flat, I was at college flying high in media studies. I had friends, a job I hated but nevertheless kept me in drinking money, I went to parties, I was quite the social butterfly. I was fit and healthy and spent too much money on shoes (good to know I haven't changed completely). I had a season ticket to the Leicester Tigers and intended to beat my own record of attending all of the next season's games, having notched up all but one the previous season. 

Pretty much all of that came to an end on that fateful Friday day. For about three months I'd had recurring tonsillitis, and it was again raiding my throat. I was - and this I all remember vividly - sat on the sofa in Paul's flat with him in the kitchen. I reached up to run a soothing hand down my throat and as I did so, I thought I could feel a lump on the left hand side.

And there, right in that moment, my life fell apart.

Isn't that dramatic? Doesn't that really suit the title of this blog? But the thing is, it's absolutely true. From that moment on, very little was ever the same again.

I was terrified. Lumps meant cancer, a disease I'd watched my mother battle for two years and eventually die from. I checked again and definitely thought I could feel a lump.

I bolted. Out of the flat, yelling a goodbye to Paul, into my car and straight to the doctors. And there I made my second mistake; I didn't tell the doctor about my "lump", I just told her about my tonsillitis. Now, if I'd told her about the lump, she would have checked it, I would have got the all clear and I probably would have been fine. But instead, I kept quiet, knowing to an extent I was being irrational. And although I was told I simply had tonsillitis again and giving antibiotics, the seed had been planted.

I obsessed like I have never obsessed before. I'd be driving along and suddenly pull over to check on the lump's progress. I spaced out so often at work that I was given a verbal warning. Every time I tried to think of something but the lump, I couldn't. All I could think was "I have cancer and I am going to die". My OCD had begun.

They call this moment a "trigger", and a lot of people with OCD trigger just as suddenly and violently as I did, moving from sanity into obsessive behaviour in one sudden stroke. And even when my tonsillitis eventually subsided and I realised I didn't have a lump at all, just glands swollen up from the infection, things didn't stop. I moved on to thinking headaches were brain tumours, and therein the pattern was set.

For the next four months, I was crazy. I was irrational, tearful and a complete nightmare to live with. I thought, very genuinely, that I was both going insane and dying of cancer. I'd heard of hypochondria but had always associated it with people who wanted to be sick so they could get attention, and I sure as hell didn't want to be sick. I'd never heard of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I became the nightmare relative. Terrified to be alone with my thoughts, I started picking rows with Paul so he wouldn't leave me alone. He was working in a night club at the time and when he left for a shift, I would systematically call every one of my friends until his shift had ended and he was back home. Paul didn't understand the change in me, from relaxed and carefree to desperate and sad, and he admits now if I hadn't told him what was happening when I did, four months later, it probably would have been curtains for us.

I told no one. Not my family, Paul or my friends. I thought I was losing my mind. I knew that my thoughts of cancer, death and destruction weren't normal but at the same time they felt very painfully real. I really genuinely did for a long period that I was actually going insane, in the literal mental-illness type way. And when I wasn't thinking like that, I was convinced I had cancer.

Things began to come to a head in September. At the time, I had a pink bra that was a C cup, a size too small for me. But darnit I loved that bra and would wear it regardless, even though the under wire scratched my on the left side of my left breast. A few days after wearing it, I was in the middle of thinking I had breast cancer, and when I reached to check my breast I felt the ridges and dents caused by the ill-fitting bra, but of course, I didn't recognise that was what was causing it.

In a panic, I went the doctors and saw the first available, Dr. Hughes. In tears, I finally blurted out all that I'd been thinking, explaining it as some kind of "extreme hypochondria". And she missed it, she missed my OCD and sent me for standard counselling, where the counsellor told me I had these thoughts because my Mum had died from cancer. I tried to explain that she'd been dead for six years and I'd never thought like this before; I knew this was something new, something different, but I was ignored.

In truth, this compounded the situation all the more. I had sought medical advice and been incorrectly diagnosed, so I was in more trouble than ever. My mental state went downhill rapidly, until eventually, at the end of October, I fell into the doctors again and cried on another doctor's shoulders for the best part of an hour. I was desperate, begging to be helped, be committed, I didn't really care, I just needed it to stop. 

Dr. Taylor knew what it was instantly. In the moment she diagnosed me with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, referred me to a psychiatrist and started drug treatment. I left the appointment feeling like I was walking on air: I wasn't going insane, I had an illness, which was recognised, which was treatable.  

I didn't, at the time, realise the battle with my own mind was only just beginning. I didn't realise that by the time I saw an improvement in my condition, I'd have had to leave work and college and become almost a complete recluse. I didn't realise that over time I would see how OCD controlled almost everything I did and always had done, it had just never fully triggered before. I had to begin to teach myself how to think all over again.

Now, four years on, I look back at the start and see how far I have come. I still think about cancer on a daily basis - I probably always will - and I have huge problems with anxiety, but mostly, I am there. I will never be cured, it will never be fully over, but at last it is liveable with.

But I will never be okay with having a mental illness. It will never, ever feel right to me to have to take medication just to control my own thoughts. I am not embarrassed to be mentally ill, but I will never accept it.

I torture myself with wondering if I hadn't touched my throat that day, would I still have triggered? The answer is yes; it was always coming. But at least it triggered while I was young; it is so much easier to re-train your mind the younger you are. And I'm happy as I am now. It is a quieter, calmer life than the one I lived pre-OCD, but I think after the childhood I had, that's nothing but a relief. I am in love with my husband, I adore my cats and I feel positive about the future. My mind is still my biggest obstacle but I know I can win at this now, I know how to beat my OCD at it's own game. And that is very, very powerful.

Got me a new home: dramashewrote.wordpress.com

I'll probably still copy and paste up here though, so you neighbourhood/friends list people don't have to bother to visit the new URL.

For the past week or so, I've been getting the worst bouts of depression when I'm trying to go to sleep.

This is quite unusual, as while I can definitely be a moody cow, I don't really suffer from depression. I'm actually chipper the majority of the time, which really annoys Paul, especially when I'm happy as a clam in the mornings and he wants to die.

The depression starts the moment I turn the light off, and within seconds I'm laid there thinking about the world ending, the cats dying and then - the big fear - losing Paul. Sometimes I stress about him finding a girl who isn't mentally retarded and physically bollocksed and buggering off and leaving me. Nasty as those thoughts are, they're better than the second type of Paul-related-depression; the idea of him dying.

My entire life I seem to have worried about people I love dying. I vividly remember being about six and clinging on to my Mum and crying, begging her not to die. This was way before she got sick. I have these fits of burning desire to tell people how much I love them. I think it comes from actually having a lot of people I care about die; three grandparents, one best friend and of course my mother.

I used to console myself quite easily when I thought of Paul dying; I'll just top myself. Easy. But then I thought more about it, and how I'd still have to spend some time alive while Paul was dead. Then I started wondering what would happen to the cats, and now I know I couldn't kill myself if I lost Paul because I'd need to stay alive for my babies. So I lay in bed, my mind going nuts and my stomach churning.

It always ends the same way. I wake Paul up and blurt out endless blurb about how much I love him, how much I need him etc. I then tend to cry and apologise for things I've said or done to him, events which are sometimes five years old. Paul has become skilled at dealing with this, though I can't imagine me contemplating his death is a bunch of fun for him. He lets me cling on to him and cry and tell him I love him, before I exhaust myself into sleep. By the next morning I'm absolutely fine and also, very embarrassed. But recently it's been happening every night, and I'd quite like it to stop now. Please?

Usually I then ask Paul to tell me a story. He once told me an hour long story about a donkey who wanted to be an architect. It was very funny and pulled me out of my slump, so today he told me a story about a ladybird who became the Pope's official carpenter. It's little things like this that make me love him so much.

Anyway. Last night we watched the Super Tuesday coverage and... uh... nothing happened much. The Democratic race is still wide open, though leaning toward Hilary, and though it looks like McCain will get the Republican nomination, it's by no means certain. My overall feeling after six hours of coverage was disappointment.

I've also told the police what happened with the car denting crazies. It's in their hands now, so we shall see.

Oh, and some woman from Lloyds was tremendously condescending to me when I phoned to ask where the hell my new debit card is (ordered two weeks ago). So I've made an official complaint which makes, count em, complaints to BT, KFC, the GMC about my doctor and Lloyds in the last week. Don't mess with Toni, she really is enough of a busy body to complain all the time. I'm that sad.

The police didn't come last night. (If you don't know what I'm on about, here's the explanatory post). Apparently they were on their way when some major disaster happened and all units had to go there. I found this out when I phoned at 4am, because they didn't bother to tell me they weren't going to be able to make it last night.

THAT catch

Okay, so we were up anyway, watching the Superbowl, which was fanfuckingtastic.  I got very excited when the Giants scored their last-minute touchdown, which surprised me. The catch on the left was pure brilliance and has totally made me want to follow American football properly now.

So yes, we were up and excited anyway, but we could have done with being informed of them not coming that night.

We did, however, get a very, very long answerphone message this morning arranging an appointment for 10am tomorrow. We haven't heard anything more from the car denting maniacs, but I'm still reporting them. Turns out the police can trace the call even though they did 141, and they made the mistake of telling me where they were calling from anyway. In a way I'd like them to call so we can record them, but at the same time, I don't need to hear anymore of their threats. I know it's all talk but I'm a first rate panicker, so it's not great for me.

I actually had some rather huge anxiety stuff when I was trying to fall asleep last night. Paul was sound asleep so I was laid there trying to convince myself to stop freaking out and that I really do not having throat cancer. But that aside, I'm feeling a lot more cheerful today as with daylight came the realisation that the madmen can do precisely nothing to us and they are the ones in trouble with the police, not us. I forgot to mention before that at first they claimed I'd dented their car, left my number on their windscreen and they wanted £100 to pay for the damage. I know for a fact this never happened (I never go out!) so they switched tack to the whole "unpaid cheque" thing. Who knows what the truth is, but I'm beginning to think we're just unlucky and some standard scammers are trying to pull their crap on us by throwing around some meaningless threats.

It doesn't stop the fact that our landlord told them which car was mine. He definitely did, as the scammers named him and also said he'd told them we were in rent arrears. How else would they know this, when they don't even know my name properly? They keep calling me "Mrs. Smith" for God's sake but they know what type of car I drive, the name of our landlord and that we're in arrears?! Come on! And we know the landlord has been around recently because flat four is vacant again and he's showing it. I'm not even sure what to do about the landlord giving this information - and let's face it, he must have known what they planned to do to the car, as why else would they want to know? - but I will tell the police.

I'm not the kind of person to take their threats and let it go. I'm a call-the-police kind of girl. Paul wouldn't have, but I'm not taking crap like that. It's harassment and it's illegal, so I refuse to just let it go.

That aside, I'm a lot better, though Paul's still sick as a very sick Irishman. I keep getting nose bleeds and my throat is a bit sore, but I'm 90% better.

Also, the cats have been spacking for five straight hours now, and I'm going to have to kill one of them is they don't CALM THE HELL DOWN.

Still, good things (this is becoming a habit):

• America's Next Top Model cycle nine starts tonight *squeeeeee*
• Super Tuesday tomorrow
• The Giants won the Superbowl, which was our desired result.

There's always good things :)

Tonight I got a phone call. From a man claiming I've given him a cheque for £100 which hasn't cleared. He told me he'd already dented my car as "payback" and was going to do more damage to it, and I should "watch myself" as he's "known in Leicester" and will "have [me] done in".

Okaaaaaaaaaaay.

Now, I did notice a dent in the drivers door of the car before it broke down, but there's so many little nicks and scrapes on that car that I just figured I'd not noticed it before. But apparently not, apparently it is "payback" for this cheque I have no record or memory of writing and have been unable to find a bounced cheque on my bank account details.

So I hung up on him.

And phoned the police.

Even if I have done this (and I really don't think I have) then this isn't the way to go about resolving the issue. What kind of sane person calls up and threatens someone to such an extent?

So now it's Superbowl night, 2.30am, and we're still waiting for a police officer to come and take a statement. In the mean time, that lovely fellow has called back with more threats, but annoyingly he hasn't called since we figured out we can record calls.

I got myself so wound up about his calls that I had the mother of all anxiety attacks, and by the time the police come that will be two of the three emergency services called here this evening. The ambulance people were very nice and gave my oxygen, then tried to persuade me to go to hospital, which I point blank refused because I want to make a statement to the police tonight.

Oh, and did I mention that bastard knew which car was mine because our landlord told him?

I wish I was making this up. I wish this endless disaster rotation was just a figment of my imagination.

Now somebody tell me I'm not a naturally unlucky person. I'm afraid you non-believers in my amazing jinx like ability are on shaky ground at the moment.

If I sound bitter and wrung out by all of this endless crap (car nearly going on fire, virus, tooth problems, toilet overflowing, bathroom flooded) well, that's because I am. And I'm pretty sure it's all happening because I made the mistake of feeling positive a few days ago.

Bah. 

I'm supposed to be re-designing Paul's French business website because he keeps getting new students, and the idea of paying customers actually seeing the dross I've put up there and half-arsedly called a "design" is criminally embarrassing. As has already been pointed out to me (thanks Meri! Love you!) he still is getting students with the crap design, but they're just the ones we know about. What about those people who Google for a French tutor, see the website and run a mile? And they exist, because there's more Google hits than there is students.

So I could be doing that.

What I am actually doing is pissing myself laughing at the archives of I Can Has a Cheezburger? and squealing in delight at the discovery of the sister site I Has A Hotdog. However, I am still sick as a very sick thing and every time I laugh I cough for ten minutes.

Here's a LIST!

• Superbowl tonight. Paul's big into American football and I'm... learning... but this will be our third Superbowl in a row and it's always fun. And okay, so I mainly watch so I can see Johnno (love him! Miss him! Come play rugby again, Martin!), but still.
• Super Tuesday is in just two days. *Excitement re: politics*
• England's loss will probably mean Brian Ashton's days as coach are numbered.
• I finally emailed Sinead Moriaty. She is an Irish writer responsible for books such as "Perfect Match" and "The Baby Trail". In these books, the husband of the main character is the Leinster rugby coach. And you'd think the woman would research rugby before writing this, wouldn't you? But no. It's woefully painfully bad - a lineout becomes a "line up" in one of the worst Damages to Rugby - but mostly I laugh at Edinburgh being described as "great team". So I've emailed her saying hey, not all of your readers are rugby blind, GET A GRIP and write something that makes sense. A shame, as I quite enjoy her books, but the rugby stuff is so terrible I had to write. I was nice, actually, but it had to be done.
• Paul is sound asleep on the sofa, snoring very, very loudly.
  
• I still have tooth ache.
  
• I wrote all the evil letters that have been piling up wanting to be written. Official, boring stuff, which also included two compaints - one to BT for something much too dull to go into, and one to Asda complaining about the mad shelf stacker who grabbed my cheek a few weeks back. There is no Toni like a Toni scorned.
  
• That grey patch of hair is still here.
  
• We installed the new desk phone. God I love landline telephones. I think since we've lived here (three years) we've had about fifteen. They don't have to be funny or novelty or anything, I just love phones. Now we have a cordless, which I love, and the new desk phone, which has a nice shaped handset.
  
• What a weird passion to have, eh?
• The bathroom is slowly drying out after The Flooding. The heater is on in there 24/7 so at the moment it's like taking a trip to the Equator when you need to pee.
  
• I'm going now!
  

In short: the toilet blocked and overflowed yesterday and we couldn't get hold of the landlord. We had to phone a plumber and when it came to paying time, had to pretend we'd lost my cheque guarentee card and gave them a dodgy cheque which we will have to use money we don't have to clear. The cost, for fifteen minutes in the flat, was an extortionate £110.40. I then found out I've had more bank charges added to my account so my pay day on Wednesday will give us maybe £6.

We're both still sick as dogs.

I went to bed at 7pm thinking I'd definitely, definitely wake up in time for the Six Nations first day, the first game being at 1.30pm. Yet I still managed to sleep through half of Ireland vs. Italy and all of England vs. Wales bar the last ten minutes. Ireland were dross but somehow won, whereas England were dross and lost to the fucking Welsh at HQ. Way to compound a girl's misery, thanks England.

And to add to the whole dying-of-a-virus stuff, six teeth on my upper right hand side are excruciatingly painful for no reason and I sure as hell can't pay for a dentist visit.

We never did get any snow.

Our ouija board spelled out "fuck" and we had to shut the board in case anything worse came through, so that achieved nothing.

For the first time in months, I dreamed of the gremlins. I really didn't think I'd ever see them again.

So all in all, it's fair to say, February SUCKS.