C’est la nouvelle annee

Looking back on 2008, I still find it hard to wrap my head around the changes that have happened in my life over the past year. I am living in a new city, with new people, working in an industry that is completely different to everything I have done before. And I am loving it. I am loving living my life.

So much has changed, but throughout it all though, there is a constant thread; the people around me. I find it a perpetual joy and a delight that, not only am I still getting closer to the “Southampton Lot” (as they’ve become known), but that I am finding new people, and also that I am picking up threads with people from back in the Liverpool days, and building it all into something new. Something stronger.

This means so much to me because when I look back on 2008, I am looking back at some deep lows along with the soaring highs, and it is those people who were firmly at my side through all of it. A cliche, yes, but you really do find out who your true friends are in the times of distress.

So for the endless cups of tea, the hugs, the shoulders to cry on. For the constant CV re-writes, the soothing noises pre job interviews, the commiseration’s and the celebrations. The finding me somewhere to stay, the taking me dancing, the showing me new places. Keeping me sane. Accepting me. Telling me I could do it, that I was worth it. Making me welcome. Giving me space. Keeping me laughing.

Most of all, just for being stubborn sods who refused to give up on me.

To all of you, I know I don’t ever say it enough, but I love you, and I wouldn’t be able to sit here and write this with a smile on my face, looking forward to what the future brings, if it wasn’t for each and everyone of you. So I am going to make just one resolution for 2009 and every year from now on: I am going to embrace every opportunity that comes my way. I am going to do my best to be the person you all see when you look at me. And I am going to be there for you in the same way you have been there for me.

That’s it. Happy New Year everyone 🙂

Winter Wonderland

Well, winter is finally here and Christmas is round the corner. How do I know this? Because I spent the weekend on the boat, meandering down the canal, drinking mulled wine, and trying to avoid frostbite. Up till now I have been denying the season, and have managed to do so successfully because I don’t have a TV and have avoided the usual hideous adverts and jingles. It’s just not Christmas-time because I haven’t seen the Coca Cola advert! I do have a habit of Scrooging my way through the festive season, but for some reason, Oxford is bringing out the jolly in me. What with the carol concerts, Santa runs, dates, decorations and parties, I’m busy pretty much every day up till the big day itself, and even my bah-humbug-ing is more a token effort than heartfelt.

Which is nice, but not generally condusive to finding time to blog and write Sunday Roasts and things like that. So rather than leave you all panting in expectation of the next post which never seems to come, I am going to bid you a fond adieu till 2009 rolls round.

Have a lovely festive season everybody 🙂

(And I still haven’t done the sodding Christmas shopping!)

Single White Female seeks…

It is a sure sign that a girl has reached the end of her tether when she signs up for a dating site. Yes, this is me admitting that I have signed up for a dating site. Looking at it one way, the internet has played a significant role in most aspects of my life so far, why not this one as well?

And yes, to reassure everyone, I will be careful.

Now, the tricky bit.

The photo, oh dear and fluffy lord, the photo! Now, my photostream to the contrary, I actually hate having my picture taken and rarely feel that photo captures me. My favourite picture is still the tea one which graces this blog and is my avatar all round the web. I like it for several reasons, not least because 1) it shows me drinking tea, which is kind of my default position and 2) the mug hides my face (also something of a default – if I can hide behind a scarf or something, I will!) But is it really a good shot to have on a dating site?

And then there is the ~~blurb~~ profile. You’d think I would be good at writing a brief bit about me, selling myself, captivating people. I am not. I stink at it, not least because I have never been concise in my life! My style is rambling, intimate, relying on twists of language to snag attention and promote humour.

You’ve got to describe yourself and your perfect match in 200 to 4000 words, and give yourself a “headline” of no more than 140 words. Reading their guidance isn’t much help. It just confuses me and makes it even harder to start!

DO make it work with your username and photo
DO make those first few words count
DO show your personality—not tell
DO grab attention
DO say who you’re looking for
DO invite a response
DON’T use clichés
Start off with a bang
Be specific
What makes you tick?
Give people a reason to email you
Keep your eye on the target
Tease a little

*ARG!*

*Hides under the covers with her cup of tea*

Because on top of actually having to write the damned thing, there’s then the pressure of waiting for it to work its magic. What if no one likes me? What if no one wants to date me?

*sob*

Then I realised, I have been writing Bright Meadow for years now, and you lot have always been with me, reading and commenting as the mood takes you. I have got to know some of you really well, whilst others I just get an inkling of your presence from stray comments and reader-stats. I love you all. There has to be something about my words and personality that keeps you coming back, so who better to help me write this profile?

I am being stone-cold serious about this: write me a profile. Make it funny. Make it serious. I don’t care. Add them to this post in comments, or, if you’re feeling shy, email them to cas.brightmeadow[@]gmail.com

The best one will get some small token of my estimation (I’m thinking along the lines of iTunes vouchers, or a Flickr pro account or something comparable) and, who knows, will be guest of honour at my not-wedding to the White Knight your profile enchanted 😉

I am intrigued as to what y’all come up with. How much of me has come across in this blog over the years…

Sunday Soup: The Evil League of Evil

A certain sense of ennui is filling my bones this Sunday evening. I have just dispatched Brother Dearest and Kitten back to London after their lovely, if brief, visit, and am curled under a blanket in my room, staring out at the sleet and dark sky. It’s not a roast day somehow. It is a curl up with a mug of soup, a good book, and some movie trailers kind of a day.

2012 – colour me intrigued

The Wrestler

The Matrix Runs on Windows (thanks to Moose for this link!)

Work tomorrow. Yippee!

Just a thousand words

The third night out their pattern changed. They drew up to camp, aways back from the road, shortly before dusk as usual, but Rofan was edgy. Lukam watched as he muttered something to his brother and then approached Jariel Janir where she stood watching the campfire catch on the tinder.

“You sure?” her low voice carried to where he stood with the horses.
“I am sure, my lady” Rofan growled back. Jariel nodded, then stared at the ground for a moment, stiring the dust with her boot toe. Satisfied with something, she stooped down and picked up six, no seven, objects from the ground. Lukam would swear later they were just pebbles like the countless others scattered around the clearing. Next he watched as Jariel walked slowly round their burgeoning camp at the limits of the firelight, bending down at intervals to place a pebble on the ground.

“Ei, doi, kay, hir, vir, lar-tei” she muttered one word with each stone. Back at the fire, she raised the last and seventh pebble to her forehead, muttered “sai” and placed it in the pouch that hung from her belt. Lukam felt as if someone was watching over his shoulder, but as he made to turn, Jariel knotted the pouch shut and the feeling was gone. He shook himself slightly, shivering at the cool night air. Jariel then continued her preparations for their dinner as if nothing out the way had happened.

“What was that?” He queried Kriss as he neared the fire himself.
“What was what, mercenary?”
“With the pebbles? What LeiLei – he had slipped into the habit of calling her the Chalman for lady as all the others did early on – was doing?”
“Oh. The lady was just casting the boundaries”. Kriss caught his puzzlement. “More’n that, you need ask the lady your questions yourself”. Kriss turned away to check on their guests, effectively closing the conversation.

Nothing loath, Lukam approached Jariel at the cookpot.

“Jariel Janir? May I talk with you?”
“Of course mercenary. Sit. You can peel those roots whilst you’re at it”. Grey eyes smiles over her saibu. Recognising a superior authority, Lukam grinned in return, admitted defeat, and set to work on the mound of tubers.
“What did you do just then? With the pebbles?”
“I cast the boundaries” she spoke as if that was all he needed to hear.
“And that means?”
“Ai, I forget at times you are Nation-born, mercenary” she settled back on her heels and looked afresh at him.

“The taught you of Toth, in the village where you were born?”
“I was raised to follow Toth, yes”.
“I sense something else though, in your tone. I would guess you spent time with the Sisters?”
“Eh, yes. Now you ask, the Sisters had the raising of me and my brother for a year or so after my mother took sick. Then I started Layishan and that side of thing sort of took the hind step”.
“So your understanding is of the Nation world. You know of this world and the next that follows. You were raised in a land where death follows birth and Spirit follows death in a clear line”.
“Yes”.
“In Chalman we see things a mite differently. Our lives are more… ‘circular’ – I use that Nation word, but it does not translate direct. For our purposes now it will serve. We acknowledge something beyond Spirit. Our name for it is ‘Sula’, which is closest to your ‘power’ I would think. Ah, I see from your eyes you have heard of Sula. From a Healer, perhaps?”
“Our healer for a term at Layishan was Chalman trained. His reputation was formidable”.
“I am not surprised. Not for nothing, the best healers on Kenmarkiu come out of the sands. But I stray from our point. Sula, power, ties us all to this world. It turns through us all, to differing degrees. It lets us do things your Nation tutors would have slandered as ‘magic’. Casting the boundaries like I just did is simply that. I set the limits to our camp. Oh, it will not be some impenetrable barrier, so hide your skeptiscm Rikart Lukam. It will simply let us know if people approach”.
“The words? You spoke… it sounded like a chant to me”.

“Counting words only, mercenary”. She raised a reassuring hand. “Worry not, I will try to refrain from corrupting you with my desert magic till we are well beyond the reach of Frenan witch hunters”.
“Why do you tell me this so freely?”
“You asked”. She smiled again over her saibu. “I am a Healer, Rikart Lukam. Part of the reasoning for my very existence is to impart knowledge. If a savage Northern blademan is all Ruad presents me with then, by the six tribes, I shall make the most of the opportunity”. She held her arms wide to the night sky for a moment then dropped, the moment of levity passed.

“Get some rest, mercenary. The boundaries are cast and are as safe as we can make them. Ne’el has first watch, then Rofan. You have third, so I suggest you sleep while you can. From here out our journeying is going to get a little more exciting. I would rather we had been further on our way, but we deal with the hand the fates have given us”. She rose to her feet gracefully, patted him on the shoulder, and took the basket of tubers to Kriss at the other side of the large fire.

Sunday Roast: I am just a bit undone

Oof. This hasn’t exactly been the best week ever in my life. Can I just say, IBS sucks? Those of you without it, thank your lucky stars! When an evening ends up with you being carted to the walk-in centre at nearly midnight by your poor landlord, you know things are pretty dire. Which leads me to a related rant about the idiocy of putting lactose in pills for IBS, when dairy is a very common trigger!

Stupid bloody drugs companies and stupid bloody pharmacist not checking before she gave me the prescription. I managed to find an alternative drug, but it is only designed for short-term intervention, not longer term like the one my GP proscribed. Once again, my body is its own worst enemy, and I shall be having to investigate alternative therapies. At least recent studies show peppermint oil is still effective. And to be fair, I would rather natural remedies over constant pill-popping, if I have a choice in the matter.

Thanks to Moose for this link (it happened during my gastro-intestinal hijinks, so I missed it): a church in Russia is stolen. How did they NOT notice it was getting smaller, day by day?!

Jane Eyre rates as one of my all-time favourite books and graphic novels are a format which intrigues me, so Jane Eyre, the graphic novel sounds absolutely lushious. Christmas is just round the corner, *hint hint* (the proper text version, not the simplified)

You’ve all seen Wall-E, right? Well, if you haven’t, the film is very good and the robot is just the avatar of adorability. But, is it possible, that Burn-E is cuter? He response at the end, and the other robot’s response to him… Awesome!

Why are authors so obsessed with their cats? [And yes, the blocked writer in me also wants a cat. Good to know in some things I am conventional]

Can’t find earrings you like? Make your own

I am having a graphic novel/geek binge this week, clearly. Well, these things happen. Yummy previews of new Coraline film

We’ve all read those books where, whatever happens, you KNOW the hero isn’t going to die. One recent book both Moose and I read (Six Sacred Stones) “killed” the main character in the middle of the book, gave him a miraculous escape, then cliff-hangered on another apparent “death”. Come on, we both shrieked independently as we reached the gripping climax. There’s no way the author would kill him off – he clearly lacks the balls and skill to continue the story without this pivot. So it pleases me to find authors willing to kill main characters off. (I am also reminded of the very start of Buffy the Vampire Slayer [tv], where one of the main circle of friends gets vamped in the first episode. Jos Whedon wanted to send the message that anything could happen in this show)

A beautiful short story to bring a lump to your throat: Little Gods

I want a FreakAngels tank. I don’t want to pay $30 in postage. *grumble grumble* (I also want the throw, but that I can rationalise less easily)

One for my brother – a movie of World War Z, the book which had the pair of us discussing the best weapons with which to survive a zombie apocalypse (and whether it is better to just give in to the inevitable or go down fighting)

Told you I was in a geek-phase: yummy looking Ignition City, the latest offering from Warren Ellis, is also wetting my tastebuds

Seven Pounds – it is not often I can watch a movie trailer these days and DON’T get the entire plot. But this one has hooked me

Cadillac Records – I’m a sucker for a movie with songs, I’ll admit it

And with this small, but perfectly formed Roast, I am going to down tools and head out into Oxford to see what lovely surprises Sainsburys has to offer. Joy!

I Am What I Am Not repost

The following is reposted from my back-up blog, BM2. Whilst it is not the most cheerful thing I have ever written, it is part of me, and it feels wrong not to have it in the proper archives.

What follows is one of those times when blogging for me really is therapy. Feel free to look away now.

All my adult like I have been struggling not to be defined by what happened when I was 14. I refuse to base my personality on some thing that happened because a doctor refused to make a house call. But, no matter how hard I fight not to be defined soley by what I don’t have – what got taken away; what I had no choice or control over – there is inescapably part of who I am now that is because of it. I am who I am, to some extent, because of what happened when I was 14 and all that followed after.

It is not a conscious decision exactly, but I am the type of adult I am because – possibly – the traditional female role as incubator of the next generation is denied me. Or at the very least made a lot less likely.

I never wanted kids. Even “Before” I never was one of those to play with dolls or to be the “mummy” when we played grown-ups. I identified with George in the Famous Five, not Anne. I went through puberty with the knowledge something was a little bit wonky with my insides and it affected my outlook more than a touch. I looked at alternate pathways. The alt-pathway is so much more fun so I’m not unduly upset, I will hasten to add. 2.4 still doesn’t hold much appeal.

I am trying to express something that is not all that clear to me. Do I say I don’t want kids because the biological chances are slimmer and I am in self preservation mode, or because I really don’t want kids?

Why am I thinking on this now?

Because after ten years I have finally wrested a diagnosis from the doctors and that diagnosis is PCOS.

I have been tottering around some sort of diagnosis for years, but for the past six months I have been undergoing the latest in a long (and slow) running barrage of tests and explorations all designed to ascertain really how fucked my reproductive system is. We know it is screwed at least halfway round the thread, but is it tightened all the way down, that is the question?

I was dreading actually getting a diagnosis. I couldn’t put my finger quite on why till I forced myself to realise it is because I am not sure I really want to know. Getting answers means – well – it means you have answers. An answer of “actually, all is normal and tickety boo” peversely would still throw me as much as a “you’re totally screwed Ms Kemp”, because the former means I have no excuse. “I can’t” is somehow more acceptable than “I don’t want”. “Don’t want” just makes people smirk knowingly and count down the days till you conceive. Plus, “don’t want” makes you look selfish. “Can’t” gets sympathy.

“Can’t” and “look at other options” are part of my identity now.

Much though I thought I would not define myself by a negative, I am defined in my own head partly by my (potential) inability to bear children. To be told I actually could would, bizarrely, take away a crutch and force me to reevaluate my self out of my comfortable hole. Then again, the alternate diagnosis of “oh shit…” is not exactly a comforting prospect either. “Oh Shit” forces you to deal with different problems. To have it confirmed means… I don’t know what it means.

Basically, ignorance is bliss but my mum told me to get to the bottom of the matter and I am a good girl, so I am doing as I am told. A tentative PCOS diagnosis two years ago was nice. The assorted symptoms fit and it explained a lot but didn’t confirm/deny anything so I was still in blissful limbo land. The doctor (and my mum) wanted a final set of scans to make sure.

So I got the first scan only to be told the “Oh shit” option.

Turns out? The “Oh Shit” isn’t much fun either. It is never a good sign when the radiologist goes silent and mutters “oh dear…” under her breath. Oh goes “Wow…” when measuring bits and pieces on the screen. Turns out a 6.5 cm cyst is not the best thing to have. What would have been nicer is that she could even have found the other ovary at all, but it is probably just very good at hiding.

That’s it. No “worry/don’t worry” just a “my Grandma, what big cysts you’ve got”, which completely looped me out. Of course the NHS website is very soothing about these things and logic dictates if it was seriously worrying I wouldn’t have to wait 6 weeks for a follow up, but even my basic understanding of biology leads me to think an unexplained lump 6.5 cm big anywhere in your body is not a good thing to have.

At the end of the first scans I was further down the Oh Shit branch of reasoning and – you know what? – it is not that comforting after all to have a decade of suspicion reinforced. It would have been nice to have it all over-turned and be forced to reevaluate myself as a “have options” girl instead of firm up the “no chance” argument. Save me from pity. Save me from myself. Save me from my brain hurtling round my head at a gazillion miles, with none of the stations it is likely to stop at looking particularly inviting. I am making a mountain out of a (fairly) large cyst, I know that, but experience tells me to plan for the worst. I am reaching hatch-battening time and dear god I think it is going to be a big storm.

I got the results of the second scan and, as expected, PCOS is where things are at. All things considered, it was more a storm in an extra-large Starbucks mug than anything else. Still stormy, but it could have been one hell of a lot worse.

All the way through I was convinced that ignorance and “who the frack knows what is going on in there?” were bliss. I would rather have kept at the guessing stage than the whirlygig my thoughts and emotions have been on lately. But now I actually do know what is going on, I am rather comforted. As there was never any chance of a “you are normal” diagnosis, the diagnosis I have been handed is about as “nice” as could have been expected. On the scary scale we are talking a PG as opposed to a full on straight-to-video 18+ it could have been.

Labeling things is so very satisfying I find. Once you name something, you set limits on it, make it definable, approachable, surmountable.

I can see a way forward now. I know my options and I know what I have to do. At the same time I don’t like it confirmed that from now on I am the girl without her health. My body is making it very hard to be anything other than the girl who defines herself by what she hasn’t got. I am rapidly becoming the girl I never wanted to be. The girl who others pity. Seriously, if I was a dog you would have had me put out of my misery by now!

I saw the speech therapist the other week and we got to the bit of the consultation where you have to list your medical history. Ten minutes and several pages of notes later, she said “My, that’s quite a lot to have happened in one so young” followed by her being annoyingly (but sweetly) sympathetic and asking if I had had counseling to help. Actually, I have. She asked me if I was angry. I was.

For the longest time I was very, very angry at the doctors, at myself, at the universe, at my family, at everyone. But anger just takes it out of you and now it it is just the situation I have to deal with. Things could be worse, things could be better. Things just are. Why waste your time wishing things were different? This is the life you have to live so you might as well get on and enjoy it.

She says, over and over, because saying something often enough will make it come true.

I have PCOS. Many people have it worse than me. It turns out that the assorted medications I could take to help are, for one reason or another, not suitable for me. Which is a state of affairs that doesn’t surprise me if I am being honest, because I never was one to make it easy on myself. So I am left with lifestyle change and a future that is just so depressingly healthy.

I think that is what is bugging me most now. Oh, for a magic pill I could take to make everything all right and that would let me keep on living life (and eating) as I want to live life and eat. But there is no magic pill. I need to take responsibility for myself, depressingly grown-up though that sounds.

*shrug* It’s all character building, right? If nothing else it means I have things to write about on the blog.

*update*
I’ve got some amazing and touching responses to this post – thank you.
If you’re worried you might have PCOS, you have PCOS or you know someone who does, I would recommend you talk to a healthcare professional. There are also lots of very good support groups out there such as Verity in the UK and these in the US.
If you want to talk to me, but don’t want to leave a public comment, please feel free to email me on cas.brightmeadow[at]gmail.com