Organised, Disorganised or Unbalanced?

Fathers Day, Mothers Day and perhaps Valentine's Day offer a fantastic insight as to whether you are an 'Organised person' or a 'Disorganised person'. Or an opportunity to prove just how Unbalanced you are and have a total melt down.

My mum commented today that she is fascinated that there were people in the supermarket this afternoon, flicking through whatever cards are still available on the shelves, when they have known this celebratory day has been in the calendar all year. Clearly her disbelief proves that she is an organised person. Organised people don't understand Disorganised people.

Organised people plan ahead for these days. They carefully choose just the right card, with an appropriate picture and oh-so-personal words that will  evoke exactly the right sentiment, humour or abuse appropriate for their loved ones.

Organised people set aside time to consider a choice of gifts, and perhaps even compare prices while wandering round the shops on a day of shopping that has most certainly required A List.  Organised people always have A List. Or perhaps, the modern version of organised, where they peruse multiple websites, allowing plenty of time for their gift to be despatched and delivered ahead of the calendar-marked day.

Organised people will already have a choice of wrapping papers, cello-tape (in a handy dispenser), and if required, a packet of stamps in their purse or wallet.

Organised people are brilliant. I want to be one.

Then there are Disorganised people. I know quite a few of these, and I have to say as a sweeping generalisation, that many of them are men. Disorganised people don't understand Organised people. They don't see the point.

Disorganised people embrace, and often celebrate that cards and gifts are purchased at the last possible minute. An absolute maximum of celebration minus 48 hours, (more likely minus 2 hours).

Disorganised people buy a card and gift that is 'exactly' what the recipient wants. Even if in reality it's nothing that person would have even thought about wanting, the Disorganised person won't feel the need to worry about it because they will have convinced themselves at the point of purchase, that the fact the items are are a) in front of them, b) within an acceptable price bracket and c) gender appropriate or neutral, means they have chosen wisely and can move on with their day.

Disorganised people will usually remember to buy wrapping paper too. Even if they have 15 other half used rolls and sheets at home, it's best to get some more.

Disorganised people are brilliant and worry free. I want to be one.

And then there are Unbalanced people. Me, of course.

It's fair to say that I fluctuate between the organised and disorganised camps. I have a very strong desire to be organised. I even sometimes write lists. I rarely complete all the activities but I'm fine with that.

And I'm not unthoughtful. I THINK about the presents I want to buy for even longer than organised people spend shopping. I just might not make that essential purchase until the last minute.

My Fathers Day experience this year...
My mum's birthday is two weeks before Fathers' Day, so in a fit of 'watch how organised I can be!' I ordered personalised Funky Pigeon cards for my husband and my dad, 3 weeks in advance.

Suitably happy and proud of myself I set about the long-term present choosing thought process. I even somehow managed to  make a decision, go to the right shops and have gifts in my hands with 72 hours to spare.

I didn't seek out wrapping paper because I remembered that only a few weeks before I had bought suitable paper and there was enough left over for the size of presents just bought.

Smug smile, I am (for once) Little Miss Organised (along with my Little Miss Tidy achievement from last week I am excelling myself).

Until the day comes to go visit my Dad. Now, where did I put those cards? Seriously, where the fuck did I put those cards?

You know when perspective goes out of the window? I had a total melt down. I turned the house upside down. I looked in the same places at least 20 times. I made my husband and child look in all those places, while I followed them round watching them do it. No amount of my husband saying 'just get another one' would stop me. In my head this was a symbol of everything that is wrong with my Unbalanced life. I just HAD to find them.

And the end of the story is that I didn't find them. I still have absolutely no idea where they are. I had to join the Disorganised people in Tesco, to panic buy any card. But I took with me an utter frustration and self loathing that I had qualified for the Organised person Olympics, in the run up to the race. And then fell flat on my face just before the finish line.

So there we have it. Whether you are an Organised or Disorganised person, this Unbalanced person is jealous of you. Because whether you bought a card two weeks or two hours in advance, you know where your fucking card is.

I love you. But do I like you?

When I first meet someone, a new friend, partner, work colleague, whatever, I ponder 'do I like them?'. I assess their characteristics: Are they a nice person? Do they make me laugh? Do I enjoy their company? Do we have things in common? And so on.

But when they have been part of my life for a while, like a few years or decades, I stop thinking about it. By then I assume I must just love them - love them enough to keep them in my life rather than just let them drift away.

So I've been thinking... If you've loved someone for years, or you are family, does love replace like?  And is that OK? Whether that's your partner, your sibling or your best friend, do you ever stop to think 'do I still like them?' or even perhaps, 'do they still like me?'!

When we love someone do we take for granted the things that we once noticed as good characteristics? I think that just possibly, as time goes on, we are more prone to notice and acknowledge their faults and the things that niggle us. I'm pretty sure that if a made a tally chart of the times me and my husband comment on each others' flaws, vs the times we point out each others brilliance, the flaws list would be just a touch longer. I doubt we'd need a recount to be sure.

This week me and my Unbalanced Man went on a date. Just us. It's a rare thing. Usually the need to get a babysitter means we've been driven by a specific reason - an invitation to a party or night out with others. Very rarely do we make a conscious decision to spend sociable time out of the house with each other. Only each other.

And let's be totally honest, on a normal night - mid week or weekend - when we reach that special time where it's just the two of us, we don't set the table, light a candle, pour a glass of wine and debate the deep and meaningful topics of life. Don't be ridiculous. We plop a plate on a tray table (you know those ones with the bean bag thing underneath), choose something to watch on TV and act like we're on Gogglebox.

Other than comments about our chosen TV programme, the sum our our conversation post kid bedtime is not much more than three questions and answers:
1. Q: How was your day?  
    A: Busy.
2. Q: What shall we watch?
    A: Whatever, you choose.
3. Q: Are you making a brew or what?
    A: Sigh... Yep

So do we actually still like each-other? I know I love him, I know I appreciate lots of the things he does and I know that we're a good partnership. But, that's all a bit grown up and a bit practical.

Then.... date night. Suddenly I become acutely aware that our conversation will probably need to run past the usual 20 or so words (Yes, I did just count them).

I found myself getting giddy on the train into town, telling stories from my day and talking about plans for the weekend and I actually paused and thought, 'slow down crazy girl, we've got all night to talk. Don't say everything now or we might run out of things to say later.'

Is that bad? I was actually sort of nervous. I know that's ridiculous, but in a weird way it was also exciting because it turns out that we did have plenty to talk about. And before you get suspicious, it wasn't all about planning the practical stuff we need to do next week, or the typical parent cliche of talking about our kid all night. We just talked. Not about anything in particular, just about stuff. And that's when I remembered how much I LIKE him. Truth be told, I've never even stopped liking him, I just forgot to think about it for a while. Perhaps that's a good, comfortable, natural progression, or perhaps it's a little sad.

We came out of the restaurant to find a bar with a live band playing and immediately knew that was what we both wanted to do. Because we have things in common! There it was. Just like being on a first date, I was assessing him all over again and I LIKED him. We find it easy to talk, to make each other laugh, to be nice to each-other.

Even better...... later, I got lucky!
We might even go on another date soon.

Will I turn into my Mother?

They say it's inevitable that a girl will turn into her mother. Good God that's scary.

If it's true then I'd better get my finger out, because I've got work to do.

If it's true, then I'll become the most loving, thoughtful and generous woman I know.
I'll be able to mend clothes, bake great cakes and get any stain out of anything.
(Seriously, she can do that!)
I'll know the best treatment for every childhood illness.
I'll be a wise but humble woman and a fiercely loyal friend.
I'll remember birthdays, anniversaries and all those little things that are important to others.
I'll be fun to be with but also happy to be on my own, in my garden, with a book.
Oh and I'll be an amazing gardener who knows the names of plants and trees and birds (the proper names, not just 'that one with the red leaves')
I'll be polite enough to meet the queen, but those close to me will hear me prove I know all the rude words too.
I'll be a spelling and punctuation nazi, and even pull a pen out of my bag to correct graffiti on a public toilet door.
I'll be an amazing grandma, and my grandchildren will look forward to seeing me, especially as I'll always have a freezer full of the best ice-cream known to man.
And I'll always, ALWAYS, drop everything the second my (grown up) baby needs me.

Fuck, that's a lot to live up to!

If I ever manage to get close to being as wonderful as my mum, my son should feel very lucky indeed.

#UnbalancedRoleModel

Sleeping Through

Why can't I sleep through the night? We put so much emphasis on getting our kids to, but surely the point is that we don't want them to wake us up. 

Selfish? Perhaps. I don't care if it is - sleep is important to me. Really fucking important. I can't remember the last time I got a full night's sleep. 

But my sleep-depriving enemy is no longer my child, it's Little Miss Bladder.

This is the conversation I have with her every frickin night...

Oh god, not again. Why can't you sleep through?

It's OK, go back to sleep.
Don't wake me up properly.
Don't make me get up.
Just lie still and go back to sleep.

If I ignore you I can get back to sleep.
(Don't look at the clock)
If I get up now I'll wake everyone else up.
(Definitely don't look at the clock)
If I do, and it's too close to when I normally get up, I'll never get back to sleep. My mind will fill with everything I need to do today and then that's it. Game over.

If I get up now...
1. I'll have to do that thing where I creep about slowly with my eyes half open, in the dark, not putting any lights on, and you know that's dangerous near the top of the stairs.
2. I'll have to do my special dance across the landing like El Macho in Despicable Me, avoiding the creaky floorboards, so I don't disturb anyone else
3. I'll have to decide if it's better to flush and risk waking everyone, or leave it and allow them to confront my wee in their half awake state.

You can do this Bladder. Holding it together is what you're all about. In fact you're a role model for others. You're normally so strong. Or you used to be.

Remember that time on the motorway when the traffic was so slow, so I sang to the radio, and you made me dance in my seat, wiggling from bum cheek to bum cheek because somehow that helped you. We were in it together and you didn't let me down.

Remember we've been through labour together too... No that wasn't you that 'leaked'. That was that pesky cervix neighbour of yours who opened up too soon and then made me feel like I was constantly weeing for the last two weeks of my pregnancy. YOU were brilliant.

Stay strong now darling. You can do it. Let's just not think about it. I'll turn over slowly and we can forget you ever even stirred. .

No, now don't start that. Don't threaten to turn on the water works to get what you want.

Oh fuck it, come on then.

Eyes closed. El Macho landing dance. Still DONT LOOK at the clock.

Bladder, you're a bitch sometimes. But I'm glad I've got you. And actually I'm glad you wake me up rather than the alternative.

So, just like a small child waking me in the night, I love you and I'm happy to get up to answer your cries.

I just wish you had a snooze button.

Literally Unbalanced

Hypothetical question:
Due to illness you are told that you need to do less and rest more, you can probably only manage 80% of what you did before the illness. Would you:
   A. Cut down your work hours, and therefore your salary
   B. Spend the weekend resting at the expense of family time
   C. Make like an ostrich, stick your head in the sand and pretend you can still be Wonder Woman (until you collapse).

This is the question I'm currently battling with, and the reason I started writing as Unbalanced Woman. It's become a sort of therapy - a way to get thoughts out of my head and make sense of them. A way to accept that I'm not Wonder Woman and stop (try to stop) feeling guilt about it.

(If you're interested in what's wrong with me you can read What's wrong with the miserable bitch anyway? below - but I'm giving you the option to skip the moaning parts and get straight to the point)

Here's the point... Illness or not, do lots of women battle with this conundrum? I know I did before I was poorly. I can name so many Wonder Women in my life who struggle to manage everything they want to do, think they have to do, feel they don't have choices. Is this part of the female make up?

This is probably illustrating that I have so far been attempting Option C - refusing to admit that I am not Wonder Woman. Of course I covet her figure, her graceful running ability and her sparkly knickers. Who doesn't? But Wonder Woman is also a Super Hero. She can sort out the world, do the right thing, make everything better, and of course with glossy hair and full make-up every minute of every day. She's like a modern day Facebook thread. You'd never see her posting photos of her losing the battle with the bad guys because she's got a phone in one hand, a child on her hip and wearing old, elasticated-waist pants because her lycra body suit is still in the wash.

Well this Wonder Woman is admitting defeat. I've tried. God I've really tried. But I'm knackered. I'm fucked. I'm crying. Is this the point where something has to give? But again.... what?

I still can't shake the feeling that being poorly is an 'excuse'. That I need to get over it. People talk about 'invisible illness' being so hard to explain to others, but actually it's so hard to explain to myself. I have got into a habit of saying "Last year I got dizzy. I still get a bit tired some days" - soft, non-threatening words to gloss over a problem and move on.

My Neuro Physiotherapist (who knew they even exist?) is a wonderful lady with a heart of gold, a wicked sense of humour and some hard truths. Her tough love is just what I've needed. She says the only way I will face up to what's really happening is if I start being honest about it. She has urged me to start to tell people that I've had, and I quote, "a horrendous brain dysfunction" and actually also makes me say "not had, but have" - present tense, because - and this is the hard bit - I'm not better. I'm significantly better than I was a year ago, but I'm not fully 'recovered'. I might never be.

That shit is hard to say because it's hard to accept. If I say it, it means I believe it. It means it's true.

I'm trying it out, I've said it to a few people but it's so dramatic and it turns into a longer, more invasive talk. Whilst I'm a confident person, this type of attention actually makes me squirm and I just want to go back to being a Wonder Woman impersonator, using my metalic wristbands to deflect any uncomfortable sympathy.

But again it makes me think... we all do it. All the time. A woman who feels like she should have cartoon-style match sticks holding her eye lids open will typically say "Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit tired. Anyway how are you, you look amazing!" and then order a triple shot coffee and anything with sugar in it.

Deflect. Cope. Crack on. (Crack up?)

Can I change? I think I have to. I'm told by everyone that my health comes first. Perhaps I need to listen. But why didn't I listen before I became ill? Why don't any of us?

I'm really trying to lift my head out of the sand. Perhaps I can do it bit by bit - be an ostrich but wearing sparkly knickers and shiny wristbands.

Now there's a picture I like. Can someone draw that for me? I think that would help!

x

What's wrong with the miserable bitch anyway?.....
I year ago I started feeling dizzy. Just for a few minutes here and there. I remember the first instance was in the shower and I had to hold the walls to finish getting washed. It was a really weird sensation.

As the days and weeks went on it happened more and more often so I went to the doctor. Assured that dizziness was almost always an ear infection or low blood pressure I continued putting up with it. But when I got worse and worse and it became clear that it was neither. A couple of MRI scans and visits to a Neuro Consultant, I was diagnosed with a 'Vestibular Dysfunction' which means that my brain had forgotten how to balance properly and had to work much harder to keep me upright.

It's relatively new in terms of understanding it, which is why it's hard to explain what's wrong and when I need help. But I'll try.

Where our brains normally scan our surroundings and 'orientate' to judge space and distance, my brain will respond to all movements by becoming disorientated - whether that is me moving, or things moving around me. So I could sit still, in an room where nothing else was moving and feel fine. But if I walk, go to a busy place or even watch 'action' on TV, my brain gets confused.

The same for 'scanning' with my eyes. So reading and shopping (looking around for things) can completely throw me. Even now.

In the past I have described my symptoms as like being permanently drunk. At my worst I would wake up feeling like I'd had about three glasses of wine - a bit floaty and not too confident in myself. I'd be able to walk, but not too quickly, and certainly not drive. As the day went on, it was like adding several shots of tequila - feeling like I should sit down and be looked after until someone could take me home and put me to bed. At worst, it's like being in a washing machine or on the waltzers and even when lying down with my eyes shut, I can't get off the ride.

Lots of people said that feeling permanently drunk must feel fantastic - cheap date etc, but it's also like having a hangover at the same time. And sometimes I will look like I've been drinking - I'll walk unsteadily, needing to hold on to things. I've heard of others becoming quite reclusive because they are scared to be in pubic in case they fall or people judge them for daytime drunken behaviour.

I considered wearing a T-shirt saying "I'm not a drunk, I've got a vestibular dysfunction", but no one knows what that means anyway.

I've been very lucky to be referred to an expert Consultant and Neurological Physio who have helped me to retrain my brain, eyes and vestibular system to balance me again. I have great understanding of my triggers which means I can avoid certain activities and I know when I need to rest.

As I say, I'm not recovered, but I'm doing really well and I'm incredibly grateful for the progress I've made. I know there are many, many others who have not had the same support and have to cope with life on long term medication just to manage the nausea.

TV Voiceover... If you have been affected by any of the issues covered is this blog, you may find this website useful:
http://vestibular.org/understanding-vestibular-disorder

All I never wanted

It's 10 years this week since I met the man who is now my husband. Taking a walk down memory lane, I've realised that meeting that ginger fecker was the event that set me off on the road to my unbalanced life, and actually put me into counselling.

Prior to our meeting I was single and career driven. I'd just sold my flat in Edinburgh and moved to a grown up house with a garden and a drive. I was proud of myself - of my independence, and that I didn't need a bloody man. My friends were getting married and having children and disappearing off the planet to a world I neither understood nor cared for. Who in the hell wanted that traditional, boring happily ever after. I wanted my independence, adventure and definitely no kids.

Then... I took a trip 'home' to Manchester to go bridesmaids' dress shopping with a couple of friends (there was an actual wedding, we're not weird). We went back to her house and I donned my new underwear bought to go with the dress. Walking into the kitchen I announced, "Look at my tits in this!", only to be greeted by the crooked smile of an unexpected ginger bloke.

Time will tell that this meeting was apparently set up, though clearly not the discussion about my tits.

I know it's ridiculous, but I just knew. I knew that night that something significant was happening. I won't say love at first sight, because it certainly wasn't love that first struck me, it was embarrassment. And a desire to shift attention away from my fun bags. Even if they were beautifully presented in my new well-structured scaffolding - fate occasionally does play us a nice card.

Suddenly we had a summer of love mapped out, travelling up and down the M6 and being each other's Plus 1 at a ridiculous amount of weddings.


And even more suddenly (it seemed) my whole outlook on life changed. I don't know if it was the excitement of a long distance relationship, the constant drip of 'happiness' from those weddings or just the fact that he was ginger, but now I wanted to be like Cinderella. I wanted that happily ever after. With him. I wanted his Ginger Babies.

That was the real beginning. As soon as I said that out loud, whilst drunk at yet another wedding, it started. We were looking for a house, I was resigning from my job and saying goodbye to my career-woman life in Scotland.

Writing it down now, and with the benefit of Captain Hindsight, I can see how significant that was. But at the time I couldn't understand why I was so emotionally drained and feeling sad. I was soooo happy. I had found a man who was worth changing everything for. I'd managed to transfer my job to work from Manchester and I was back living in my old stomping ground near my family and friends who I'd always stayed close to. What the hell was wrong with me. Why did I keep crying?

I know now that I was mourning my old 'attitude'. It wasn't the physical things that were changing that bothered me, but my mental approach to life - the whole self-sufficient 'I don't belong to anyone' confidence that I'd built up over the previous decade.

The idea of marriage and changing my name had always felt so old fashioned and ridiculous. But now I wanted it. I wanted to be his family.

The idea of having kids and being with them all the fricking time, except maybe a monthly, 'yes I'll come, but I'll have to leave by ten-thirty, and I'll probably drive' night out, had horrified me. But now I wanted it. I was ready to move on from my old existence, to give it all up.

I felt that I had betrayed... Me.

(Bizarrely, at the very moment I wrote that sentence, Simply Red just came on the radio singing "I'd give it all up for you". That's really freaked me out!)

And so off to the doctors I trotted and he referred me to a wonderful woman called Susan who helped me to understand it all.

Understand it.
Embrace it.
Live it.

Of course I didn't change completely and become a 1950's wife, cleaning house while whistling a Disney tune. Although I do sometimes wish that the birds from my garden would fly in and help me tie bows around my curtains - and I don't even have curtains!

I'm still me. I'm still fiesty. I'm still fiercely independent in my views. But with room beside me for my new family. They define part of me, but not the whole me. I'm proud to be a wife and a mother - labels that previously made me shudder. Now I wear them with pride alongside my many other labels assigned to me.

So looking back on the last 10 years, a lot has changed. They say everyone hates change, but it's usually physical change. I managed to make a mental one and I'm a bit proud of myself. If I hadn't I wouldn't have the life I do now. Yes, it's unbalanced. Yes it's tiring. But I couldn't imagine what life would be otherwise - if I didn't meet that unexpected ginger man with the crooked smile, or had my beautiful ginger boy with.... well there's a million things that are wonderful about him.

Having All-I-Never-Wanted is the happiest I've ever been.

Thank you for the last 10 year darling. You rocked my world - and you still do.
(sick buckets allowed).

Xxx

(I have cried all the way through writing this!)

Binge Friend-ing

Just like drinking, these days I don't see my friends as often as I used to, but when I do, I do it 'properly'.

Like many women of a certain age, I felt like I grew up with Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. The Sex and the City ladies were a bit older than me and so watching them, I was guided into a lovely security that my own circle of friends would easily be able to stay close, meeting for dinner or drinks or even a posh breakfast at least once a week. Forever.

As the series and their lives progressed that never waivered. They welcomed their kids into the four-some's social engagements, but that never distracted from the conversation about relationships, sex (once sensitively renamed 'colouring') and other intimate details of their glamorous existences. They even strolled down streets together afterwards, in their posh shoes, to complete any unfinished conversations. Such, I assumed, would be the reality of my long standing friendships with MY girls in my thirties and forties. 

Let's re-examine that...

Getting my group of girls together in the same place, at the same time, ideally without children, is like trying to reunite the actual cast and crew of Friends.

There are text messages spanning about two weeks as we first try to find a Saturday night when everyone is free. When we've moved three months through our diaries we typically declare it a ridiculous state of affairs and try for a Friday (less ideal due to the number of Saturday morning clubs that require an early morning chauffeur).

Recently, we moved through Saturdays, Fridays and Thursdays, Sunday lunches and Saturday brunches, before finally landing on a Wednesday for a curry, in six weeks time.

I mean, to coin a regularly used phrase, for fucks sake. A frigging Wednesday! But that, it seems, is the life of Unbalanced Women who may work late, who have Unbalanced Men who work late or who have children who have clubs and commitments that turn us into their P.A., chauffeur and late night chef.

Of course I see some friends one at a time for a quick brew or even one of those coveted posh breakfasts (they're actually my favourite). Even better than that is seeing friends who live far away, and you travel to get together for 24 hours or more. Now that is a full-on friendship binge.

In preparation for such an indulgent appointment I find myself making a mental agenda of things I need to ask them about. Who am I kidding? I sometimes write an actual agenda of topics. I never wear Carrie-style posh heels, but I do add a bit of lippy because it feels like a special 'date'.

Time always flies as I try to tick off my agenda as we tangent off to a million topics eventually returning to the original thread after musing "...why are we talking about fridges anyway?". And we're usually both clock-watching to make sure we're not getting dangerously close to missing our next allotted commitment, which we can of course still get to on time if the waiter brings the bill and the card machine RIGHT NOW.

But seeing my Girl Gang is important to me, and that's why I Binge Friend when we eventually meet. I want to drink in as much as I can and soak up their stories and the wonderful flow of easy conversation, jokey insults and safe judgement of others.

And the added beauty of Binge Friending is that, just like binge drinking, there are usually lots more messages the morning after, to thank everyone for a lovely evening and to comment on our favourite memories and funny stories. But there's never anyone saying 'never again'. Unless of course that Clare was in charge of pouring the wine!