Hoarding, Hypnosis and seeing Rose.

On Waiheke, December 2012.

Hoarding, Hypnosis and Happy.

December 23^rd 2012

I’m exhausted in that way that makes me wonder if a giant Octopus Man enslaved me for the night for purposes of labour. I feel I have been dragging stones under the sea to build his castle. He then convinced me that I was dreaming (like a strange Derren Brown hypnosis experiment with a somnambulist) and quickly dried my hair with one of his many tentacled hands before returning me to the land lubbing world. I awaken feeling annoyed and bloaty faced, limbs aching.

The best thing to do is whack on one of my hypnosis tracks (I’ve made up quite a few) and shift some of the weight from my shoulders and mind. Even a minimal shift can have such an incredible impact on the rest of the day. What hypnosis really comes down to is changing your mental and physical state enough that you’re able to access the subconscious more easily. It’s outside of belief systems and yet can easily include them.

My work has finished up for the year, and now I’m going to divide much of the next four or five weeks between visiting mum and my beloved on Waiheke. I’ve been helping mum to do some cleaning and sorting as she’s a hoarder and it’s been a bit out of hand for about 15 years. I realise it’s an issue of on-going loss, unresolved issues, of grief, so it’s not as simple as barking “have a garage sale”. I am also of the hoarding tendency but am doing my best to ‘break the cycle’, ha ha!

When I lived in Korea I downloaded the ‘Hoarders’ series from America and studied the way the psychologist and cleaning specialist would tackle the problem with each person. These Hoarders were of a different order. They make my mum’s piles of boxes, clothes, magazines and avalanches of mail look quite manageable. These were the Hoarders of America whose homes were often more like dumping grounds, sedimentary layers of rotting pumpkin and dead cat amidst the valuables. I would watch it and notice how the severe hoarders who succeeded in cleaning and maintaining the environment were the ones who admitted they needed help on the mental and emotional levels. They got this help and it had to be on-going.

Those who said things like “I need a bigger house”, or “my husband/sister/daughter/whoever is storing things here too you know!” were the ones who could have lived in a ten bedroom mansion and still filled it with an assortment of treasure and trash by the end of a year. The ones filled with bitterness and self pity, who blamed others and claimed that expired food was ‘absolutely fine’ were unlikely to change. They were the ones losing their health, their families, their minds. Denial only seems to lead to a living death.

 Most hoarders have a form of obsessive compulsive disorder or some other issue stemming from anxiety or depression.  Watching those shows fills me with a mixture of sadness, hope and horrified excitement. There’s a strange car crash feeling to seeing someone living like that, especially when they are often intelligent, articulate and attractive.

Mum and I watched the one about a British man, Richard Wallace. There’s a clip on Youtube showing how out of control the hoarding had become. He lived like a mole, burrowing furtively under the small gaps left under the tops of doorways, sliding over the newspapers he hoped to one day archive. The only thing that really helped was the kindness and patience of the local landscaper. The psychologist wouldn’t help because Richard said it wasn’t a mental problem, it was a storage problem.

The gardener offered to do a big clean up in the garden and asked locals to help out. They cleaned up tonnes (literally) of rubbish and in the process Richard’s heart was softened. He felt cared for and connected to the community instead of judged and picked on. Even though he was still in denial, the gardener persisted. As they looked at the paper and rubbish piled high on the inside of the front door, Richard wept to think of how horrified his mother would be if she were still alive. It was then he could admit he had a mental problem.

I would like to watch more of those Hoarder programmes again; I get really inspired regarding the right approach to take when someone is not well mentally and finding it impossible to order their environment. Although hypnosis may not be ideal for severe mental disorders and addictions, it can be a very effective tool, and I’m going to experiment with myself in terms of increasing order and clarity in my environment.

In fact, you could now say my life is going to be one big hypnosis and healing experiment!

Things are going well with my Love. When I say ‘going well’, I mean that it is perfectly imperfect. If you are truly falling in love, honestly seeing the person in front of you rather than some projected fantasy, then discussing whatever fears or hopes arise is incredibly empowering. I am still quite amazed that we've finally found each other. I'm spending Christmas with mum, then I'm going to My Love's place a day or so after that for a lovely catch up.

When I last visited him, I knew I was going to bump into Rose that weekend. You may recall that I had a friendship come to it's completion at the end of last year. 'Rose'  lives on Waiheke, and it's a small place so I knew that I'd see her soon enough.  I'd seen her twice in traffic, two days in a row the week prior and realised that the angels were lining things up in order to be dealt with.

At Enclosure Bay, processing a complicated situation inside my head.

My Love had to work on one of the days I was visiting, and so I went to Enclosure Bay for a swim. I'd intended to go to Little Palm (Nudey) beach originally, but this inner voice kept whispering that it would be better to go to Enclosure Bay. As I approached I saw that the only people there were a family, all looking out to sea, languid. I recognised Rose's sister and thought "oh shit, what do I do?". Then I  decided this must be the right time to say hello. Instead of turning around and going to another beach, I boldly approached, smiling and saying hello. Her mum, sisters, nephews were all friendly. From behind our sunglasses Rose and I could not reach each others eyes, and so safely we smiled and conducted around two minutes of small talk.  Lying next to her was a large man. "Is this your partner?" I asked rather nosily, blurting it out in true ADD style.

"Oh yeah," she said, as he sat up groggily in the heat to shake my hand,

and introduced us. He had a really nice face, a good hand shake.

They wished me merry Christmas, I commented on how much her nephews had grown. I walked away, around the bay, feeling strange. 

I couldn't help but go over the whole scenario from the end of last year. I was severely depressed and begged to stay one night with her on Waiheke to lift my spirits. I felt so sad and fragile, but she refused and told me she would be busy 'right up till next year'. Fortunately Lisa of the North welcomed me with open arms, and the difference was glaring.

A few weeks after this, there was a misunderstanding about when we were meeting for dinner, and even when I apologised repeatedly, she ignored emails and texts and then deliberately stood me up for dinner. She texted me five minutes before we were supposed to meet to say she was not meeting me. That was the night I reunited with Lou and Becky from schooldays. When I told them what happened they shook their heads with a grim smile and said I was better off without her. 

I walked around the rocks, swam, fell asleep on a vintage table cloth I'd scored at the Waiheke Markets for $1. I realised something. I thought I was always helping Rose. Sometimes I really was. Yet in all the years of allowing her to treat me in ways that were thoughtlessly unkind, I was not actually helping her at all. I was behaving as if it were okay for her to demand more of me than was actually possible. Whenever there were misunderstandings, I had to apologise enough for all the hurts ever incurred, hurts that were not my responsibility. She even told me I was lying once, when I told her how I was feeling. If someone can't allow you to have your own feelings, then I guess it's because they're afraid of their own. My Christmas wish for her is that she will face her feelings and take responsiblity for them so that she's able to have loving and trusting relationships. 

Such a different Christmas this year! Hope you celebrate in a way that is enjoyable, creates more peace, more love and more yumminess! Love, Candice. x

Thank you Angels, for the love in my life.

On Waiheke, evening falls.

Clothes ... and changes.

Clothes

My favourite game as a child was dress ups. Mum would sometimes let me wear her shoes during my experiments.  She had these amazing red patent leather platforms, and all of her shoes fit me perfectly when I was around 10. Her feet are tiny. Her cork soled wedges were too high for me to balance on, but the leather uppers were hand painted with small pink roses. Mum still has these shoes. She let go of a lot of things in the 80’s, and in the 90’s I took all of her 70’s stuff that I could fit and wore it till it fell apart . I ended up giving Tamasin one of the best dresses mum wore in the late 70’s  because I couldn’t fit it anymore. She looked amazing in it, but then, she’s so beautiful that she could wear any old crap and still look cute.

I’m thinking about clothes a lot right now because of all the changes that are occurring.  In the 90’s I wore quite a lot of polyester. This seems unbearable now, but in my 20’s I had a vast collection of 70’s frocks and it was rare that you’d have seen me wearing jeans. As a teenager, I was not one of those privileged North Shore girls who flicked their (very straight or spiral permed) hair and spent their considerable pocket money on a nice pair of $300 Zambezi shorts. I couldn’t take part in conversations where someone was saying “oh god, I know I shouldn’t have, but I had to have it!” about some linen skirt in Cuntry Rd or Esprit.  I wanted something that was magical and fun to wear, something that took me to another place. As much as I appreciated the costumes of punk and goth, I didn’t want to commit to one ‘brand’ in the way I looked. I enjoyed op shopping more and more,  finding cheap frocks from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s (which was still possible in the 80’s) and pairing them with boots. I felt like Anne of Green Gables and Kate Bush combined.

By the time I was 22 my wardrobe was so varied that it looked like several different people must have shared it. I liked classy things. I liked slutty things. I liked funny things. I liked hats, big earrings, plunging necklines, short skirts, long socks. From the time I was around 22 to 25 I lived in a fantastic oversized flat on Mt Eden Rd. It was positioned above an Op Shop, a pie shop, and next door to a whorehouse.  Living above the op shop meant I often grabbed amazing things before anyone else could, and I once scored a lime green crotched skirt and matching cardigan. The best thing I ever got was a large creepy doll from the 1950’s. She cost me $3. I love her, I like to think that she’s a protective energy, that she might scare away thieves and naughty ghosts.

 When I moved out of the Mt Eden Rd flat, I gave so much stuff to that Op shop that they asked me to stop; they were running out of room. In the night I would sneak down and put another bag of stuff outside their door and hope that someone would walk past and take it.

These days I’ve only just figured out how to wear silk. I found a couple of amazing vintage silk shirts this year, but they’re so ‘good’ that I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to wear them. One morning I threw one on over a singlet and knew I’d finally figured it out. Layers and casual. The shirt might have cost a shit load originally, but since I only paid $4 for it, I’m wearing it with the ease of an old t shirt. What’s amazing about silk is that when I sweat it doesn’t show up! This must be something all those silk experts know, but was new to me. I also have an incredible cream (vintage Thorton Hall) silk nightie that I’m gonna wear like it’s a rag from K Mart. No more ‘saving’ things. I bet that’s how I’ve got these things in such good condition. Someone kept saving it for good, and then they died. This nightie is long. It reaches the ground and it’s like walking in a waterfall of  thick liquid cream. I wore it around and then to bed last night, and I’m sure I slept better for it. Now I’m full of half formed plans to buy ugly silk shirts and make them into pillow cases.

I scored a Helen Cherry silk slip with cute pockets from Dressmart for $10 yesterday. It’s got a really lovely pattern on it, and although it’s not sexy, I couldn’t resist the fabric. The way things feel makes such a difference.

Scored lots of excellent baby clothes too. I touch them and imagine a baby wearing them with its soft skin and inability to know where they start and something else begins. Ti is looking really pregnant, and Tam’s womb fruit popped out in early October. The Painter and Miss Monday are back together and I’m wishing them well! The sexy ex has a new lover. Rob got an amazing contract for his business. Things are changing. Friends are having babies, travelling or starting courses of study or courses in Love. I’m in a new and loving relationship. It’s time to wear silk, eat strawberries, grind my own coffee beans and learn the guitar. Year of the Dragon. You fucking bet!

I'm in love

22^nd November 2012

Poets may pine for it, sanity is sacrificed in its name and songs lament or celebrate its undeniable power. How can I come fresh to the topic of romantic love? Perhaps I can’t, yet of course I want to say this one is somehow set apart.

I am newly in love. Brand new, the key in hand. He is kind. He is funny. I mean, really funny. He has the most beautiful voice and this slow and soothing way of speaking. His eyes drew me in from the start, and yes, his nose is magnificent! He continues to give amazing compliments, and this generosity helps me to relax and give to him in a way that I’ve wanted to give for such a long time.

I can be free in how I love. I don’t have to wonder if showing too much kindness or enthusiasm will be received with some kind of disdain or taken for granted. Of course I’ve had moments of fear and anxiety, yet those moments have been used as an alchemical process. We’re richer for it. Where one man might flee or resort to games and cruelty, this man instead holds my gaze and talks with me. He stands steady.

This is just a quick note on this ‘in love-ness’. I’m busy in a way that I’ve been finding really difficult, but accomplishing a lot. Last night when I got home, I hopped into bed and pretended I’d been sleeping all day. I imagined the reason I was so tired was because I’d stayed in bed for so long. Talk about self-hypnosis! Within 15 minutes I had that lovely lazy sleeping in feeling and felt really refreshed. I was able to get up and even make a healthy dinner. I went all crazy raw vegetable woman orientated! The fact that the stove is dodgy as fuckery helps. I imagine fuckery is dodgier that fuck.

It’s time to head out the door, off to Henderson to teach my dear ladies some English (among other things!). Yesterday we talked about different suburbs in Auckland and what they’re like, since once they leave the safe house they have to find somewhere to live. We ended up having a good conversation about gangs. One of my students said “they’re nice aren't they?”.

I said it might depend on the gang and the age of the members. Older gang members who now have grand children start to see things in a different light. There are Mongrel Mob members who might have mellowed out, but generally speaking you probably don’t want to live next door to a gang headquarters.

Friday 23^rd November

My Love is working over most of this weekend. We don’t get to see much of each other because he lives much further away than is entirely reasonable. I’m trying to clean and sort things out as I’m eventually moving, but I’m going to put a lot of things in storage so that I can clear out my cluttered mind.

I’ve not been able to catch up with friends properly for ages, but I did manage to get to Lou’s birthday in Devonport last weekend. My Love came with me, and we enjoyed a great bbq and visit before we headed off to see bands playing at Lucha Lounge in Newmarket. It’s the first time I’d seen Frankie play in many years, and her last gig as part of Bunnyjack. She is an accomplished guitarist and singer, her voice strikes the magical tension between fragility and strength.

 I really enjoyed it, but unfortunately I had a shitter of a headache and towards the end of the show (when Vessel were playing) I was struggling. My Love and I are both overcoming problems with our necks and shoulders.  Hearing people whine about pain isn’t particularly entertaining, but if you’re the one in pain, a bit of empathy (and a hottie) sure help. Oh, and I mean a hot water bottle, but an actual hottie (a desirable human) definitely assists in the healing process.

The sun has finally been shining. I turned 42 on the 16^th of November and was treated to a fancy pants lunch by mum (pork belly at Y Not on the waterfront: lacklustre service but good meal), and then a kissy moo dinner with My Love. What do I call him other than My Love? Love Man? The Music Magician? The Meowser Houser?

My Love took me to Cibo in Parnell. I’d read about it and decided that I wanted to go to a really swish sounding place. The waiters are like myriad gay sharks dressed in black, smiles practiced and plastic. They performed a perfect dance of service; the dress rehearsal for something much bigger in all of their lives. We enjoyed observing these things, and the food was like small works of art, delicious and delicate. When we got home he gave me the earrings we’d seen in Jet Set Bohemian the previous weekend. Earrings I love so much that I’ve not wanted to take them out, even when I go to sleep.

I’m in love. I'm in love. I'm in love.

The Man With Eyes to Keep Me.

Hey.
You know that date I told you about quite some weeks ago? It's going well enough  to render me almost private. I know. Who'd have thought it was possible? 

I've been really busy completing my certification as a Clinical Hypnotherapist which has been absolutely fantastic. I have learned such a lot and enjoyed meeting amazing people from around New Zealand who were also on the course. One of the main things I did with self hypnosis was to create various recordings for myself on topics varying from increasing my ability to tidy up to attracting a kind, sexy, funny and intelligent boyfriend. Done and done.

My 'money hypnosis' has also worked, but the job I've recently been offered clashes with my English classes for SHAKTI clients (domestic abuse surviviors). The job I'm turning down could have been ideal, and I know what I'm doing doesn't make sense financially, but if I walk away from the commitment to these women then it may have other repercussions I can't currently forsee. I'd rather make ends meet a bit longer than let people down. 

I also feel confident that the work I'm doing is valuable in a way that surpasses the dollar.

And so there it is for now. I'm so tired. Had an amazing weekend with my lovely new man. The man with eyes to keep me. 

xxx

Love, Friendship and Boundaries! Oh, and a good date!

Greetings dear ones!

I've been thinking about boundaries a lot lately. In fact, ever since I made it clear to 'Wylie' that I would not be seeing him again, I've been getting better and better at it. Now, who on earth is Wylie? He's that guy I fell for just before I went to Korea (end of 2009). He's the emotionally disabled one who I insisted had great qualities (lust  is blind). It took a long time to admit he was unkind and sporting the emotional IQ of a 13 year old boy. It's amazing what you'll tell yourself when you love someone and they don't love you. 

Then in recent months, I stopped sleeping with Andrew, (the sexy ex) and have also succeeded in creating a genuine platonic friendship with The Painter. Many a friend marveled that I am friends with The Painter after what happened last year. They feared I would want him again. I still felt attracted to him, but I've been attracted to friends before and it doesn't have to be a big deal. I also kept using self hypnosis to focus on what I do want from a man - kindness, commitment and laughter.

When The Painter told me that Miss Monday (the girl he went straight onto after me last year) had read this blog (quite recently) I got a bit worried. I thought 'oh god, did I say anything really horrible?' and scrolled through to check that I hadn't wished venereal disease on them both and forgotten to edit it out at a later sanity imbued date. Of course, if you read back over those entries, the ones where the depression was really intense, I don't ever sound as fucked up as I actually was. How would that have helped anyone? Instead I made a decision to get well quickly. 

The Painter is being forced to transform. It's not a comfortable process, but juggling women isn't easy. They do inconvenient things like think, cry and believe what you say, and that gets pretty slippery. 

Obviously people do show us who they are quite quickly. There is normally an indicator, a clue, and yet often I have chosen to overlook it. I acknowledged that last year during the 'dating game', so of course, this is a transformation on both sides. Or all three sides. Or four. Or something.

I'd like to meet Miss Monday one day. When the time is right. I think we'd get on quite well. Perhaps I could take her to Old Nude Night at the hotpools and we could sip a G & T as we stand  in the hot water, leaning on the side of the pool. 

And now, for some rather nice news ... I went on a very good date last week. We ate Thai food, talked endlessly, broke all the first date rules on topics of conversation and walked down Ponsonby Rd holding hands.

The thing about this man is that he’s really self aware. He says things and I feel like writing them down. He doesn't hold back compliments as if they were gifts he could ill afford; he told me I was beautiful within minutes of meeting me.  He has such a good face, and he’s very funny. I’m really enjoying getting to know him. He seems like a composite of likable people I've known throughout my entire life. I'm seeing him again tomorrow and we've had lots of long phone conversations. He rang me the day after our first date ...

"Hi," I said

"You didn't do that thing, the make-her-wait-for-1-to-3-days before calling thing."

He laughed.

"What, that thing where you make someone wait so that they can stew in all their insecurities and fears wondering if what they felt when they met you was actually real?"

"Yeah, that!"

"Nah, I'm not into that".

And so tomorrow, may the sun shine, and if it's to be, then it so it will be. 

"It actually is all about me. In your dreams you see me as that person who comes to the party and charms you, then walks away." - Toscat.

I Love My Car ...

Love My Car and Meat You in Korea.

Love My Car:

I love my car, but it’s not what you think. I don’t love it because it’s fast, beautiful or alludes to any kind of desirable status (because it isn’t and it doesn’t).

I love it because it’s another room, and it’s a room that can move. It’s taken awhile for me to truly appreciate how comforting and comfortable this relationship to an inanimate and useful object has become.  My current car was also my Nanna’s, and this of course adds an extra level of affection to my modest Nissan. What I really like is how my car feels like a safe, warm, intimate capsule. Lately, when I have a break, instead of going into a café I often opt to stay in the car. I put back the seat and listen to the radio. Or go to sleep. Or hypnotise myself. The possibilities are endless. I’ve never performed a self love session in my car, but sex and cars are a story with a different angle (ha!).

Yes, my car is a little haven. When I’m driving,  I listen to the radio and lean down to flick through stations until I find a song or topic that interests me. I also love to eat and drive. Icecream or chips are best (hot or cold). I still use CD’s because the updated technology (ipods for the car etc) stresses me out. I just want to stick it in and have it work. I have an ipod and haven’t used it for more than a year because trying to get the fucking thing to cooperate feels like a form of torture.

Boring explanation re. ipod:

 Torture: post-computer crash, when ALL your music lovingly compiled, is gone daddy gone, and the music left on your ipod won’t play because it can’t sync to anything not already burned into the drive of your nice new computer. This has now happened twice. The lesson: don’t give your CD’s away like I did, if your computer dies, so does the music.

Fin.

When I’m driving, I regularly  turn the cd or radio off and talk out loud to my ‘angels’ or subconscious mind. I get very good answers too. They’re good because they’re practical.

So I get a lot of ‘spiritual time’ in the car, singing time, thinking time, and it seems to flow because I’m moving. I like driving. I’m a careful driver. I keep to the speed limit and I sometimes go extra slow if someone is driving too close behind me.  Even I, a fabulously kind person, must find a way to get back at egoic drivers, and muttering  “mutha fuck you” just doesn’t feel enough at times. Most of the time it feels good. Saying “mutha fuck you, hope you die today” seems to alleviate a lot of annoyance quite quickly. I hear myself saying it, then I’m amused, and this leads to a lightening of my mood. I’m amused because I’ve only started saying this in recent months, and I say it sort of half heartedly. There isn’t enough rage in it for it to be taken seriously. If intent could kill, then I’d have far less victims than you’d think.

Yes, I love my car, and I love it because it’s a bit like bed. I can do almost everything in it that matters. Food, music, sleep, reading,  singing, sex, praying, laughing, talking. 

Rose (completed friendship, see end of last year) used to drive a 1970 box style valiant in the 90’s. It was the first time I truly understood that a particular style or brand of car could influence a person’s idea of themselves so strongly. She liked it when we drove past someone else in a Valiant.  Valiant soul mates. It was like riding around in a living room.

 Rose also liked Vespas and would have been keen on getting one if she wasn't pouring every spare dollar into the ever-thirsty and unreliable

glory of the large and cumbersome car.  I grew to appreciate riding around in it (being the non-driver that I was). You could easily seat three people in the front.

I didn’t get my driver’s licence till I was 33. That’s rather rare in NZ. Most people have barely broken through puberty before they’re behind the wheel of a car. My mum doesn’t drive, never has, never will. Has no interest in it. She was also raising me alone on a low wage, and I had no other relatives willing or able teach me. Various friends tried, but of course no one was able to commit to giving me lessons on a regular basis.  I couldn’t afford driving lessons, and in the end I just didn’t care enough to keep trying.

At 21 I got my ‘written and oral’, and this languished as I cycled, walked, bussed and begged lifts for koha.  People were aghast when they discovered that a person over 15 could be without a licence. Eyes would widen. Mouths dropped. “How …?” they would enquire.

The thing is, in the olden days, (up to the mid 1990’s) there was this amazing thing called relatively affordable flatting near the central business district. This meant you just needed a bicycle and a few friends who actually had cars, and you were sorted. I was always going away with friends and sleeping in tents somewhere.  I was thoughtful with petrol money and lavish with thanks.

It was living in Paeroa that forced my hand. You try living in that town with out a car and you’ll suddenly find a way to save up for one. It took absolutely ages to save up as I was on a pathetic wage, but my first car was cheap and the lack of power steering helped me develop a level of tone and strength in my arms I could be proud of. I think it was a 1987 Honda City E. It had a tape deck and an AM radio. It’s taken years to develop the level of joy that I find in driving a car, but it’s a feeling of being centred, focused, yet somehow relaxed in the midst of it.

This does not segue well into my next topic of thought.

Food, Meat, Dogs, Korea:

I’ve just signed an online petition against the torture and consumption of dogs in South Korea. Now I might sound like a hypocrite, being a meat eater, but bear with me.

Animals are very ‘other’ in mainstream culture there, and even ‘beloved’ pets are not treated well, tied up on a very short leash on a concrete street outside a shop all day is not uncommon.  Vegetarians struggle with the diet there as everything seems to be imbedded with some sort of tiny dried fish or strips of fatty grey meat. I got really sick for the first three months of living there -  the diet was so hard on my digestion. I went to the hospital and they said I had Colitis and had to eat soft, easily digestible foods. For awhile all I could consume were smoothies with yoghurt and bannna, no coffee, no meat.  At school I would stare at the mountain of white rice and side dishes of spicey, meaty, fishy mulch and sigh inwardly. To insult Koreans by refusing their food is just not done. Yet what to do? I lied and said I LOVED it but it was very hard on my stomach, so please, don’t be hurt if I can’t eat it all.

I fell in love with a stray kitten and used to save the grey bits of meat from my school lunch, wash off all the spices, and take it to the kitten each day. When the principal found out what I was doing, she forbade me to feed the kitten ‘the children’s food’. She seemed to think that it was better for me to throw it in the bin than give it to an animal in need. It insulted her Catholic God or something.

“That children food. Not dirty animal.”

I played the game though. Nodded, agreed, and then still did it anyway. You get good at that in Korea. Nod. Agree. Smile. As the kitten grew into a strong young cat, he became strong enough to find my offerings less appealing. He was a gorgeous little thing, pale and large of eyes. Even he wouldn't eat the tiny octopuses that haunted my lunches with the consistency of hard rubber and sorrow.

Most days I would put my leftovers in plastic bag and told the Principal 

‘Take home. Fry. No waste. Very grateful.’

I truthfully did take home rice and refry it a few times, and the rest of the time, threw it in the bin or left it on the street for rats or cats. I couldn’t take the food pressure there anymore, it was literally making me sick.

I didn’t want to be rude, accepting the food is a huge part of the Korean culture, but when you get Colitis, you just have to find a way to bow out from eating endless mountains of rice, meat and spice.

Prior to living in South Korea I read about what happens to the dogs that are reared specifically for the purpose of eating. The dogs are tortured whilst still alive as this is believed to ‘tenderize’ the meat. Dog isn’t common, it’s actually quite expensive. You wouldn’t accidentally end up eating dog, you need to go somewhere that specialises in it.  I guess you have to pay extra for all those beatings.

Occasionally I spoke to a fellow foreigner who would announce (quite proudly) that they’d eaten dog. I’d listen as they said things like “well we are in Korea, it’s the culture. If you eat meat then why shouldn’t you try it? It’s like eating cow or chicken, we’re just not culturally adjusted to it, so many foreigners are hypocrites.”

I’d nod. I’d ask if they enjoyed it. Then I’d say “so the conditions the dogs are reared in don’t bother you?”

They’d smile blankly, not knowing what I was talking about.  Then I’d kindly, softly, tell them how the dog had been ‘tenderized’ whilst still alive.  How delicious was that dog? Every person who’d tried it looked sick. “Oh. I didn’t know that” they’d say quietly. I never did try to stick it in hard. I just would inform and then let them decide if that was the kind of meat they wanted to consume.

So if you’re reading this, and you want to do something about it, please sign …. https://www.change.org/petitions/boycott-2013-world-energy-congress-in-daegu-south-korea-no-more-torture-no-more-dog-meat?share_id=kqtRsqAGcU&utm_campaign=share_button_action_box&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=share_petition&utm_term=29484675

I will not put up horrible pictures, not my style. I said to mum that it really is enough to make me give vegetarianism another crack. I realise it makes sense economically and politically, but really, for me, it comes down to the innocence and beauty of animals. How do I balance that against the enjoyment of roast lamb or a good bacon sarnie?

 Well, if I do go all Vege on you, fear not, I’ll never be one of those scary ones that sneers and tries to make you feel guilty. I don’t find guilt to be very motivating.

Well, that’s my rant for now. Other things that I keep thinking about are Taxidermy , shared gardens, our crazy government voting against protecting the Maui Dolphin, painting everything green, gold and white, eating more pineapple and the nature of forgiveness and compassion.

New Zealand – what should we do about the current situation developing? I’m happy for wealthy people to enjoy what they have, but it does seem as if it’s at the expense of the majority. What mystifies me is why so many good, ‘onto it’ Kiwi people voted for the National government. 

We have had such ground breaking and forward thinking milestones in our short history – the first country to give women the vote, the attempt to create a dialogue and solutions alongside Maori, the way we stood up against Nuclear Ships coming through our waters in the 1980’s.

Now look. We have a government that would whore us out to foreign interests for returns that are surely short sighted, sell off our assets, frack our beautiful country side (proven to create earthquakes and shunned by other countries!) and create a wave of resentment towards beneficiaries in order to try and keep ‘hard working middle NZ’ on side. What I hope people start to see is that most of us would be in the shit if something ‘went wrong’ and we got sick, were made redundant, or, like me, simply could not find a full time job somehow relating to my skill set.

So what are we going to do? Just bitch about it?

That’s what I have always hated about politics. Seems like a lot of talking and you wonder how on earth that translates to every day life. We have to find ways to make that so.

We’re gonna have to pull together. Share a garden with someone if you have a back yard. Tell them to pitch in, then they can pop around once a week and grab what they need. Do contra deals, and be inventive. If you’re doing okay financially, consider something small you could do to help someone out that makes all the difference. 

The women I’m teaching English to have left their abusive husbands empty handed. Can you provide a few books (things like dictionaries, aromatherapy, poetry and travel are good) or spare some nice clothing? SHAKTI would definitely appreciate it.

Wealth. What does it really mean to you? 

I guess it’s one thing to the National Government; money. Yes, money is useful, but it’s only printed pieces of paper symbolising a means of exchange. Who said that the map is not the territory? Alfred Korzybski.

Think about it Prime Minister, and in the meantime, let's all think about solutions. 

x

Suck it Up Buttercup!

Okay folks, as promised, an update on the Ritalin/Doctor with-holding prescription situation.

If you are prescribed Ritalin in NZ, there's only one GP who can do it, otherwise you have to pay to see a shrink and the cost is prohibitive. It's unfortunate that I didn't understand how the whole system worked, that it's only by trial and sudden withdrawal that I now know: yes, your doctor (or more specifically the Receptionist) can stop your meds if you don't pay a certain amount of your bill within a certain time frame.

Ritalin, being a restricted drug, isn't like other prescriptions where you can get it on repeat. You might not share the same 'world' as the receptionist, but you'd better make sure you do your best or you'll be going without if you don't pay in time or do something to offend her. In the end I agreed with her; I do need to wake up to the real world, just as she's said. The real world. What an interesting idea. What would that be?

 I don't even know if the world is as real as we pretend it is, but I knew discussing that particular philosophy wouldn't be useful in this situation. She thanked me for understanding (and strangely, I do, though I know she doesn't understand me) and hopefully this whole debacle will be behind me soon enough.

So there you have it. Until we get more doctors specialising in knowledge of ADHD, we must rely on only one GP. No wonder the receptionist has no patience left, she's obviously over worked and stressed. My mum used to be a doctor's receptionist and she was under-paid and definitely over worked, so I'm not being entirely facetious about this whole thing. It's definitely food for thought though; what is the Real World to you?

Mine has lots of rainbows, forests, cats, wine, friends and cuddles in it! Ooh, and maybe a giant owl that puts it's wing around me.
Lovely!
xxxx

Doc With-holding Medication ... know your rights?

19th Septmember 2012 (With comments edited in at a later date)

Last Wednesday I started to run low on my Ritalin. I didn't mind because I knew my prescription was arriving in the post any day.

By Friday I was agitated. I usually take two tablets a day, and now I only had a two left and was biting them in half, making do with quarter of my usual medication. I got a little letter in the mail, saw it was from Dr Hanne's office, didn't open it, took it straight to the chemist with a sense of relief. Relief vanished quickly once I opened it.

The bill was for $103. Weird, my doc apt cost $35 with a community services card, so I couldn't fathom where this additional charge came from. I was devastated. Being Friday, it meant I'd have to go without medication for at least another two or three days, and I felt bananas as it was. To suddenly withdraw from any medication isn't a good idea, and for a doctor's office to do so without any prior warning seemed incredibly unethical. It actually felt like I was being punished!

Of course, I rang and left a message telling them so. I ranted. I raved. I cried. Later I left another message specifically for the nurse explaining that I was feeling terrible and sorry for leaving such a full on message, but it was a shock to suddenly have medication ceased without warning. I did not swear, and everything I said I'd still stand by, but it seems that the receptionist took it personally and I don't think she's passed the messages on.

On Monday I rang. Then I emailed, apologised that my phone calls were so emotional, said I could pay off some of my bill, but please, please send my prescription. On Tuesday I emailed again. No response at all.

 Receptionist:

Today (Wednesday) I finally got a call from the receptionist and boy was it a doozy. She was one angry and embittered woman. She started her cold and clipped tirade with a level of contempt and condescension that must have taken many years to perfect. I was trying to get ready to go to my teaching and didn't want to be late, but my stomach was churning even before I picked up the phone. She told me in a tone you'd reserve for criminal imbeciles that 

"you don't know how the real world works, so let me give you a lesson Can-dis!"

I sort of laughed and said I didn't feel she needed to speak to me that way. It seemed incredible that she wasn't calling to apologise for my unnecessary distress and kindly explain what had happened.

"Hey," I said, " I'm sorry my phone messages were so full on, but it's real shock to the system to suddenly have my medication stopped without any warning. You do understand ADHD don't you?"
Her tone was scathing ...

"Yes. I do. Your email was also very over the top. Very colourful. You need to LISTEN Can-dis. You need to listen. Are you going to listen Can-dis?"

"It's Can-deese, and yes, I'm listening ... " but I was thinking that this woman has no understanding or compassion at all. She seemed to be offended by my email, one not addressed to her. It was for Dr Hanne and the nurse to view, and there was nothing offensive about it. She repeated a number of times that I didn't know how the REAL WORLD worked, and in the meantime I felt a bout of diarrhea coming on. It was gettin' real. 

I tried to interrupt to say I had to go (quite literally) but she wouldn't let me finish sentences. What she was dying to tell me was that they have 1000 patients at that doctor's surgery, that it costs MONEY to PAY the people who are EMPLOYED at that surgery. I think she was angry that I'm on a benefit. It seemed she thought I needed to know about people WORKING and being EMPLOYED. I only think that because she stressed these words so much. She had absolutely no concern for my state of mind. In a voice dripping with hate she informed me that it did cost $17 to send out my script each time I got my medication.

 Oh. I didn't know that.

"How could you NOT know that? It's on the bill every time you get your prescription!"

Er, because it's never happened to me before? In my experience, I've never ever paid $17 a month in addition to the cost of the actual medication. I've been going to The People's Centre for more than 10 years and they only charge $16.50 for an actual doctor's appointment. Even when I was on anti-depressants about 8 years ago, I only ever paid for the cost of them and of the appointment every 3 to 6 months. I didn't get to explain any of this because whenever I tried to speak she would cut in with ...

"are you going to listen? You need to LISTEN Can-dis."

I thought $17 was the amount you paid for the prescription if you didn't have a community services card, and didn't think it was anything to do with me. Instead of agreeing that it had been a misunderstanding, she seemed further enraged.

She couldn't let it go. She wanted to go on and on about how I had to learn, that if I wanted to still go to those offices then I better start listening and learning. Problem was, I really had to attend to the rather urgent matter of my bowels, and I wanted to get to my teaching job in time. I tried to explain that I did have to go, but I felt black mailed. If I could LISTEN and LEARN from her (shut  up and let yourself be bullied) then she MIGHT send out my prescription ... but ... my tummy ...

"Look, it sounds like it's really busy there for you, but I do have to go or I'll be late .."

And she interrupted AGAIN!

"Can-dis," she made my name sound vile, "Are you going to listen? Are you going to listen?!"

"Well I would, but I don't like the way you're speaking to me and I'm going to be .."

"Well if you're not going to listen you'd better think about whether you want to come to this practice! You need to learn about the REAL WORLD."

"Oh my god" I groaned, feeling so horrible as I sat down on the loo, phone in one hand.
Trying to listen to someone being so condescending was hard work.

"That's it" she said, and hung up.

Shaking, I attended to the urgent matter at hand. I realised I couldn't teach this morning, I was absolutely exhausted and felt like I'd been dealing with one of those nasty sort of teachers from high school. Mrs White or Mr Lisette from Takapuna Grammar in the 80's. They were those stoney eyed sorts, autocratic and compassion free. Probably had posters of Thatcher and wished they could continue to administer corporal punishment.

(Post Note: In the following blog entry you'll see that we did eventually come to an understanding. What I had failed to recognise was that she had felt bullied by my original message (left on the answerphone) and sincerely did feel the need to 'teach me' how to behave in a more appropriate manner. She also believes that suddenly coming off Ritalin would have absolutely no side effects "because it's not like an antidepressant". The leaflet inside warns that suddenly ceasing it can result in depression, and if you do even rudimentary research it's clear that coming off it suddenly is not advised. She told me that my reaction was just anxiety, not a result of ceasing meds. I do agree that my handling of the situation was not ideal. Probably because I was having a panic attack, and one that I think was pronounced by having my medication suddenly withdrawn!

I found a forgotten tablet in a handbag yesterday, and I'm hoping I'll find more. This is not a good place to be in. Going off so suddenly is like being hit by a truck of exhaustion and high emotion. when I started taking Ritalin they upped my dose slowly, and then here I am coming off 40mg a day without any kind of graduation in the process. 

Why on earth would they not send out advance warning? Surely it's not that hard. Something like "In case you did not realise, you do owe (whatever the amount it) for the cost of posting prescriptions which is $17 each time. This has now been unpaid for (whatever period of time) and we need to to pay a minimum of (amount) before we can send your next prescription. Please call or email to let us know how much you will be paying as soon as possible."

I'm not even a doctor or a receptionist, yet if I were working with ADHD people, I would send out a warning before cutting them off! It seems so logical.

So what to do?

I've made an appointment with The People's Centre and am hoping to the great gods that they will be able to get my prescription from now on. I may have to wait awhile before the People's Centre can get the Ritalin, if they can at all. From what I understand a doctor has to apply for special permission to prescribe it. It is strictly controlled to prevent abuse.

Post Note: I need to find out about other 'brands' of 'Ritalin', a friend advised that Ritalin is just the brand name and it's possible I can get my prescription filled somewhere else. In the meantime, I do feel like I've learned more about diplomacy from this experience.

 The Health and Disability Commissioner (phone 373 1060)

• 1) Are doctors allowed to cease medications because you are behind in your bill?

• 2)Is the receptionist allowed to speak to me like I'm shit?

• 3)Shouldn't I have been given advance warning that the bill was overdue?

• 4)Can I get my medication elsewhere, and when?

POST NOTE: If I want to fight a battle because the receptionist did not communicate effectively and with held my prescription with out warning, then I can go for it. Fact is, I'm too tired to do that. I just want my prescription.

Take a look at what the website says regarding The Code of Rights in Clause 2:

The Code (summary)

Clause 1

This establishes the duties and obligations of providers to comply with the Code, to ensure they promote awareness of it to consumers and enable consumers to exercise their rights.

Clause 2

This details the ten rights of consumers and the duties of providers.

Right 1: the right to be treated with respect

Right 2: the right to freedom from discrimination, coercion, harassment, and exploitation

Right 3: the right to dignity and independence

Right 4: the right to services of an appropriate standard

Right 5: the right to effective communication

Right 6: the right to be fully informed

Right 7: the right to make an informed choice and give informed consent

Right 8: the right to support

Right 9: rights in respect of teaching or research

Right 10: the right to complain

The Code of Rights makes it clear that the receptionist has really crossed the line. She spoke to me with blatant contempt and could not explain why I had not been given warning that my medication was being cut off. I was not fully informed, the services were of poor standard as she did not return my communication until Wednesday. She could have easily replied to my email with one sentence. Something like "The extra cost was due to (blah blah) and we're sorry you are feeling so awful. We thought you knew how our system worked, so we apologise for the distress caused. We will of course send out your prescription as soon as possible, please do let us know how much you can pay this week."

See, that wouldn't be hard would it? 

Well I look forward to updating you on this. I think it's going to be more important than ever before to stand up for ourselves in a climate that's encouraging anger towards beneficiaries. It seriously is not the cushy ride many employed people seem to think it is. It's a safety net for people who are struggling, and if doctors start to put the boot in, I dread to think what could happen to people who are seriously ill. Are we going to become like The States? I hope not. I really hope not.

On the up side:
The trees are looking good outside, the birds are singing and I am loved. Life is good. :)

post note: the trees are looking so good that I cannot put up a fight. See next blog entry ....

In the end, it is better to assume that someone might have their own reasons for behaving in a way that causes stress to others. The receptionist was genuinely trying to communicate that the doctor's offices are busy, there just isn't time to deal with people having emotional blow outs. So I understand her point, and I imagine she is a doctor's receptionist because she cares about people, but it's easy to get overworked and feel unappreciated in that setting. Her world and mine may not have a lot in common, but at least we ended up finding a way to be civil.

September Celibate.

some random person and dog on a North Shore beach

Yes it's September again. This is the time of year when I think of friends of long ago who have committed suicide. This is the time of year I try to go swimming in the sea and pretend it's summer.

I've now been celibate for what feels like quite a long time. I've definitely grown stronger in my self respect and boundaries. There are other people I know who are trying to figure out what's right in terms of relationships, boundaries and love. I'm getting better at seeing things very clearly and knowing how to choose what's right for me. Men who can't commit are becoming less attractive to me sexually, and I'm really enjoying Internet Dating. I have about 10 men I'm talking to (via the messages on site) regularly, and of those, five get my heart rate going. I've been on two dates, and both men were kind, intelligent and attractive, but not my 'cup of tea'. One of them has still offered for me to come over and use his spa pool whenever I like. Ha ha.

The only thing is fitting it all in. The dating I mean. I do my voluntary teaching in the mornings, and  my part time after school care in the afternoons. I leave the house at 9 and get home at 6 most days. I like having time to do nothing and I'm buggering that up.

So it's dinner Wed with a man from Rotorua, yoga on Thursday, date with a hot guy who looks like a player on Friday, hang out with Ma on Saturday, then coffee on Sunday with a guy who seems to think the sun shines out of my bung hole. Hey. Maybe it does. If you see me and I'm glowing, that's why.

There's also a guy who likes The Feelers and Op Shop, bands I don't have anything against, but I wouldn't be able to go and SEE them. How would that work? Is that a deal breaker? Imagine going on holiday and you're in the car with someone for three hours and they want to listen to The Feelers and Jack Johnson the whole way. I could cope with Jack Johnson for a few songs, but imagine it for an hour or something. Now imagine that person putting up with me playing Tori Amos or The White Stripes. Yeah. It's a deal breaker isn't it? There's one guy in my fine selection of internet men who has very good taste in music. He's one of the 'top picks' on my list right now. He also loves cats, possibly as much as me! He even mentioned cat reflexology ... now that's some deep cat lovin'.

Hey, speaking of music, Morrissey is coming!! Can't. Wait. The more you ignore me, the closer I get ... every day is like sunday ... spring heeled jim ...

Oh in fact I do love the words to Spring Heeled Jim ...

Spring-heeled Jim winks an eye
He'll "do," he'll never be "done to"
He takes on whoever flew through
"Well, it's the normal thing to do"

Spring-heeled Jim lives to love
Now kissing with his mouth full
And his eyes on some other fool
So many women
His head should be spinning
Ah, but no!

Spring-heeled Jim slurs the words:
"There's no need to be so knowing
Take life at five times your average speed, like I do"
Until Jim feels the chill
"Oh, where did all the time go?"
Once always in for the kill
Now it's too cold
And he feels too old

Oh Mowissy, I wuv you!

So Marc ... September and it makes me think of you, of all the daffodils, of riding my bike and crying, of cold swims and your funeral. Playing 'Blue Monday' which worked well, cos you did it on a Monday. Not mad at you, just hoping that people will find ways out of the hole and into a reason to love being alive.

Cos I do. I love it. I love being here.

xxx