02/03/2016

Library-ing, tired, being annoyed and stuff.

Dear fuck. This was more arduous than I thought it would be. Two Billy IKEA shelves being dragged out (HAIL TO THE TYGERZ*), un-filling them beforehand and then filling them up again according to the place that they ended up in. I really thought that would be easy, but alas. It wasn't. I am still having difficulties with my pulse. And didn't help with the Hungry either. 

At least my office is now cleaned up. Before I did that mad dragging-shit-around thing, all of my non-filed articles, university notes and 'general notes' were lying on the ground, waiting to be filed away. 

So, after tonight's filing excess, I have three more article folders (nos. 08-10), plus one "general cuneiform (of which I have hardly any clue what the texts are)"-stack, plus one "cuneiform plus transliterations and translations that I can't add to one of the university folders"-stack, plus one "articles that are not entirely there"-stack and a "fully xeroxed books that need to be bound"-stack. Not to mention the "these are books that I tried to xerox but failed to complete"-stack. And the "random notes and things"-stack. 

Fuck me, I am feeling like a corpse. 

But now everything has its place. Well, not everything; I still need to fill up Billy shelf no. 09 in the living room, which I wanted to do after placing the shelves. But, alas, I am too tired and fucked up to do that right now - hence my sitting here and melting into the wonderchair. 

I kinda want to sleep, but I am way too hyper to do that.

__________________________

I finished getting my office library done, though. And I am definitely missing at least one box of books. This also makes it kinda impossible to sleep - I want to know where my books are. I suspect they are at Snorre's place.  I want my books back. 


Other than that - I have been in a thoroughly disgusted mood. The "good friend" I referred to repeatedly, who helped me with being able to live here after my flight from the horrifying island of death and doom, has turned out to be the exact same kind of disgusting weirdo that he was the first time I stopped talking to him

Imagine:
Someone follows you around like a dog, grins at you**, plays love songs whilst you're sitting next to him in his car and have to endure it (you asking to change the music does nothing), follows you around like a dog (into your bedroom, even though it should be pretty obvious that bedrooms are not a place you follow people into without them asking you to do so), grinning at you like a Crossed (for some odd reason, he is aware of the fact that 'human smiles', being "show your teeth", are not a natural sign of being friendly and complains about it, but nonetheless does it towards me)... I could go on.

Considering the fact that about three years ago I had to stop talking to him and had to stop having any kind of contact with him because he sent me a four DIN-A4 pages long love letter that was just sick and disgusting***, this behaviour doesn't really help. I hoped that him having a girlfriend would help - but no. He is lying to her about his feelings for her, he is being a disgusting piece of shit towards me (grinning and smiling and following me around, doing odd things based on the words I say - it is creepy as fuck), and obviously didn't learn a single fucking thing from me deciding not to talk to him anymore after his love-letter-madness years ago. 

I am really sorry for his girlfriend - he clearly hasn't talked to her about all of this. Whilst I am not someone who cares about the relationships people have (I couldn't care less, honestly), I find it deeply disturbing that said guy is a) messing up the girl he is with, b) annoying the ever loving shit out of me. Mostly b). *shivers in disgust*

I did tell him, explaining why I stopped talking to him back then, that there is nothing as effective getting me to run away screaming inside from someone than being sent love-letters or being faced with minion-behaviour. But apparently I was not effective enough in telling him that. Ewgh. Disgusting on so many levels. So now I kinda have to think about how to deal with this shit - AGAIN.


Let's see how things work out. I am going to put books into the shelf that is now in the living room.

____________________________________
* I used the two plush tigers I have to cushion the shelves on their way through the flat. 
** He himself complains about the whole "showing-teeth-for-smiling" thing, but does it himself to show 'niceness'. Madness. And disgusting
*** ...referred to by this: 


Shelves

I just dragged around two shelves through the doors (which are not shelf-sized), creating super-shelf-space. I can hardly breathe and damn, that was awesome. Even though I can hardly breathe. 


01/03/2016

Shit I Read 001 - got (most) of my library back!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.

/me sighs happily

There is a certain kind of... calm inherent in being surrounded by your very own library again after almost three years of deprivation. Although, at least one box of books is missing* - but for the moment, I am trying not to think too much about that and instead wallow in the beauty of being able to read whatever I want to read whenever I want to read it.

This, naturally, interferes with my PhD productivity; but since I managed to caught my first flu in quite a while with the advent of THE FLU PANDEMIC over here, I've been mostly lying in bed**, soaking in my own sweat and trying to get better as soon as possible. This is prime time for reading!

So, in the last 14 days I devoured the following:

Michael Moorcock - Earl Aubec and other Stories
Michael Moorcock - Silverheart
Michael Moorcock - The Dreamthief's Daughter
Michael Moorcock et al. - Elric: Tales of the White Wolf
Michael Moorcock - Nomads on the Time Stream 
Thomas Bernhard - Auslöschung
Thomas Bernhard - Die Ursache. Eine Andeutung
Thomas Bernhard - Der Keller
Thomas Bernhard - Der Atem. Eine Entscheidung
Gustav Schwab - Sagen des klassischen Altertums 
Michael Moorcock - The Eternal Champion 
Franz Kafka - Der Prozeß 
Berni Maier - Black Mandel
Akif Pirincci - Felidae
Akif Pirincci - Cave Canem
Michael Moorcock - The Roads Between the Worlds
Michael Moorcock - The Book Corum
Michael Moorcock - 2/3 of the second part of the Corum saga because THE COLLECTED CORUM STORIES BOOK IS MISSING *growls*


Not as much as I could do, due to having to get boxes with books from elsewhere to my flat, but still.

__________________________________________
 

* I have a very good memory when it comes to my books, PARTICULARLY when it comes to my academic stuff and my Michael Moorcock books, and there's stuff missing from both categories. Will have to find out where they have disappeared to.

** Or rather, the bed-like contraption I made.

05/02/2016

Back home & stuff.

I AM BACK HOME! 

Yeah, it's been a while - even though the four people who read this already know that. I'm back in the best city when it comes to life quality (according to polls), and dayum, I am FUCKING HAPPY. 

After dwelling in an empty flat which was gracefully handed over to me for, well, dwelling in it, which also lacked gas and electricity (joy of joys, but hey, after the ordeal of the UK I am not complaining), and then moving into the storage room of a good friend's band colleague, I finally found a flat. One that is overlooking a train station. Which is awesome. 

To elaborate: I grew up next to a train station, and trains have a soothing effect on my psyche. I love the sound, I love the smell, I love the sight of railroads and trains. It calms me. So that is fucking brilliant. 

It's HUGE. Now I can afford it (after all, yours truly is now an official stipendiate of a superawesome science thing and gets shitloads of money for just sitting at home and working on its PhD), and the cats and myself are thoroughly enjoying the change. 

It's still empty as fuck though. It'll take until the end of February until I know whether I get a cheap bed and sofa of good quality. At the moment, I'm sleeping on all the blankets I could get, plus the mad lycan's sleeping bag, plus a new awesome friend's air mattress.... which has been clawed by my girlcat, so the bed is way flatter now than it should be, but hell. I'm away from the UK. That's what counts. 

I was taken out to IKEA yesterday by aforementioned mad lycan (big hugs to you, when you read this), and we did a roundabout trip through the fucking store after cleaning out the filth of my best female friend's mother's flat. More on that in a later posting, because it was an experience that deserves to be immortalised on the internet. 
Anyways. IKEA. We got 10 big Billy shelves, blankets, pillows (I need to sit *somewhere*), some other basic shit, a plush kitty, and then realised we would have to carry the crap up to my 4th floor flat. Luckily we could abuse the elevator, which is generally not for transporting shit that isn't people. It still took us a fucking ridiculous amount of time to get everything up, with me almost collapsing towards the end. There's definitely a need for red there... but alas. 

I also bought a chair. It's a wonderchair. It keeps my spine straight, my hips in the correct position, has about 7000 different functions, and was ridiculously expensive. But considering the fact that I basically live at my workspace, I thought that spending a ridiculous amount of money on such a wonderchair was a good idea (I still think that, and will continue to do so - my bones, sinews and flesh melt into how a human body is supposed to sit when I am in this chair, and boy, it feels good. Most of my physical issues come from having spent way too much time cramped on shitty chairs in front of shitty tables, so now I'm going all out to make sure that I will not have to suffer through that again for the next 15 years at least). Yay for the chair! 

Me and the cats are quite comfortable. At this very moment, I am cooking up 6 liters of soup with beef, lamb hearts, veggies and six thick, fat bones full of marrow, which will make my body happy once again. In the same vein (heh) I was informed that I'll be able to get red again. Things are looking up already - and no, this is not anything that the wiccans did (/me looks at Dr Mabuse). 

Home. 

Where can I start? 

Our food is so much more suited to my body than the one in the UK. Granted, both meat and fish are way more expensive here, but the quality is so much fucking better. We have actual bread - real bread! Not sandwich bread with shitloads of sugar, but REAL bread. I was binging on bread for two weeks after my arrival. 
Our beer is so much more better. In the UK, you drink 5 pints of whatever, and you wake up with a hangover that destroys your brain and remains of your physis. Here, you can down 12, and still wake up refreshed the day after. I guess it's because we have a Reinheitsgebot and no fucking sulphites in our alcohol. We take our alcohol way more serious. And fuck me, it's much cheaper. For one UK beer I get three beers here, which are actually wonderful beers. Aaaaaaah. 
Our public transport. I used to whine about it when I was still living here before the UK, but after the experience of having to pay 400 quid a month for public transport I will never ever again complain about ours. For that money (less, actually) I get a full year pass.

And I've got friends here. Kudos to the few of you who read this, you know who you are. 

So now I am chillaxxing here in my wonderchair, watching an accident happen on the street below, with purring cats, wonderful beer, cheap cigarettes that I can get anytime I want, listening to Mörk Gryning's first album from '95 (one of my favourites) and reading Eternal Champion comics (Corum, at the moment). 

I am fucking happy. 

Granted, it turned out that my formerly best male friend is a disgusting bastard whom I never want to see again as he was using the same ridiculous techniques of "control" on me than my UK-ex and the horrifying exes before that one, but hey. I got to know so many new and awesome people that the loss of that one creep really doesn't hurt. Life goes on, as the saying goes. 

Happy, happy, happy. 

And I was just given links to needleful things by my best internet-friend. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh. 

Life is good.

26/11/2015

UK "psychological assessment" & mental health system

Preliminary note: Blogspot seems to refuse my edits in regards to colour and font and just does whatever the fuck it wants, so nothing really looks as uniform and as pretty as I want it to look. I hope to be able to fix that when I have the possibility to do so again, but until then, this is a mess. I apologise on behalf of blogspot.  
_________________________________________________________________________________

In late July I had a psychological assessment by a "psychiatric nurse" from the Living Well Network. On the 23rd of November that assessment was finally done and sent to yours truly, and yours truly can't even begin to express how ridiculously WRONG that thing is. 

Basically, it states that I am a normal person without problems, because  
a) my kitchen is clean, 
b) my clothes are clean, 
c) I appear to like my cats, and 
d) I have a degree.  

Nobody who has a Master's degree and wears clean clothes and keeps their flat somewhat clean can have any sort of mental health problems - that's what that "psychological assessment" tells me. 

I am not sure how that nurse who conducted the interview with me got her job, or is able to keep it. Literally everything I said about my psychological background was disregarded:
  • "Phrenosyne says that she experienced an "unhappy childhood", but she clearly exaggerates, because her kitchen is clean."
  • "Phrenosyne tells me that she often feels sad, but she has a degree so it is unlikely that this is actually true."
  • "Phrenosyne complains that she felt bullied at work, but as a woman employee at such a prestigious institution as the XXXXX XXXXX this is an exaggeration."{FOOTNOTE}
  • "Phrenosyne says she was diagnosed with depression as a child, but she has a degree, so that cannot be true."
  • "Phrenosyne says that she has social anxiety, but she can go to the shops to buy cat food, so she is clearly exaggerating."
  • "Phrenosyne tells me that she suffered a stroke in her early twenties, but I consider this to be a lie because she clearly has no problems with English now."
  • "Phrenosyne says that she finds social interaction difficult, but her clothes are clean and she keeps her kitchen clean, so this cannot be true."
etc. etc. pp. ad nauseam

I find it highly telling that the only parts in this "report"/"assessment" that are written with a true insight are the parts about my clean kitchen, my clean clothes, and my clean flat. Says a lot about the quality of education that "psychiatric nurse" got. I did tell that woman that I cleaned up specifically for her visit, and that I often don't do anything when depression hits me - you know, standard depressive symptoms: You lie in bed, stare into nothingness, don't move, don't shower, don't clean anything, because you cannot even find the motivation to move a limb as all seems pointless and dark and why not kill yourself? But me cleaning my flat for someone from what I generically call "the government" is clearly a sign that I am not depressed at all. 

Hell, I showed that woman my arms (who are quite cut up), and in this "assessment" of hers she states that "[she] is at a very low risk of self harm, because she only self harms superficially when she has been binge drinking". EXCUSE ME?! My self harm is nothing I am proud of, far from it, but I am quite capable of doing that when sober. And "superficially"... dear fucking gods. How much deeper do I have to cut for it to be recognised as non-superficial?? 

Apparently, my suicide attempt in June, for which I was dragged to the hospital by a horde of policemen (think SWAT team) after they barged into my flat, threw me onto the ground, handcuffed me, put their knees into my back and repeatedly slammed my head onto the floor whilst yelling at me to BE CALM!!!! (all of which resulted in a ridiculous amount of bruises and a slight concussion, but nobody cared about that either) didn't count as a suicide attempt either, but was logged as "superficial self harm". I know what superficial self harm is, and trust me, I haven't been doing that. IF I resort to self harm for lack of any other coping mechanisms available then it's proper self harm. And a suicide attempt in which you stab your veins with scalpels in order to release a maximum amount of blood from your system before carving down into your veins and hitting them is not "superficial self harm". Dear gods. This country's mental health system is well and truly fucked beyond good an evil. 

In addition to all that crap, the "assessment" referred a phone call that has apparently been made on the 8th of November (I cannot remember one, and neither can my phone log, but hey, who fucking cares) in which I apparently stated that I "suffer from several eating disorders"

WUT??? 

Thank you for informing me, you incompetent fucks! I wasn't aware of that, I am happy to see that you not only disregard anything I said about how I feel and what my problems are, but that you also make up fictional phone calls in which I inform you of nonexistent disorders! I DON'T HAVE ANY EATING DISORDER! 

References to my psychiatrist's diagnoses WHICH I SHOWED THAT WOMAN were disregarded as blatant lies of mine as well (probably because people in the UK cannot trust foreign doctors from foreign non-UK countries - after all, they're foreign and could say ANYTHING). So apparently I made up all of my diagnoses that I got back home and showed that "psychiatric nurse". 

Seriously. Is this what the UK mental health system is like? You send a borderline retarded "psychiatric nurse" to visit someone who just tried to kill themselves, they have a look around, note approvingly that the flat and kitchen is clean, that the patient in question doesn't stink, make a note that they have a degree, and then they're off for almost four months to then write an "assessment" stating that the person in question is fucking fine?! FINE?! DO I HAVE TO CARVE WORDS IN MY FACE AGAIN SO THAT I AM NOT CONSIDERED FINE??? Apparently carving and burning up your arms doesn't count on the magical and wonderful secret grading system of the NHS. What would you need to do? I told her that I had been in the grip of fucking suicidal ideation for months, and that it didn't get better! What do they want someone like me to do to recognise and accept that I would need SOME help?? I am not asking them to put me through years of fucking therapy or anything, or section me away (because cats), but WHAT DO THEY WANT?! I just wanted to see a fucking psychiatrist to get some medication to tide me over until I manage to sort my circumstances out - but FUCK NO, WE CAN'T HAVE THAT. I am just lying to them about all of my past and all of my psychiatric history, faking the 900+ scars on my arms because I find that funny and an engaging way to spend my fucking time?? 

These people make me sick. Reading this "assessment"/"report" I had to start to cry, because I felt so betrayed. Apparently I'm doing something wrong when talking to mental health people in the UK. Being honest and open with them, telling them how it is, how it was and what kinds of treatment I received in the past, telling them why I am in a bad shape right now seems to be a really, really bad idea. What do they expect me to do? Should I take a razor to my face when they talk to me? I can do that. But this is just.... so very, very wrong.
___
Edit: Addendum
After the aforementioned suicide attempt, when I was in A&E with friend Dr Mabuse, the two social worker ladies (very nice, no complaint there) who asked me about me and why I was there continuously remarked that they were impressed that I had such a high level of reflection on what I was thinking and feeling and the reasons for that, and that it's rare to have a patient who is so articulate about all that after such an incident. Apparently that makes these people think that you weren't serious. For some reason, being able to explain rationally in detail why you came to the conclusion that it would be best to simply remove yourself from existence, and how you tried to do that and why you failed (human weakness always being the most uncomfortable point in that list), makes the people interviewing you think that you didn't really want to die or even hurt yourself.
How dumb and insensitive is that? Do I have to be raging with tears and the fuel of madness in order for someone to believe that yes, /i would like to end myself? Shouldn't being able to explain my reasons be more reason to trust my judgment on that?
Fucking ridiculous. "You can think, hence you WANT TO LIVE!" - No you stupid fuck, I just failed to die, there's a distinct difference.
/Addendum
_____

This woman was talking to me for an hour. I cleaned everything up because I was under the apparently mistaken assumption that you fucking clean your flat when someone visits you, especially someone from an official institution. I tried to keep my calm, even though I broke down crying several times throughout the interview. What? What did I do wrong? 
Should I have tried to cut my arm off? Should I have smeared the walls with blood beforehand? I dont want to be sectioned - but trying to appear like a somewhat sane adult who simply needs help because they've been failed by all of the systems apparently in place for people like me in the UK apparently was a huge mistake.
You can't win in a game like that that is rigged against you from the beginning. Being left to float in an existential limbo for almost four months after such a visit, hearing nothing, getting no help whatsoever, and then getting this thing sent to you in which you have to read that you're fine and at no risk of self harm - it is not just insulting, it is deeply hurtful. In the time since that woman had talked to me (or rather, since I had talked at her), I have cut myself 11 times. Admittedly, five of those were not really as deep as I could go, but the rest were me enthusiastically carving up bits of myself to try and cope with the overwhelming feelings of isolation, externally caused depression (situational context of mode of existence) plus a correspondingly thorough dose of self hatred and existential despair. 

This isn't helping people who need help. At all. I am lucky enough to possess a relatively high level of self reflection (say the professionals), because that comes with my IQ and 15+ years of examining myself and trying to get better on my own because there is nobody there to help you. I dread to think what someone with a less developed system of internal coping mechanisms would have done - or someone in a worse situation than me. It's no wonder that there are regularly news about people cut off from benefits committing suicide here in the UK whilst they're waiting for help from both the social security and mental health system, particularly when you're "fit for work". (<-- LINKS)
{I'm not happy that I fall in this category - as with many people who are in similar circumstances, if not most, I feel ashamed for my problems (the devious devil of the ominously designated 'mental health problems'), because mental health issues are generally seen as something completely different from physical health problems. Physical health problems happen to you, but the mental health problems aren't considered to be something that also just happens to you, but something that you intrinsically "have", something that you *are*}

There is no mental health system here for people who are really at risk and really need it. I've talked to enough people who also suffer from mental health issues of various kinds, who have all been left alone by this "system". We cannot contribute financially to the UK because we're "crazy" and "wrong" and "lying". 
I have talked to six different doctors, and they all refused to refer me to a psychiatrist (why? Apparently I dont need one, simple as that). I have been refused treatment at emergency clinics (you need a referral from a GP first, even if you show up there with blood dripping from the cuts on your arms, in tears and hardly able to communicate because you're so fucked up in the head BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN LEFT ALONE BY EVERYBODY - and if you don't have a referral from your GP? Well, there's probably a reason why s/he won't give you one! Go back home!). 

Good going, UK "mental health system". This will surely solve all of the problems and high suicide rates. Verily.

It makes me sick.



____________________________
FOOTNOTE: "woman employee"? If I had a penis, would I have been referred to as a "man employee"?! It makes me sound as if I was cleaning the floors rather than curate a giant collection. "woman employee". Hah. No sexism there at all.

05/11/2015

crowdfunding

Get Nyar, Oona and Asqui Home! 

Fundrazr: Get Nyar, Asqui and Oona Home!


SHIT I READ 000 - ravenous panic reading list, or: how to avoid PhD topics professionally!

Writing the last entry I realised that I read a shitload of books last month in order to not do anything useful and not get into a panic. And because it is quite an impressive list I am totally listing it here. For if I can't offer my immense knowledge and awesomeness in regards to PhD topics, I can at least offer "shit I read".

Hence I present:

SHIT I READ:

Caitlín R. Kiernan - Murder of Angels
Caitlín R. Kiernan - Silk
Caitlín R. Kiernan - The Ape's Wife and Other Stories
Umberto Eco - The Prague Cemetery
Nancy A. Collins - Dead Man's Hand
Paul Guran (ed.) - The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror 2011
Dennis Detwiller - Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy. A Cthulhu Mythos Novel of WWII
Lord Dunsany - Fifty-One Tales
Umberto Eco - Baudolino
Jeff Gelb and Michael Garrett (eds.) - Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror
Richard Matheson - I Am Legend
Stephen Jones (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 21
Stephen Jones (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror  22
Stephen Jones (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror  23
Caitlín R. Kiernan - Alabaster
Caitlín R. Kiernan - The Red Tree
Nancy A. Collins - Right Hand Magic
Octavia E. Butler - Fledgling
Poppy Z. Brite - Lost Souls
Michael Rowe - Enter, Night
John Skipp and Craig Spector - Animals
John Skipp and Craig Spector - Dead Lines
John Skipp and Craig Spector - The Scream
John Skipp and Craig Spector - The Light at the End

...which makes 24 books for October. Not too shabby. I am honestly surprised that I read that many, even though I wanted to read more. I feel slightly bad for not having even looked at a single academic book or article, but fuck it, trying to remain sane has a higher priority than accumulating knowledge right now. Plus, this has been the first time I've been reading fiction in years. As I am a creature of extremes, I do tend to binge. This was definitely a binge-reading month. And it worked - as my goal was to not think of my PhD shit, I succeeded brilliantly.

I need to read more. MORE. I was thinking about reading Tad Williams' Otherland books again (because I love Dread), but that won't work because I only have them as pdfs, and the e-book reader I got from Kumpelino only shows pdfs with font size 8. Which is headache-inducing. I can't read any more by Caitlín R. Kiernan because her repetitive wording makes me go insane (KUDZU VINES! FUCKING KUDZU VINES!), I don't want to read more Poppy Z. Brite, because KUDZU VINES and man-on-man sex, and blah. Headache. And I'm sick of the Mammoth Book of Best New Horror books, as I already know most of the stories included. Damn my ravenous reading habits.


Now, what to read next...? I was thinking about binging on Umberto Eco, possibly re-reading Foucault's Pendulum, because I thoroughly enjoy feeling clever. But again, only available as a pdf, because I DO NOT HAVE MY LIBRARY IN THIS THRICE DAMNED COUNTRY. Suggestions are welcome*. Fuck all of this shit. I would go through my Moorcock collection again if I had my Moorcock collection with me. But I do have The Warhound and the World's Pain in the 1992 Millennium edition, so maybe I'll read that. I do have Eco's From the Tree to the Labyrinth in actual book form as well, which I haven't read yet (as opposed to the aforementioned Moorcock), but that involves thinking and taking notes and more thinking, and I don't want to think right now. I want easy shit to read that doesn't involve any fucking brain activity whatsoever.  And nothing that involves sitting in front of the laptop, I'm getting eye-aches and headaches from that (probably psychosomatic, but that doesn't stop the pain). I did find an amazing book edited by Ian Hodder (He Of the Power and Might of Catalhöyük) that I really would love to read, but it's a) a pdf, b) nonfiction, and both a) and b) will make my head hurt like fuck.


Blegh.


*feels like shit*

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*FN 1: I am looking at you, 1410c!