In out, in out...

During my journey through cyberspace today I read Shauna Reid's Adventures of Diet Girl blog, which I discovered a few months ago through Bloggers with Book Deals.
I've mentioned Shauna before because she lost 12 stone. TWELVE STONE. Which is a lot in anyone's book and, speaking of books, she wrote one about losing her TWELVE STONE and it's out now. (And I'm buying it all to myself on payday!).

Anyway, today on her blog she talks about those smug feckers who think losing weight is simply an issue of eating less and moving about more. Which, we all know, is a pile of shite. I read her post and it made me laugh, but it also made me cry. She talks of defining herself as fat. I do that - all the time. I sit and think of how to describe me and the first thought is fat. It's always been that way, even when I was 10 stone (a loooooong time ago) and more so now that I'm considerably more than 10 stone. It's a horrible place to be when your first thought about yourself is what you weigh - and what others think you weigh. I see myself as a person, yes, but as a woman - an attractive woman - no. I never have and I'm not sure I will.
But reading Shauna's post I'm determined to read her book and see if I can change that. That would be pretty amazing.

I know all there is to know...

about the waiting game...
The thing with writing is that you do a lot of waiting. You wait, in many instances, until the muse strikes and then - if you work full time like me - you wait until you get home until you actually have the opportunity to write.
Then you send your book off and wait for your agent to say whether she likes it which, even though you tend to get a response in a week or so, feels like the longest wait of your life. Until that is you send it to your publisher and wait to see if they like it ... and that's a longer wait. Every hour feels like a year. Every moment is spent paralysed with fear that they hate it and they hate you and they are scurrying away in the background trying to break your contract... and then you hear... and your breathe out... and do some rewrites... and send if off again.
Then, once you have sent it off you wait again for a publication slot. And it goes quiet and you wonder if the last year of your life has been a dream and while you do the day job and try and write something else you wonder can it really, really be true that you actually wrote a book at all?
Then you wait for it to be released, and wait for the reviews (and hope you actually get some reviews in the first place) and wait for people to tell you what they thought of it and then wait for the whole process to start again.
And all this time you are consumed with paranoia and fear and self doubt, with moments of joy. And some times you wonder if you have the mental strength to be a writer and cope with the waiting. As one who's middle names really should have been 'Instant Gratification' this is not something I cope well with.
But you remind yourself that you are in a priviledged position and being published isn't a right - it's a luxury - albeit one you work damn hard for.
But still, some times, in the horrible month that is January you wonder should you give it up and return to spending your evenings watching TV or chatting online. There's less worry and waiting in watching Corrie, but there is less reward.
Still... some times...

Evil, evil mummy

A debate (when I say debate read that as full on war) on one of the forums I use about the perils of being a SAHM (stay-at-home-mummy) as opposed to working.
It started innocently (ish) enough with a question about how SAHM's cope with comments such as "I could n't possibly do what you do. I would be sooooo bored", which I admit is a little insulting to SAHMs and indeed their children. (You could accuse my son of many things - being boring isn't one of them).
Now as a working mother, when I make "I couldn't do what you do" comments, its generally in a "Wow! You've certainly a lot more patience that I'd ever have" kind of way. I certainly have never meant to insult anyone.
Now as a working mother, I get my share of barbed remarks also. "Oh, how could let someone else raise your child?" "Why did you have children if you weren't prepared to raise them yourself!", and the classic "Well, if having a fancy lifetstyle is more important to you than being there for you child, then knock yourself out."
I work - I don't feel the need to discuss why, because it's no one's business but my own and at the end of the day a working mum is a working mum. But I can tell you my lifestyle is far from fancy - although I'll freely admit we are a step or two up the rung from benefits.
There is nothing as emotive in this world as telling a mother she isn't doing the whole parenting thing the right way. There is nothing as hateful (as yes, it's a strong word, but necessary in this instance) as implying a mother cares any less of her child because she works.
I've said it once and I'll say 100 times if necessary. We're all doing the best we can and the sooner we women stop bashing each other over the head for our choices (and indeed in many cases there is no choice) the better.
Perhaps we could all learn a lesson from our children and try growing up just a little.

Five things that have made me cry in the last 24 hours...

I’m very emotional (read that as hormonal) today. And it seems I have developed the ability to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Things which have made my cry (fecking up my whole reasons to be cheerful shite that I’ve blethering on about recently) have included
1: The Cow and Gate ad - you know the one with yer man from the Royale Family doing the voice over about how he promises to be a great daddy and thinks his missus is wonderful.
2: Take a Break magazine - why I read this is beyond me. It is full of dead or dying children and tales of abuse. This DOES NOT make me happy. This does not encourage the seratonin in my depression fuelled brain to work in its proper fashion.
3: Filling primary school application forms for the boy. He is only three (okay, four in three weeks...), and the thought of him in a big proper school makes me feel like I’m losing him in some way.
4: The fact that Jack in nursery school would not return the boy’s hug this morning - even though they were playing happily five minutes later. DO NOT REJECT THE CHILD OF AN HORMONAL MOTHER!
5: The fact that my GI diet forbids chocolate and I REALLY want chocolate. NOW! Instead I shall be dining on chicken fecking salad which of course is now a guilt-laden task thanks to Jamie Fecking Oliver and his ilk. (Please animal lovers don’t hate me, but my budget does not stretch to free range organic anything never mind chickens).

Tis the season to be meh....

My struggle with depression is well documented on the pages of this blog and believe me, I thought I was doing okay. I really have felt (apart from the PMT monsters) much brighter, calmer and generally more zen.
I've even spoken to my doctor about coming off medication after almost five years and the thought didn't terrify the bejaysus out of me for once, but God I'm in a dark wee place at the moment and I want out of it.
(Now I'm not thinking of jumping off bridges or taking overdoses or the like so please noone worry on that score). I just feel meh.
It seems that the last two months has been a series of knocks in my personal life which are now affecting my ability to think rationally in the day job and the night job.
I'm also immersed in a pretty serious storyline for my third book and when I'm writing about human misery I have to kind of feel it for it to be honest.
I'm paranoid, weepy, whiney and generally in that place in my head where I want to take to my bed and do mny dying swan routine until it all goes away.
I hate this feeling - when my bad days become a bad week - but I know it will pass and I'll come out the other side soon (I hope).