Oh my goodness, oh my soul

Over Christmas, I dreamed I was possessed by an evil demon.

It might sound funny, but it was quite distressing, at the time. The girl is always concerned when I have bad dreams, and I think she thought me a little strange when I asked her to reassure me the next morning that she didn't think I was possessed. The lovely, obliging girl indulged me, but with a bit of a strange look. I guess it's like dreaming you're a penguin, then asking your partner to confirm they don't think you're a penguin. Or something fictional, like a unicorn -- since to me those are about as real as demons.

It would be slightly inaccurate to say I grew up in a Catholic household. I didn't. My parents sent me to a Catholic school, and attended church weekly -- although with decreasing frequency as my brother and I got older. But I don't think they ever believed it themselves, they were just repeating their own upbringings. Just the same, I was quite a literal child and always expected God to speak to me. I expected to physically hear God's voice, out loud, and I remember slight puzzlement that it never came. A lot of the parables I heard at school I took completely literally and on face value, so I think in some ways their messages were slightly lost on me.

I'm sure that my own Dad became entwined with God in my developing mind, as it must do with so many others (except with their own Fathers, it would be creepy if everyone associated mine with God) -- something I strongly disagree with.

As I got older, I stopped expecting to hear the voice of God. But in my teens I became convinced on a number of occasions that God was telling me things. I didn't hear a voice and believe it was God's, but I had thoughts or ideas and I believed them to be divinely inspired. Which is weird, since I had a very on-off relationship with any sort of belief. I would believe that God wanted me to do things like go to war-torn former-Yugoslavia to do aid work (thankfully not missionary work), or sometimes that I should go without food, or that I should hurt myself.

There were other times when ideas would come to me -- such completely abhorrent things -- that would seem so completely outside of my own thought processes, that I wondered if there really could be something outside of myself, giving me these thoughts. I wonder now how quickly a doctor would have put me on anti-psychotic medications if I had thought to tell them. Or anyone.

It worked the other way, too -- I have always felt as if anything creative came from outside of myself, short story writing sometimes felt more like automatic writing, I had no idea what was going to be written until I wrote it. The mind is a curious and mysterious thing.

I was left feeling distinctly uneasy following my dream of demonic possession. I didn't like to see my reflection, the dark circles under my eyes reminded me of my own evil reflection I had seen. At least if you dreamed you were a penguin someone could give you a mirror and a picture of a penguin, and leave you to work it out for yourself from there.

Many people still do believe literally in demonic possession -- feel that things like alcoholism or depression or self harm or drug abuse or murderous rages are all caused by an evil spirit, hitchhiking on our souls. My friend Jon was one of those people, to an extent -- until he abruptly lost his faith last year. His family's bookshelves contained modern day accounts of exorcisms and possessions -- you'll be glad to know I never felt compelled to read any of them. I'd be interested to know what he makes of them all now.

I watched an exorcism live on TV once. It was broadcast late one night on Channel 4, and had been debated and vilified in the press for weeks. A man suffering from various problems and who had been exorcised before (in part, it seems he had a lot of uninvited guests) was going to be 'cured' right before your eyes. It spent ages building up, then cut to an ad break. Before it restarted after the break, there was a warning that the following could contain distressing scenes, people of sensitive dispositions should turn off, all that kind of thing.

The exorcism itself lasted perhaps 30 seconds, and was less distressing than most kids' tv programmes. In fact, nothing appeared to happen. Words were said, hands laid on, then it was over -- "Do you feel better now?" "Yes thanks, I'll get my coat" was essentially it. Even the presenters were left a bit not knowing what to do next. All that was left was to try and fill the remaining time with debate and scientific analysis -- an EEG analysis of his brain was looked at closely, and a small spike of activity was identified as the exact point that the evil spirit left him.

I think they'd been hoping for screaming and spitting and shouting and...other things beginning with the letter S. The sufferer admitted that, yes, it was quick and uneventful, but that previous exorcisms he'd had were much more exciting...

You'd have thought he could have at least put on a bit of a show.

Those who wear the clothes should be happy they're dressed

Dune recently said how we attract the things we fear the most. There are various contemporary philosophies agreeing with this -- from the cosmic ordering service and intention-manifestation to explanations more firmly rooted in Psychology. The end result is the same -- whether it's a fear of being left, a fear of never being loved, or a fear of failure, the time and energy you spend thinking about these things acts like a tractor beam, hastening their path towards you.

This post was originally written as one of my usual rants, whines or general complaints about feeling unemployable. While some people may convince themselves of everything from them being unlovable to the idea that aliens fathered their child, I get hung up about work. Which I guess is really the idea that I will never be good enough -- since I'm fairly sure if I didn't care what I could get and keep *some* job or another, yet never be satisfied. Actually, this last point is a post for another day: I think I continue to need therapy because no matter what changes in my life, I don't think I am going to be content (I say may I never be complete, I say may I never be content). There is some obstacle (mostly of my own creation, I don't doubt) that sits in my chest -- so even if I'm someday living in London with a good job, a girl who thinks I rock, and a cat, this feeling is unlikely to shift. I do emo so well it hurts. Which obviously is the whole point of doing it.

What it comes down to is why has "a job" or "a career" become so important? Is it just me that is hung up on it, or is it pressure from "society", exerting a force on many others? When people meet you, the first thing they ask you is "So what do you do?", friends and relatives always ask "What are you up to now?". We are defined by the jobs we do. But you are not your job. You are not the contents of your wallet, or how much money you have in the bank.

What would it be like if people just took any job that came along and nobody thought any more of work than that -- instead, people might meet for the first time and ask what their favourite song is, or what their hobbies are. What constitutes being a success? And will anything ever be enough to stop me considering myself a failure?

Anyway, clawing my way back to the post in hand -- I was feeling unemployable, then two interviews came through. When I decided the time had come to get back into the job market I updated who I thought were my trusted key recruiters -- a media recruiter, and someone who was less media orientate but appreciated my key skills. The latter thanked me for my update, and said to keep him updated with my progress. Gee, thanks mate -- you're meant to be the one looking for the jobs for me. The first was enthusiastic to hear from me, but told me that having not worked in PR for the last six months she wasn't optimistic about being able to find any work for me, since I'd found it difficult enough before. Was I willing to look a bit wider afield this time, she enquired? By all means. My CV was dutifully distributed among the whole of the recruitment consultancy -- resulting in the overwhelming interest from a whole one other recruiter.

The new recruiter, named Jake, found a marketing job that was less PR and more press office and which sounded great. Good location, good money, varied and interesting role. Unfortunately it was filled before they called me for interview. Next he found a job with a digital marketing agency to put me forward for. Time passed, and I heard nothing. I called him and he said that the person recruiting had been away but they were back now so things would start moving. And I still heard nothing. I'm pretty sure I left him a message one day which he didn't return. After I eventually gave up on the position, I was browsing one evening the job's board for the consultancy, seeing what was new. I saw a job I thought ticked all my boxes and I'd be perfect for -- only to find that the recruiter to contact about it was my good friend Jakey. I emailed him expressing my interest and asking his thoughts. He couldn't have been less interested himself, since he never bothered to reply. I unofficially ditched him and his motley crew of colleagues.

The search from there has been in fits and starts -- some days I'd find several jobs online and apply for them all, and receive no replies. Other days there'd be nothing that seemed to light my fuse. One day at work I was roused out my near-slumber that tends to be natural state during the 9 to 5 routine of working in purchasing -- roused by my silently vibrating mobile phone. I glanced at the display, saw it was a local number, and presumed it was the library probably calling to tell my Norwegian language course was available to pick up. When I played the voicemail I found it was instead the recruiter who had got me my illustrious job in purchasing -- having found a job in publishing she thought I'd be perfect for.

Over email, we discussed the job, I had her send me more information and told her to put me forward for it, although a couple of points bothered me -- the location was deeper into the Essex countryside than where I already am, and the pay was pretty low. By the middle of last week I was feeling pretty uninspired about work in general and less than optimistic about myself, I scoured the innernetz for more jobs (since I can't rely on recruiters to be any more useful than a chocolate teapot) and applied for one working for a design studio.

I was surprised when the publishers invited me for an interview, and still torn between being pleased (better job! better prospects! some sort of vague direction!) and being unsure (horrible travel! isolated location! no money!). Annoyingly two days before the interview, my internet died. No warning, seemingly no explanation -- the wireless network and router insisted they were working fine, but there was no internet. Other points in the house at first were still thinking they did have internet, until they caught on to the plan and decided the network didn't even exist. This continued on and off to the next day when I figured the problem was unlikely to be actually the internet but probably my router. Master reset time for the router. Guess who forgot to make a note of the specific details of the username and password? Pretty sure I had the details correct (and safe in the knowledge it was broken before I started the drastic measures) when I was still unable to connect, I called the ISP. Due to unusually high call volumes, the recorded message told me, there was to be a wait in excess of 15 minutes.

While on hold with the ISP on my mobile with one hand I was also trying to marinade pork steaks in piri-piri sauce, they caught me off-guard when they answered but things were quickly got under control. They were also quickly resolved when I found out that Microsoft's latest update had knocked out internet connections for anyone using the ZoneAlarm firewall -- and that I had inputted the wrong username details after the master reset. An uninstall and a correction later the internet was restored -- I felt like I had regrown a lost limb.

What I haven't mentioned was while I was trying to restore my internet my mobile signalled I had another call waiting, to which I responded "busy". After I hung up I noticed the dialling code was for central London, but suspected it was a health insurance company who had been calling me all week wanting to give me a quote -- the voicemail was instead inviting me for an interview with the design agency I had applied for a job with two nights previously. Suddenly I had gone from attracting the thing I feared most (failure) to two job interviews.

The interview with the publishers on Friday morning went well. They liked me and introduced me around to people in the office, I liked them and spoke enthusiastically about what they do and the role. I wasn't even back in the office before my recruiter was calling to say they wanted me to come for a second interview. Still battling my doubts on the job, but I am going to give it all I have and see where the flow of the energy takes me. The design agency job interview is on Tuesday, and I am a little intimidated by their work. I am not a designer by any stretch of the imagination, but in my defence they aren't recruiting for a designer -- they are recruiting for a publicity assistant or the like. Presumably, they've read my cover letter, they've looked at my CV, so they know what side my toast is buttered on. Still, it's going to take some more hardcore researching and self belief.

Whether you believe you can, or believe you can't, you'll be right.

UPDATE: I didn't get either job. Back to square 1.

Every drop of flame

On Monday night, I drove Dune to her cousin's flat in South London -- where she will be staying for a week or so, she says to give my parents a rest, and to give us all a chance to miss her. It's funny how quickly you get used to having someone around, my parents agree that the house seems quiet now, and my Mum in particular loved having a girl about the place.

I've been driving a lot the last couple of days -- having spent Sunday delivering meals to the sick and needy, which meant navigating the mean streets of East London on my own as they were a person short so I didn't have a navigator. The driving and navigating wasn't so bad -- in fact, I've sometimes thought on occasion a satnav would be more reliable, as there have been so many navigators who struggled with left and right, stuttered when giving directions, or just had to be given a little help map reading. All lovely people, don't get me wrong, just not your first choice of navigator. Unfortunately, what a satnav can't do is entertain you, help you bag up the meals, or drop the meals off at the door while you turn the car round. Instead I had to find somewhere to park (rather than just beaching the car like a whale, as I normally do), hide the valuables, then bag up the meals and deliver them and all the rest. It was hard work. I got an email today asking if I could drive again this Sunday because they were a driver short. It is going to have to be at least a month before I'd want to do it again.

You might think after Sunday's driving I wouldn't have wanted to drive to or around London again -- but there was no way on earth I was prepared to see Dune struggle with trains and tubes with her bags. It wasn't easy for the two of us to transport them from the airport to my car when she arrived, and that was with a baggage trolley -- I would have sooner carried the bags on my back like a donkey than I would have made her take the train. I like to look after my friends, and I can know they have arrived safely if I take them myself.

Driving at night when the rounds are quiet and the air is cold, you can turn the stereo up and it almost feels like you're in a movie. When Dune and I were driving home from the airport when I first picked her up we commented on something like it -- a particular song came on and we remarked it felt like the introspective, soul-searching part of the film where the protagonist struggles with a decision they must make. The people you pass in the streets seem like extras, all playing their parts to the best of their ability -- but when you stop at traffic lights, you still lean over and lock the doors.

To be completely honest, I'm in a bit of a strange emotional state at the moment. It would be too hasty to say I am regressing to where I was when I started therapy, but I have to remind myself that I didn't stop therapy because I didn't need it, I stopped because I couldn't rely on my therapist. I dreamed last night I turned up at his house just like I had always done (since that was his office) and although he seemed surprised to see me, he wasn't that surprised, or mad that I had stopped. Just the same, I am noticing myself being quiet and withdrawn when I don't want to be and am sometimes troubled with recurring thoughts.

In other news, I have my first formal interview with the RAF booked in. I was avoiding their calls for ages -- since I had to fill in yet another application form and was having doubts if I was doing the right thing -- but I reminded myself this is something I have to do, or else always be wondering.

2007 roundup

Yes, it's that time of year again where I take my lead from my fellow bloggers and post a looking backwards/looking forwards New Year post. And it looks a bit like this.

Work

I started 2007 working in a call centre. I was handling insurance claims for a mobile phone provider, and while I enjoyed it if I felt like I was helping people, for the most part it was pretty soul-destroying. I hated being yelled at by customers, I hated not being able to just get a cup of water if I wanted one, and I saw nowhere for me to go in the job. It seemed if I stayed there, the best I could do was eventually be a manager -- and they didn't seem much happier.

In April, I quit the job without giving notice. One Friday afternoon I finished early because I had been working early shifts all week, and I got a phone call from a recruitment consultant. Would I be interested in a freelance-to-permanent job with this one major PR agency in London? I jumped at the chance, and they took me on without an interview. The job never went permanent, they said because my role was combined with a more senior role which they recruited for instead -- but I wouldn't have got it anyway, becuase I wasn't "right" for the accounts, which included beauty products.

I spent much of the rest of this year in freelance PR contracts -- being paid well, but never knowing when the next job would come along, and never making the move to a permanent role. I interviewed for more agencies than I could possibly count -- I even met the same agency in Southampton twice. Most notably, I took myself on a road trip to Brighton for one job, and came close to actually succeeding. The interview was the best I've ever had, and the interviewer -- who also owned the company -- told me how much he liked me, how much he thought we had in common and that I was his favourite for the job. But he was troubled that I didn't live in Brighton, as ideally he'd like someone who knew the area. Needless to say, I didn't get it.

By October, I was fed up with being rejected for every job I went for -- including freelance contracts -- and instead applied for a Christmas temp job in a local bookshop. After a very casual and surreal interview, I was offered the job and grabbed it with both hands. I am due to finish this week, and am a little sad about it as I enjoy the work. Although there isn't really anywhere for my "career" to go, and I didn't spend 4 years and however-many thousand on university education to work in retail, I would probably stay if I was offered a job. I could do with staying in one job now for a decent length of time, and I would rather be happy and paid less than miserable and paid more. We shall see what happens.

In November I decided to stop thinking about it and just do it, and filled out a formal application to join the RAF -- in an officer/administrative position. Who knows what will happen with it.

In December I sent Christmas cards deliberately late when the cards were reduced in price after Christmas to a number of old PR contacts, including my business card, as has now become habit. There's been no response yet, but I was bargaining on nobody being back at work until late this week or early next week. I don't expect anything much, but it was worth a try.

Music

Music remains such a big part of my life that it has to get its own heading. This last year, like most years, I struggle to remember all the bands I have seen. Off the top of my head I can count Nine Inch Nails (twice), Smashing Pumpkins (the first time was amazing, the second was so bad I felt almost personally betrayed), Chris Cornell, Pearl Jam, Ben Folds, Foo Fighters, Aerosmith, Suicide Bid, the Sex Pistols, Sonic Boom Six, The Filaments (in what Pete insists will be their last-ever show), Silversun Pickups and so many more at Reading Festival. I am still wearing my Reading Festival wristband, even though the festival was in August. I work with a girl who is still wearing her wristband from 2006.

2008 is already shaping up to be a good year for music, with tickets already bought for the Gutter Twins, Foo Fighters and Reading Festival -- although Jon has suggested we maybe try and see fewer bands this year (exceptions being the likes of Led Zeppelin and Chris Cornell). How long it will last is doubtful.

Girls

I guess maybe it should be "relationships" as I briefly tried to meet guys through online dating as well -- but finally understood, at least partially, what it is like to be a girl. If you want no-strings sex with strangers, then the world is your oyster -- but you'll be lucky if all you do is catch something nasty. If you actually want to try and meet someone worthwhile, or if worthwhile is too strong a word, then at least someone you could imagine being with, then your options suddenly diminish very rapidly. In the end, the farthest I got was a brief correspondence with a guy, before it fizzled out.

And I haven't fared too much better with girls. I've posted ads, and replied to ads, and again had brief correspondences going. I have come to understand that I shouldn't send a picture of myself too soon as they don't do me any favours, but instead try and build an interest with my winning personality. I know that the best way for me to meet people is more likely going to be offline than through any sort of personals ad, and I thought I had found what I was looking for when I met a cute girl at a punk gig. She was on her own, I was on my own, we had a few beers and really enjoyed each other's company. But either I tried my luck too soon or just wasn't what she wanted, things fell apart with Claire. Just the same, it has shown me to at least try and talk to people and make conversation, even if I feel shy.

Blogging

This would perhaps be better titled bloggers, since the writing itself ain't much to write home about. After first meeting in 2006, China Blue has now become a bona fide real life friend this year -- I've cooked for her, she's met my friends and my cat, and we almost set fire to a bar in Shoreditch last month.

I also met the lovely Elizabeth last June, and although we only spent a few hours together, I am hoping to see more of her when she returns this year.

2008 promises to be an even better year for meeting Bloggers, since Dune is coming to England in six weeks and will be staying with me for a time -- and hot on her heels to these shores will be DownHomeGirl at the start of the summer. I hope to meet WDKY at some point this year, since it seems absurd to me to live so close and read one another's blog, but not meet, and various other bloggers visiting or moving to London I also hope to meet.

Travel

Ha, that's almost a joke this year. A trip to Barcelona fell through near the start of the year, but I hoped with my well paid freelance PR contracts to be able to see some of Europe -- with Paris, Prague, Rome and Venice joining Barcelona on my list. I didn't even leave the country. The closest I got was when I drove to Bristol for a job interview -- and briefly considered driving the extra miles to Cardiff, since I've never been there. There was no surfing in Portugal last year, no snowboarding in the French Alps, not even a week's surfing in Cornwall. I already have plans in place to visit Spain this year, but I think there's also going to need to be a week or so doing something adrenaline-fuelled.

Anyway, despite the lack of overseas travel this year, I have spent many weekends by the sea in Portsmouth -- including a very enjoyable birthday there, and still consider it a very plausible place to live when I am looking for work. As mentioned, I also successfully navigated trips to Bristol and Brighton, the latter without even the aid of sat nav. Like Portsmouth, I was very taken with both cities and the more I see of the country the less I understand the desire for everyone to move to London. Sure, I love London, and would like to live there too -- but I also love Manchester, and Portsmouth, and Brighton -- there's so many great places to be.

As well as some overseas travel (not least to Paris, it's so damn close, I can't believe I've never been), I shall also endeavour to see more of England this year. When it's always there, always available, and not going anywhere, you don't necessarily feel any pull to see these things -- I am going to put that right this year.

Home life

I still live at home. This has to change. Although it seems the British are in some ways abnormal among Europeans for their desire to leave home as soon as possible, it doesn't offer me much comfort. More and more people I know are moving into houses with their friends, almost like students, as house prices in Britain become increasingly ludicrous -- but the comforting thing is these people don't have amazing jobs, so with some kind of reasonably paid, full time job and a few like minded friends, 2008 could be the year I finally move out for good. And will probably take the cat with me...

The dream

Last week, I had a dream that I had Down's Syndrome. It sounds funny, or stupid, and in the cold light of day it seemed a mixture of both. I tried to talk to my friends about it, but unfortunately only managed to make it sound funny, at first. With a little explaining of how I felt and what I think the dream was about or influenced by, Jon at least could see what I was saying. Nick showed just how clueless he remains when he told us last night that he thought it was so funny he texted all his friends to say that I'd had a dream about having Down's Syndrome and had been apparently "disappointed" because if they'd known my parents would have had an abortion.

It's difficult to explain. For about as long as I can remember, I have felt that I wasn't just "different" to other people, but that there was actually something wrong with me. Growing up, I was always very clumsy -- I'd walk into door frames, had very bad "spatial awareness" and sense of balance. I remain clumsy to this day, but it's not considered an issue now. But as a child it was considered possibly very serious, since I have an uncle with Multiple Sclerosis and I'm told some of the early warning signs are perceived clumsiness.

That might explain why at school I would sometimes be pulled out of lessons to have tests run on me -- to check my hearing, check my balance, check my coordination -- but was never given an explanation at the time. I know so many people have said and will continue to say "I would have asked". I don't know why I didn't ask, didn't demand answers, except that just wasn't me.

I've heard told that as a child I was late to start talking -- again, it was assumed there was something wrong with me. The experts concluded there wasn't, I just didn't feel like talking. I also remember however-many visits to speech therapists -- surely by this time I was talking -- but why I was going, or what it achieved, I can't tell you. Especially as I still can't pronounce my "th" properly ("three" is the same as "free") but that's very much an Essex/London accent anyway.

In later years, there's been emotional problems. There's been depression and god knows what else, and from a medical perspective doctors never really agreed what was wrong with me. I blame it at least in part on a tendency to act out -- if you tell me I'm depressed, I will be. If you tell me I have borderline personality disorder, or bipolar depression, or whatever else label you want to give me, then I will be able to parrot fashion repeat back to you the symptoms, if that's what you want to hear.

I was watching the movie Garden State earlier this evening. In the movie, Zach Braff's character has been on medication constantly since he was a child and no longer feels anything -- until he goes home for his mother's funeral and stops taking his medication.

I have gone cold turkey from various medications myself in the past and it was not fun. In fact, it was about as fucked up as it has been possible to feel. I once had a psychiatrist cancel my prescription for anti depressants because he felt it hadn't been firmly established if I might be bipolar in which case the medication I was taking would have been completely wrong. The unfortunate thing was, I wasn't given anything else and he never returned my phone calls -- let alone make a second appointment -- so I felt like I was left to fend for myself. Anyway, the point is that it can be positively dangerous to just stop taking these kinds of medications and you should not do so without consulting your doctor who would advise you on how to gradually cut down.

The film has nothing of this -- it showed nothing of the soaring feeling of complete indestructibility I would first feel when I quit the meds, this giving way quickly to a spiralling depression and a desire to really hurt myself. Zach Braff's character seems to instead slowly begin to feel all kinds of things again, in what appears to be a smooth and almost seamless transition. I know, it's a movie -- it's not meant to be taken literally. But it annoyed me.

My dream was about feeling like there was something wrong with me. It was about finding out there was something wrong with me -- of always suspecting, and then finding out it had been kept a secret. And I do know almost for a fact that my Dad at least would consider abortion to be the kinder option for a child with Down's Sydrome -- I have no idea how well educated about the subject he is, but I remember him telling me before that the children you see with the condition are a very lucky minority who are able to live an almost normal life -- and that instead 99% of people born with the condition are so severely handicapped... Well, you get it by now.

Even if I didn't explain it very well, even if I made it sound funny at first because I didn't know how else to bring up with my friends a lingering feeling of distress from a dream, I was fucking insulted to hear Nick say how he was texting his friends about it, because it was so funny. Sometimes I think I should tell my therapist about the violent thoughts that boy inspires in me, almost without effort on his part.

As a post script... I don't know. I grow and I prove things to myself -- passing my driving test was one of the biggest achievements in my life, since my instructor when I was 17 gave up on trying to teach me. He said he had "run out of ideas to help [me]" -- but at 25 I sure showed him when I did pass my test. I'd had an instructor who wouldn't give up on me, and helped me to believe in myself. And I realised that even if I do walk into door frames and bang my head when I pick up the post off the mat, that I can still drive a car perfectly well. I am trying to rewrite the story that is my life, or who I am, in so many ways -- but clearly some issues remain in that old subconscious mind.