Incoming!

Did you ever build something up in your mind until it felt like your eyes would burst forth from their sockets?

Over the past couple of months I've been adding fuel to a ticking bomb inside my head. Every day it seems there has been something extra to dump on the growing glowing mass. A bucket full of gossip, a spade of verbal abuse, not to mention the wheel barrows of worry. In readiness for this approaching affair I've tried so hard to apply reason and find calm in logical thinking, it doesn't appear to have had the affect I'd hoped. I'm worried and when I'm worried all logic goes out the window. I feel frightened of the unknown and I'm fearing what the future holds, for this is just the beginning.

I'm waiting for the explosion which is scheduled for next week. I thought I knew myself, but this event has proved that no amount of self analysis and padded cell induced naval gazing can ever enlighten one enough. I have no idea how I'm going to react to the shadows of this mushroom cloud and it's inevitable fall out. The worst part is how tired I feel, how totally devoid of energy I am. I'm exhausted from the torment I've created in my head and I just hope I have enough life left in me to get through next week.

For love and goats

I've lost touch with the blogosphere of late, normally I would be intrigued by a distraction of such magnitude that it could pull me away from you guys, except current events haven't been altogether welcome.

Entering into a new relationship has been stellar but at the same time it's brought with it some challenges that even dear old Anneka Rice would have had the sense to turn down.
I used to play a game at university dubbed Challenge Hanneka - a drunken version of Challenge Anneka - which involved my mates assigning me near impossible tasks and killing themselves with laughter as I attempted to complete them ( yeah OK, I was easily led when drunk, but it was all in good sport).
Being well and truly inebriated and too proud to let my reputation slip, I'd never turn down a challenge, which usually ended in some kind of injury but always culminated in hilarity and some fantastic photographic evidence which will no doubt come back to haunt me one day.
An example for you would be the time I was challenged to make my way around a bunk room in a farmhouse in Iceland without touching the floor, (there's not a lot to do in the barren parts of Iceland in the evenings) the challenge was made slightly more difficult by the fact that I was well and truly hammered and then there was the addition of a large bottle of vodka which had to remain firmly between my teeth. I was also decked out with a caving helmet as I'm clumsy at the best of times what with my Bambi legs and sprawling arms. Needless to say I took on the challenge and made some pretty impressive leaps across top bunks, scaled wash basins and shimmied across window sills. It was all going swimmingly until my finale - a dismount worthy of a battered wooden spoon. I landed on a rug, which flew out from under my feet on the shiny wooden floor and sent me hurtling forward, with the acrobatic figure of a spread eagle - vodka bottle thrust outright. I managed to impale myself on the corner of a square wooden stool, (Who has square stools? What's wrong with the round ones???), it struck right in the middle of my sternum. Winded with twisted limbs floundering helplessly I was pretty amazed that I had succeeded and the vodka bottle remained intact. The bruise was enormous, the pain was intense, the photos were exceptional and the legend of Challenge Hanneka went forth unscathed.

I wish all challenges could involve a similar revelry, there's nothing amusing about the mountains I'm attempting to climb right now, and there are no friends around me to laugh and joke with on the way.
I feel isolated as I'm struggling and it's hard to see an end up ahead of me. What makes it more difficult is the realisation that this wasn't even set for me, it's some others K2 and somehow I've agreed to take it upon my shoulders. I'm carrying a burden I never should have accepted, one that is tiring me emotionally and really straining me. I know I am supposed to be avoiding situations that could push me back to mental-ville, and I should have acknowledged the cut off point a long time ago instead of blindly stumbling on. So why didn't I peg it once the gauntlet had been thrown at my feet? Well, that's easy, it's because I'm a goat. A stupid, stubborn old goat that wont say no despite knowing full well I could land myself back amongst the looming white walls of the asylum.
Oh, and there's a little thing called love, which despite my best efforts to quell it's mushy nuisance from my life, still manages to creep in and addle my brains.

So for the sake of love and goats, I will trudge upwards and onwards, and just maybe there will be a giant bottle of vodka waiting for me at the summit.

Hope there's someone

Birth of a Princess

Gwenllian's Lament - Erddigan Gwenllian

My kinsmen, where are you?
Why do you delay,
while I in the loneliness
of prison must stay?

O when will you find me
my exile to end
and free me from solitude --
my unwelcome friend.

Surrounded by people
yet cast off alone,
I long for the gentleness
of voices I've known,

that sang to me softly
in my native tongue
those precious old lullabies,
when I was so young.

How long have I waited
unable to flee,
not knowing which path to take
to set my self free --

nor knowing if you know
where they've hidden me,
alone in the banishment
of uncertainty.

My knsmen, where are you?
How long must I stay
imprisoned in loneliness,
awaiting the day

of loves reunited,
of friendships restored
that linger in memories
through heartache outpoured?

Words & music by Toby D. Griffen

Princess Gwenllian was the only daughter of Prince Llewelyn and his wife Eleanor de Montfort. Gwenllian was born at Plas Pen-y-Bryn (Garth Celyn) at Abergwyngregyn, near Bangor, Gwynedd, on June 12th 1282. Eleanor died after the birth of her daughter. The Princess Gwenllian had close family links with the English kings of that time through her father and mother's family.

As the daughter of Prince Llewelyn, Gwenllian was heiress to the Princes of Gwynedd and the family of Aberffraw. She was a Princess of Wales.

At six months old she was orphaned when her father was ambushed and killed near Builth Wells on December 11th 1282. To King Edward she posed a considerable danger and had to be dealt with accordingly. She was banished for life.

Gwenllian had an uncle - her father's brother David - who had a family of seven children. David was cruelly murdered and his children were banished to monasteries or prisons, never to reappear. But Gwenllian lived. If she had been allowed to marry and bear heirs, then her family, and the rights of Wales would remain a problem for the English King. He arranged for her to be kidnapped from her aunt's house, to be given to the nuns at Sempringham in Lincolnshire, for very safe keeping.

Sempringham was a long way from Wales and as a fortuitous coincidence, the Abbott who founded the Gilbertine order there was an Englishman. It was very natural for the English King to ask a highly respected Englishman to take care of this dangerous Welsh Princess. The King paid the Abbott the handsome sum of £20 per year for his services. When Sempringham was beset with financial difficulty, the King wrote to the Pope asking for help, reminding him that the abbey was the custodian of the daughter of Llewelyn the Prince of Wales. The King was obviously ready to use her for gain when circumstances required this.

Gwenllian was imprisoned for 54 years until her death on June 7th 1337.

It was King Edward's wish that we should forget Gwenllian's existence; in this he seems to have been very successful. She is merely a footnote in our history books, or the subject of a short sentence. Our poets and writers have also conformed to the King's wishes.

An article by Byron Roberts in The Guardian in 1991 reminded us of Princess Gwenllian and her sad fate. His words fired the interest of a retired sea captain from Caernarfon (the late Captain Richard Turner) who decided that there should be a memorial to her. He gathered friends and money to support him in this cause, including the Bishop of Grantham; and, at a moving ceremony in Sempringham, a commemorative stone made from Welsh blue slate was unveiled in 1993. During the 1996 National Eisteddfod at Llandeilo, the Princess Gwenllian Society was founded.

(taken from http://www.fanad.net/gwen.html)

My beautiful and long awaited niece was born today. Her loving parents Esther and Clive have named her Gwenllian, for she is their little Welsh Princess.

In a celebration of your birthday Princess Gwenllian, you are much loved and most welcome to the world.

A fool to believe

I have just come home from spending three days in Birmingham with my boyfriend. His friend has taken on a bungalow and is renovating it for future use as a guest house. My boyfriend was there to take the roof off, so I've been clambering around on scaffolding stripping tiles and felt, burning batons, and generally getting filthy.

I suppose spending some time getting my hands dirty has highlighted a few issues, well in actual fact it's stirred up a mass of confusion about returning to site work. It was a fun few days and it was nice to go inside my head and immerse myself in some manual work, but it's made me feel sad as once again I am forced to realise just how much I've had to give up thanks to a mental health diagnosis.

I don't know if I could ever go back to site work full time, I don't think I've got the confidence or the physical strength any more. I've lost every inkling of belief in my skills, being signed off work has resulted in a complete break down of my core. I feel weak.

I wish I wasn't so stubborn, I wish I could give up the nagging hope to return to my job and not feel like such a failure as more time goes by. It would be so much easier if I could accept that I have to change my career to fit around my incompetence at being a human being. I trained hard to get as far as I did and I feel cheated. I'm upset that my body wont work the way it used to, I'm frustrated that my mind can't recall what I need it to. I'm despairing over a loss that I wont let go of and allow to be buried; I'm still clinging on to a ghost of a dream. I'm a fool.

swept up and swashed back

Skirting across cold hard concrete, the surface grain cruel enough to scrape layers from my skin if I tumble over my quick side-stepping feet.

I'm enjoying life. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I'm racing headlong into drunken mishaps and misdeeds. I've put the blinkers on and I'm refusing to acknowledge any consequences. Preferring to grasp the bottle and swig. I don't want to own up to the vague responsibilities I have left, I want to melt away into an almost invisible state of existence where music and sex and drink are my only fuel.

Becoming Hannah seems to be a bore now, I've lost interest in her now. That static, stable figure of modesty and respect. I wanted her for so long, but I'm happy to let the ideals fade, to accept the diminishment of success.

I'll laugh at this tomorrow...

I bought freezer food today. I don't DO freezer food. There is good reason for this.

It all started with a nice drive into the countryside whereupon I ended up at a farm shop buying pie. I do like pie. I came out laden down with 3 pies, of the organically reared meat variety, good pies. I then realised my mistake, they were frozen. I don't have a freezer, because like I said, I don't DO freezer food. What I do have is a freezer compartment in the top of my fridge which has long since frosted itself shut due to my total abandonment.

I decided to attack the freezer compartment...with a carving knife. This, in retrospect, was a very bad idea. I found stabby motions worked the best, with my eyes closed; this was also a very bad idea. In my defence, I had to close my eyes to stop the bits of ice flying into them and the stabby motions just seemed fitting.

After much energetic jabbing I discovered I was now kneeling in a pool of rapidly melting ice, and the door to the compartment was still only half open. In a last rather frenzied attempt to gain entry I took to violently chiseling with my makeshift ice pick, spraying myself and the kitchen with ice chips.

I really should have taken a more calm and calculated approach to defrosting the freezer compartment. I really shouldn't have abandoned the project when the compartment door pinged off it's hinge. I certainly shouldn't have left the compartment door hanging from a piece of wire. I most definitely should not have left the flat for the evening thinking that on my return the freezer would have fixed itself.
I've also learnt that it doesn't do to leave the fridge door open for the evening without turning off the power. Oh, and positioning the washing-up bowl in front of the fridge didn't catch the melt water.

I returned to a disaster scene. Trying to fix a sorry situation such as this was only ever going to end in further disaster; I knew this, but I battled on regardless. In an attempt to turn off the power to the fridge, I waded in through the puddles and then proceeded to rip the lino as I dragged the fridge by it's door out from under the work surface where I could reach the plug socket. In order to do this, I also had to pull the butcher's block out the way, but forgot the kettle that sat on top of it was plugged into the wall.

I now have a sopping wet kitchen, a freezer compartment with no door, a fridge with puncture wounds, a large rip in the lino and a buggered kettle.

You see, I told you I don't DO freezer food!

As for the pies, I gave them to C to put in his freezer, after he sat and laughed at me for far too long than was acceptable.

A little happiness

For the first time in a long time, it feels as though someone is smiling down on me.

I've got a little happiness in my heart, it feels amazing.

Tentative thoughts whispering, "it might just be OK", are tip-toeing around and about me.

The guy that I wrote about on here a little while ago turned out to be a real good'un.

I still can't quite believe I've found someone this special....

Hannah = MUD, again.

A lack of knowledge inspires fear. Some people can't admit when they are afraid, instead they allow their ignorance to breed resentment. I'm quite used to people bitching about my mental illness, it doesn't bother me half as much as it used to.
What does bother me is the stupidity - intelligence, learning, education, enlightenment - aren't all of these gifts to be embraced? Why do people shy away from a meaningful life of understanding, and instead resort to the base levels of ignorance & spite?

I'm aware it's going on at the moment; bitterness and dim wit has led to my name being dragged through the dirt again, as if it hasn't been sullied enough already.
So of course I'll rise above it, what care I for the comments of fools, but what does piss me off is they could at least get their facts straight. I know, I know, it really is too much to ask from this form of uneducated scum, but if you want to argue my entitlement to a quiet and happy life in this world then the least you could do is put together a coherent and accurate case.

I'll even give you a helping hand. I'll separate the facts with enough space for your narrow little eyes to make out the whole sentences in your narrow little minds.

If you're going to slag me off then here's what you need to know first;

It's Borderline Personality Disorder that I was diagnosed with, not Bipolar Disorder

I didn't have a "nervous breakdown"

I voluntarily asked for help at a difficult and emotional time in my life

I have never been sectioned under the mental health act

I'm not a danger to anyone

I'm not violent

I don't sleep around and I'm not a sex addict

I'm not a bitch and I'm not mad keen on cruel gossip


...and here's something else you would do well to note: The words mental health, depression, suicide etc. can actually be spoken out loud and do not demand hushed whispers accompanied by raised eyebrows and shifty eyes.

He gives with one hand, and taketh with the other...

Damn that yin and yang! I don't want my happiness balanced out with morbid blackness!

Two and a half weeks in Crete has left me brown with polite white bits, some lovely memories and new friends. It was a beautiful holiday where my mind was able to find time to drift seamlessly out into the smooth sea.

I'd like to say it was perfect, but I'd be a bare-faced liar, and as you all know there's no such thing as perfection among this troublesome theme park ride we dub life. There were low points; a few tears before bedtime and the occasional damp pillow cushioning my hot cheek as the black nights crept slowly through to a scorching dawn. Even in Crete my nightmares haunted me and the Iago whispers in my ears failed to subdue their nagging treachery.

I had climbed out to the tip of a headland alone one early evening, I stood motionless, balanced on the outcrop of beaten limestone; I could sense it's aching from my weight underneath my sandalled feet. I found myself mesmerised by the foam bubbling and lapping at the rocks below. I became aware of my longing for the sudden shear of the podium I stood aloft, for the ground to disappear in an eventual crumbling result of the harsh karstic weathering. Fragments tumbling towards their watery grave to be dissolved, rounded, polished off by the blue waters. I wished for my body to drop, following the debris in a freakish accident.

...camera in her hand, plunging to her untimely death while out admiring the stunning mountains that enclosed Mirabello Bay....

I wanted the waves to envelop me and erode away the rough, transporting and depositing my barren bones as shiny grains of glass-like sand upon a silent beach. I willed the collapse, the split in time where force excelled, but it wouldn't come.

Back in my flat with the slosh and whirl of the washing machine, spinning away the salt and suncream from my clothes, I feel more lonely than ever. Perhaps saddened by a missed opportunity to rid myself of a lifetime of unpredictable highs and lows, ebbs and flows of churning monotony. The machine slumps along as do I, round clockwise - stall - round anticlockwise. Never moving on without receding back. Joy in one hand, tragedy in the other.

off to catch some rays

Just a quick one to let you all know I'm off on my holi-bobs for a couple of weeks, usual feelings of fear and anxiety creeping in over travelling, airports, etc. but I'm looking forward to getting away and clearing my head.

I wasn't sure I was going to be able to go with all that's been happening, but I'm feeling much more stable than I was a week or so ago, my medication increase is already kicking in and I can feel things approaching a more habitable state. With any luck this break should be calm and uneventful, here's hoping anyway!

Stay well everyone, lots of love to you all xxx

Natural Beauty

I have natural beauty in bucket-fulls.

I can be so naturally beautiful it will make you avert your eyes in sheer disgust! I can let the soft silken hairs grow long across my legs, and grant it permission to collect in damp musky tendrils in caved pits.
I can allow the sun to freckle and mottle my skin, I can store honest dirt beneath my fingernails and let the good dark earth settle in the cracks across my palms.
I can happily consent to my body changing shape, sit back and watch as my breast's weight gently pulls them apart and down, welcome the slow modifications that will take place as I age.

To you, natural beauty doesn't quite cut it; for you, natural equals vulgar. I could let my hair run free, give my skin to it's environment, and permit age to carry me through life, but you would regard me as vile, unkempt, a stagnant and dank smelling Earth Mother.

I want you to see me at my most natural, even with the tiny hairs between my brows not yet plucked clear, my skin tone wont be even and smooth, blemishes wont be concealed with thick cakes of make-up, any self-created odour will be there for your nostrils to repulse. Once in bed my breasts you will find are not enhanced and perky at all times, so don't expect to see them poised perfectly atop my chest.

Super Powers = 0

I'm feeling like one big lump of failure today. I'm trying to get my head around the peaks and troughs that make up my life. After reducing my dose of Venlafaxine from 375mg to 300mg, I spent a month steadily weaving my way downhill until I landed with a thud on a concrete hardstanding at the bottom in 'take me now-ville'.
Where were my super powers then huh?
It would appear that the drugs were indeed working, if their make patient addicted and give nasty kill myself side-effects if she tries to release herself from their cloying grip is classified as 'working' and the reduction caused a returned state of giant mentalness. Hurrah!

After slumping in the chair at my GP appointment, my new Doc took one look at me and after agreeing that yes, I did look like shit, surrendered to the mighty strength of the anti-d. So I'm back on 375mg. Shitting bastard stuff.

There is a little more to this, the descent led to a very unpleasant night in A&E which I feel ashamed of, especially as it meant getting my brother and my mum involved to come and rescue me from alcohol gel hell. I'm angry that after seeing so much improvement in myself, I've once again fallen flat on my face, and as usual managed to drag a few family members and friends down with me. Sorry everyone :o(

OK, I just need to rant about the NHS a little now, as any visit into their sickening domain just seems to inspire more hatred for their incompetence and total lack of provisions and it's not good to bottle up these feelings!
It's not all bad though; I went from being treated with kindness and compassion by the paramedics to being treated like a pain in the arse piece of shit once we reached the hospital. It's all a bit of a blur but on the way to A&E I remember thinking I had done the right thing calling for help, the paramedics really looked after me and were so kind and gentle, but then once in the hospital I was made to feel like a complete sodding nuisance. Big thanks go to those particular oh so helpful health service professionals for making me feel like my life is worth living, next time I'll not bother you. Well, actually yes I hope I will, because it's the right thing to do yada yada yada...

So, I'm still a bit poorly from indulging in a spot of rid the world of my existence but I'm hoping this will pass soon enough. Hopefully I'll be back on form again soon once my body readjusts to the 75mg of extra poison I'm taking every day.

Oh and the job-hunt has had to be put on the back burner for the time being, big hairy bollocks.

For Aqua

Aqua begged for a pic of Supergirl, so here you go my lovey - it might not stay up for long though!
The gun belonged to the Terminator - but I got rather attached to it!

Hannah's How To's

How to transform a lackluster mentalist into a gleaming Supergirl!
(for the purpose of Fancy Dress Birthday Parties that will involve going out into the public arena)

FROM THIS >>
TO THIS >>First pour yourself a stiff drink, now add a little more spirit, now down stiff drink in one.

This is necessary to dampen any negative thoughts relating to those chipper mentalist fantasies of being fat, ugly and entirely subhuman.

OK, now have another drink.

......When preparing for a night out, I usually repeat this preliminary stage several times until I'm at the snickering phase of drunken and disorderliness - you may not need to take to the bottle in quite such a vehement way as I, in which case I salute you!

Once you are suitably inebriated you must take on your nemesis - you must now OWN the fake tan!
Fake tan will help you to achieve a pallor slightly more appealing and superhero-esque than flaccid 5-day old lukewarm sausage meat.

Lather it on - Supergirl is substantially more fit and healthy than the average moping myrtle.

Note: You will need more than you think, especially if you haven't seen daylight for a few days, weeks...etc.

I admit, this step is easier said than done, especially after a few squiffs, but trust me, if you apply the brute sober you'll see all the streaks and splodges and you'll never leave the house. Besides, Supergirl doesn't have time to be an OC perfectionist, there are fluffy bunnies to rescue, so neither do you.

Take comfort in the thought that the patches will blend into one and the unnatural day glow orange will appear dulled by the blood alcohol level you have going on at this moment.

Now it's on to the hair - Supergirl has shining golden locks; in order to transform the lank thinning tendrils of a stay at home mood disorderly, ensure you've washed them - with shampoo.

Find yourself some form of curling apparatus (fusili pasta shapes do not work - despite giving the deceptive impression that they could) and prepare to heat and wind until your arms declare disengagement from your shoulder sockets. By this time you should have achieved some volume at the very least.

Make-up is simple - I find it's a case of the more you can paste on the better the end result, enhance your eyes for that doting American Beauty look, but avoid too much black liner - you'll end up going all emo. Slap on some vulgar shade of red lippy and practice pouting.

At this point I advise a large intake of alcohol.

The costume will have been bought in advance from a poor excuse of an Internet shopping site, which lured you in by it's ultra sexy picture of a natural stunner posing provocatively as the sexiest Supergirl you have ever seen.
A sad longing in the pit of your stomach will have forced your Google-toned claw into pressing 'buy now'.
£40 and a few days later you are presented with something shiny, itchy, lurid and rather small. It doesn't match the picture on the website, but then you don't match the blonde bombshell, so what did you expect? Deal with it.

OK so the outfit is a hell of a lot less than flattering, but do not despair, this is not the opportune moment for a breakdown, you'll mess up your make-up.
Trust me, the costume will look right at home once you've teamed it with the simple steps laid out above, although just in case you are prone to self-deprecation (and can still see straight) have another swig before you wrestle with those wretched man-made fibers of a fire-lighting nature.

If your hair has flopped by this time, the static in the polyester cape will help to give it a well-needed lift.

I strongly recommend the avoidance of a mirror from now onwards.

Drain the bottle, grab your handbag and leg it out the door like Supergirl to the rescue of a stranded kitten, (or in a more fitting case, like a mentalist to the meds cabinet after group therapy).

Repeat the following mantra several times outloud enroute in the taxi:

YOU ARE A THOROUGHLY BELIEVABLE SUPERGIRL & BEAR A STRIKING RESEMBLANCE TO HELEN SLATER!


A few hints and tips for the evening ahead:

Bypass any other Supergirl wannabes, you will only enter into the dangerous territory of comparing efforts, and before you know it you'll be a snivelling wreck on the pavement!

Do not in any instance allow yourself to sober up!

Stay away from the toilets and groups of cackling girls applying lip gloss!

Smile, yes you can do this (remember you are in fancy dress and technically 'acting' so it's OK).

Don't fret if parts of your costume come apart, are mislaid or get caught in doorways - Supergirl must have looked pretty ropey after clambering up trees after cats, so onlookers will expect you to become slightly disheveled by the end of the night.

There must be NO photographic evidence of your transformation otherwise you'll probably never leave your grief hole ever again.

Have fun, get drunk, be disorderly (it's alright, you're in disguise so no one will recognise you).