Garden Of The Confused

Here in the land of "Who knows what day it is, what month, where am I, what am I doing?" my garden is conspiring to confuse me further. But then again, does it really know itself?! I have a sneaking suspicion it has Bipolar too... My beautiful Dog Rose had been the first to be diagnosed with the condition. Blooms, hips and buds... guess it's just covering all bases to be on the safe side, so we have Spring, Summer and Autumn going on. Pick a season, any season.. you're bound to get it right if you go for three!

I have A Fig! It was planted about eight years ago, and get out the party streamers, ice cream and jelly... pass the parcel and pin the tail on the donkey. Woo Hoo! A fig... at last... it's never going to feed the five thousand, but I admire the effort. So that's Summer for you, despite the Autumn leaves changing colour. I think we'll be seeing more of her as the leaves fall and she'll be wintering alone on her solitary twig.

Granny Smith apples. Should be Summer, but hey, this is becoming the garden of nonconformity. They're not going to make much of a pie, so these are destined to be cooked up for the chickadees. A worthwhile end for such a noble effort....

Nereen. Hmm.... who knows. You see, I'm not much of a gardener. I put it in.... if it grows, good, if not, well there you go, lesson learned (but probably, almost definately not remembered!) I think it's due about now, but it's pretty, and thanks for the effort. Gold star!

Summer Anemones. Season Fail! Hello? It's the end of October! Nice to see though and adds a bit of much needed colour against the drabness and dull weather we've been having since.... oooh, let me see.... I think summer was one week in June, or was it July?!

Which brings me the Passion Flower. Well my dear, you've seriously got a problem (with a capital 'S' for plain Stupid!) Sorry to break it to you, but you're about four months late my dear! But you go on doing your own thing if it makes you happy. All the fruit had ripened and fallen off. But, whatever floats your boat...

I've had a hedge at the front garden for thirteen and a half years. The bane of my life. I hated it, it hated me. I cut it, the damn thing grows back a week later. It's a been hate/hate relationship all this time. So let it go afro and I refused to do it any more. It kind of pissed off the postman, but I have to get my kicks somewhere and it shielded the shitty little brats who seem to think my garden is the only place to play in front of. (Go away you little gremlins!)

So I found a lovely man P, who charges an arm and a leg (makes it hard to get around, but well worth it). He's a diamond. Good laugh, great company, very talented and kindness itself. He's pointed out a few other jobs that it hadn't occurred to me needed doing (clever man!) So I have the other arm and leg on ebay, and am considering selling what's left of me to science (do they do advance payments?!)

I now have a fence! Wahey..... and if you little buggers hang off it, I'll give you the evil eye, and I know where you live! And a couple of you already know I'm very likely to visit and leave your parents nervous shadows of their former selves. You have been warned!

It's a beautiful fence, and as you can see, I have a whole heap of hedge to chop up, burn, whatever. So now the rest of the front garden is looking waaay shabbier than it did before Afro departed so it's all hand to the deck (I only have one left, remember? Had to sell the other one!). Dig the lot out, a border of shrub and 20ml shingle to keep the weeds down. Job's a good 'un. I reckon one frail old lady can keep up with that in the twilight of her years. It's the back, you know... and it's a bugger having to hop everywhere.

The back garden? No problem.... the chickens have seen to that.... there is no back garden left!

Pies 'n' Pets

It seems like it was only yesterday, but I've realised that time has got away with me and that the chicken rehoming day I helped out with was two weeks ago. And yes, I adopted another one (I'm not allowed to do it everytime ok?!) but she's "special".... a bit like me! I'm the sort of person who'd take on a cat with one eye and no tail, or a three legged dog, just so you know where I'm coming from...

When I arrived, I was met by three very nice people, who all seemed to know who I was (forewarned was forearmed I guess?) and it was straight into a barn full of over excited chickens, doing what chickens do, eating, drinking, pooping, clucking and literally dropping eggs like there was no tomorrow. Lovely warm eggs littering the ground. We collected buckets full of them.

Half an hour before the chicken collection was due to start, we arranged the bales and crates into a funnel formation and started a production line of our own... thankfully not like the one they would have been destined to had the charity http://www.bhwt.org.uk/index.php not had such good relations with the battery farmers concerned. These farmers are good people who have been villified, with the industry recieving a lot of bad publicity recently. Their practices have been in effect for many years, but "the times, they are a changin' ", and they are doing their bit to help, but the changeover to "free range" takes time and money. If they were bad people, it would be off to the pie factory, no question ("Chicken Run".... "but I don't want to be a pie, I don't like gravy!"....Babs, hence one of the names we chose for ours).

So, with G doing the necessary manicures (claw clipping), I was gathering up the birds, and doing my best "Chicken Whisperer" impersonation.... have you ever been nuzzled by a lovely warm chicken? And then putting them into the boxes and baskets with J who was overseeing that they were appropriate for transportation to their new homes. Despite the kindness of the public, some of them hadn't quite done their homework, and there was quite a lot of emergency stanley knife action, to ensure adequate ventilation. That lady wields it like a pro! Some of the boxes, although the correct size, were, I thought, a little insensitive.... imagine taking your chickens home in boxes that read "(well known high street freezer company) breaded chicken fillets"! But, I guess, it was aslo a stark reminder that had they not been saved, they would still have been transported via the same boxes, albeit in said condition. Some remembered to line their boxes with straw... (I remember driving home so carefully with my precious cargo two weeks before, but whenever we came to a bend in the road, I could hear "shhhtcm, shhhtcm" as they slid from one side to the other!) T was outside doing the financial, form filling, computery bit, and, most importantly, tea making (makes a good cuppa, that girl does.... and she brought biscuits and cakes!) Unfortunately, there wasn't much time free to be able to take pictures, but hopefully I'll be able to in the future.

About 4 hours later, we were exhausted and poop covered, but happy. We'd managed to rehome 350 chickens. Three were kept back to see the vet... two with broken wings and one with a bad limp, and they're all on the mend now. And then there was my "Chicken Limbo Looby Loo" who was not deemed rehomable due to the fact she had a problem with her neck. It's all a bit wonky, poor girl, and at the time she would roll her head and flip it back randomly for no apparent reason. So I was allowed to bring her home to see how she would fare.

The first few days, she preferred to stay inside the coop. The others were inquisitive, and there were the expected occasional confrontations, but that chickadee is a runner and has spirit. Whenever I go outside, she's there "Hi, hi, hello, it's me, love me, I love you!" She's taken to running round in circles, like the proverbial "headless chicken", and may or may not be "a sandwich short of a picnic". She can almost rotate her head 360 degrees (odd but amusing in an "eww" kind of way), and now only throws her head back when she's drinking. Inevitably, much of the water escapes, but there's always another chicken or two to help mop up. She's abandoned her penchant for eating the wood shavings from the coop floor (?!), thank goodness, and lays the occasional egg.... unfortunately, though, the shells are so thin that they break almost as soon as you pick them up, but the girl is trying. It's so funny to watch.... she hunches up her shoulders (do chickens have shoulders?!) and squints her eyes, and without a sound, there's an egg.... just like that... abracadabra, magic. This morning, she waited in the nesting box as if to say "I did one, it's for you, I did it for you!" It was so sad that it shattered while I was washing it... And I noticed how well her feathers are starting to grow back. Her comb is shrinking to a normal size an pinking up nicely. It won't be long before she's a "special" little stunner (although she already is to me).

Here is my Limbo Looby Loo! After this morning's exertion, I think a little one on one time is in order... some hand feeding of corn, maybe with a little extra calcium slipped in...
My baby!

"Friendships"

I had intended writing on an entirely different matter today, but I was checking out the chickens and mulling things over when this thought hit me between the eyes.... bang.... and I've not been able to think about much else for the past few hours. Who am I? Who do people see when they look at me? Am I a good (enough) friend? I've always liked to think that I'm the kind of person that I'd choose for a friend. I try.

A number of things have happened in the past few days, which got me thinking about the past also. Most recently, being new to blogging, I think I've yet to grasp the protocol. I have read about experienced bloggers views on "impertinent newbies" and have also sought advice.
In reverse order then... I posted a comment on a blog last night. This morning, I received a reply, and I'm mortified to think that I may have overstepped the (over)familiarity boundary. I'm kind of like a puppy.... Yay, I've got a friend, I've got a friend waaay... and innocently jump right in there, tail wagging, without regard for consequences. If I have done this, M, then please accept my apologies. It was absolutely unintentional.

Last night on Facebook, I noticed my best friend's (who I haven't been able to visit in years... damn BP... I hate you) SIL had posted what seemed to be an unhappy remark. Now, my best friend J (who is married to T's brother and T is married to J's brother... all sounds very incestuous, but if you write it down and work it out, is entirely legal and above board!) took me under her wing on my first day of work and we've seen and shared much over the past 26 years. The thing is, T was her best friend at school, and then being related etc, I always felt a little bit awkward around her, like maybe she thought I was an interloper and maybe resented me. Being so shy and quiet when I was younger, with probably an over active inferiority complex (thanks Mum and Dad and BP... I owe you big time) I honestly cannot remember having what you would call an actual real one on one conversation with her. All civilised and friendly, but.... oh, I don't know... Anyway, I was surprised when she added me on FB a couple of months ago but thought, ok, what the hell... press accept. So after reading the post (having wildly digressed... sorry!), I decided to send her a private message. We then started messaging and after 3 hours "talking" (2am), we exchanged mobile phone numbers (ICE In Case of Emergency.... ie: help I need a rant!) and said goodnight. I am totally gobsmacked! She was so lovely and so generous in what she said, and her memories of me are entirely not what I imagined they would be... surely she has me confused with someone else?! I lay awake for another hour, a bit emotional, feeling a bit like.... did that really happen???

Monday afternoon, C text me to ask if her friend G could come over for a while. No problem. When they got here, the poor girl was in bits. C told me that she'd had a row with her father. He'd been drinking and when he got home, he was in the mood for an argument and, unfortunately, she was the one who was closest, and the wisest option was to get the hell out of there... like, fast. The unjustifiable obscenities he screamed at her. Oh, the memories from that dark place came rushing back and I held her and we both sobbed. I used to desperately, silently beg for someone I could confide in when I was her age. No-one came. So, me being me, and the bloody shitness of BP, I did what I always do and try and cheer people up and make them laugh by telling them stupid, embarrassing stories about nothing in particular (cue subsequent self loathing) and handed her back to C and they ordered pizza and curled up under a quilt and watched dvds all evening while I locked myself in my room.

Which took me back to that place, where my parents would rant at me and hit me even if it was something my brother or sister did because, obviously (duh) it must have been my fault because I hadn't set a good enough example.

Dad was in the Army and we were based in Hong Kong when I was 16-18 years old. Not a kid, but not allowed to be an adult. There were Army wives there who were closer in age to me than my mother, but because, as she saw it, she was a "Wife", she had precedence over "daughter". "She's MY friend, so she can't be yours!"..... sorry, who's the adult here?! Anyway, when we came back to UK, my (secret!) friends, by now, had babies and I was often called upon for spurious babysitting duties. I had to hand over the money when I got home, but it was worth withdrawing it from my own bank account for the little oasis of freedom. One day, my mother surpassed herself. I was officially invited to a party at one of their houses and they weren't. I was petrified, but nothing was said. Strange. Dad forbade me to buy alcohol, so I couldn't take a bottle of wine as a gift and Mum said that there was no need to take anything at all, as it wasn't expected. I was so excited. My first real party, with real people, and I was allowed to go! I was 19! When I got home from work, Mum asked where the box of chocolates were. I was horrified, they had told me no gift would be needed and at the time, I wasn't to know any better. So, ok, no chocolates.... (foot tapping). Flowers? Shit. So she says "Oh well, we'd better cut some from the garden... you can't go empty handed!" Relief.... thank you, thank you, thank you. That damn woman cut, I don't know what, but I do remember the fuschias covered in greenfly. And then she wrapped them in a plastic bag with an elastic band around. I was mortified. She walked up the road just far enough to not be seen by them, but near enough to make sure I handed those fucking flowers over. And I hated her. I don't know what was worse that day. Having to give the flowers and apologising over and over, sitting in their kitchen crying my eyes out with embarrassment or having the dog trying to hump my leg all evening. (Tada... always got to make a joke! BP, don't you just love it... but honestly, the dog thing was true too!) Strangely, I never was invited back... mission accomplished Mother. Thanks.

So. Friendship. Buggered if I know. And in the immortal words of Forrest Gump..."That's all I have to say about that!"

Chemical Cosh

Just take a look at this little baby...

'aint it purty?.... all tiny and blue and innocent?

Stelazine 1mg.

I had an appointment with my consultant Dr K yesterday. She made the mistake of asking how I had been feeling. Poor lady. She's a sweetie. (And Italian.... not that that has anything to do with anything)

45 minutes (of a 20 minute appointment) and a box of tissues later, she sat looking at me. Just looking. And after a while, I said "I think that's about it, I'll shut up now!" And then she looked at me a bit more. And said "I theenk dat yoor medecasion eet eez not workeeng well at de moment. We need too doo somesing." And zat vas wort we deed.

I gave her some eggs. She said "sank yoo" and zat she wonted too haf some cheekens when she reetired. I told her she was not allowed to reetire.

It is well documented in my files that I have an incredibly low threshold for medication. I asked what the normal starting dosage of this one would normally be. 5mg. So I have to try one, 1, uno mg, twice a day. As you know from a previous post, I already take a mood stabiliser, tranquilliser, sometimes sleeping tablet and meds for IBS as and when needed. This is another tranquilliser. Did I say how pretty and tiny and blue it is? I took one tablet. My first. I woke up 12 hours later.

I have a low tolerance for medication!

I have a phone call to make!

12 Days

Yes, that's how long it's been.... doesn't seem like it, but feels like forever at the same time. That's how long it's been since my chickens came to live (and stay alive). So I thought that this morning, as the sun was making an effort to shine, I should perhaps make the affort to chart their progress.

The day they arrived must have ben fairly bewildering for them. From the battery farm to their new home in less than 4 hours.

Crazy little nervous raggedy mothers... ... who needed jumpers to keep them warm while they got used to being outdoors.The first day, they rewarded us with 5 eggs...They're thriving and are impatient for every new experience... and food they've never had before. Corn on the cob is their favourite, and apple (without pips as they contain small amounts of cyanide). Yesterday, they tried cucumber for the first time and decided to be fussy, just like kids, and ate the middle but refused the skin. Looked like little cucumber napkin rings littering the ground!

These photos from today show just how well they're doing. Their new feathers are starting to show already... So I reckon we're not doing too badly.....
..... and every self respecting chicken should have a wind chime!

Bipolar Rollercoaster

Well there are good days and bad. There have been a couple of bad ones recently.

First off, I have to say that I don't feel sorry for myself and and this is not "poor me". In the immortal words of Run DMC and Jason Nevins..."it's cos it's like that, and that's the way it is..." I have Bipolar, and it sucks. I hate IT, IT hates me, I have IT, IT doesn't have me... but it sure feels like it sometimes. One consolation is that, after so many years of trying to be heard and correctly diagnosed, two years ago, IT finally, officially, had a name. I knew what it was at 18... it's taken that long. 3 years ago, as a treatment for my "depression", I was offered ECT.... sweet mother of f**k! No way. In (admittedly) a small percentage of cases, long term memory is lost. I have no-one to fill in the gaps. I remember little enough of my girls growing up and I wasn't prepared to lose that. Absolutely the wrong treatment. I'm glad I was able to stand up and say no.

I have been told I have had IT from a very young age. So waiting 40 years for the diagnosis was kind of stretching it a bit. I have IT for life. I have learned that there can be a genetic link, but that does not mean you will get it... there is almost always a trigger. And that was in my childhood. I was eight years old when I first wondered what it would be like to be dead. The first time I thought about suicide I was 14... hitting puberty probably didn't help. I was asked recently why I hadn't done it. I wasn't brave enough. Why don't I now? Because I would never do that to my girls. I love them more than (my) life itself. But thinking about it every day is the norm.... and how... so many ways!

There are two main types of Bipolar, type 1 and type 2. They're pretty much the same really, they both suck. When you have a hyper episode, you are invincible. When you are depressed, you want to be invisible, hide away in a darkened room, not answering the phone or the door. I call them my "cardboard box days". I turned the phone back on today... Hi! When I'm asked what it feels like, I describe it like you're standing on a high building. If you're in the hyper phase, you just know you could fly if you jumped. On the bad days, you want to fall and wonder what it would feel like to hit the pavement. Some mornings I wake up crying, just because I woke up... again. I feel like it's a tumour and I want to rip it out. I am so angry. For having it. For how it affects my life... past and present (and future).

I have a mask, a face I put on for the outside world. If I tell anyone (it's not a secret, but I don't wear a badge) they are always surprised "I never would have guessed". I've got that mask down to a fine art... someone give me an Oscar! My girls are my greatest support, after all, they've lived with it. They are amazing. I'm not a very nice person to be around sometimes. I'm sorry, I tell them, they know, but I still feel the guilt. They know it's happening sometimes well before I do.. after all, they know the signs to look out for. Last week, C said "Mum, it's ok, you don't have to pretend to be happy". I didn't even know I was doing it. I don't 'do' arguing, it takes me back to that scared little 4 year old. Last week I had a blazing row with my boyfriend. Over a can of PEPSI! Seriously... Hiroshima didn't even register on the scale. For the first time in my life, I gave myself hives!!! I push people away. I love N to bits. I engineer excuses for him not to come over to see me. If I venture to the shops, please, I know it's your job little spotty shop assistant to ask if I need any help. BUT I WILL ASK YOU IF I DO OK???.... or I'll just walk out of the shop. When I get hyper, I have the energy, I can do anything and everything (usually by 9am!!!). Damn, there's no stopping me. Everything's brilliant, fabulous, exciting. I talk too fast, I have projects, I DO things! And yet there's that little voice in the back of my head telling me to shut the f**k up, you're making an idiot of yourself. And then I get home and am crippled with embarassment and self loathing.

I was recently told I have "mixed state" Bipolar too which means that although I can function at breakneck speed when required, I still feel dead inside. And if you look at me or talk to me, I might just pull your face off ;) Which brings me to medication. This may or may not be helping. Who knows? All I know is that I'm highly sensitive to any kind of medication.... you want to see a side effect, give me the pill and wait.... 3... 2... 1.. bang, there you go! So all these years I've being treated for depression, which explains why none of it worked... that wasn't the problem. So now, holy moley... mood stabilisers (hahaha). Ok, I'm being a good girl, I take them. After all, if the medical profession are trying to help me, I think I should at least be willing to meet them half way. And Diazepam... that's good shit, but you build up a resistance. I don't take the sleeping tablets. They don't work and just make me feel groggy in the morning. And the side effects? My short term memory is shot. And the side effects? My short term memory is shot. (Hahaha ooooh sorry) I have to check my phone every morning when I wake up to see what day it is. My girls stick their work rota on their bedroom doors so I don't have to ask them every 5 minutes. Short attention span. But, on the upside, after some CBT, I can now put the toothpaste tube on the other side of the mirror, and if the cans in the kitchen aren't all facing the right way?... no-one died yet! BUT really, you do have to put the left shoe on first... it's the law ok?! And Christmas food shopping will be done at 3am... no crowds or screaming children. Just get me in and out of there as fast as possible and don't get in the way... you have been warned!

Apparently those who have this THING generally have a creative side. Guess I could agree there. And I'm in exceptional company... Einstein, Winston Churchill, Stephen Fry.... hmmmm. If I had a switch, would I turn it off? I used to say I'd like to have a 'volume control'. Now...hell yes. I'd love to know who the real 'me' is. Maybe this is the real one. It's always been there. I wonder where I'd be, who I would be, what I'd be doing, would I like myself without it?

But if you do see me, please, don't treat me differently. Hello? I'm still here inside.... hellooo? I'm a nice person. Honest! I try to deal with it with humour... I will try to make you laugh because I don't want to drag you down, and, quite frankly, it bores the pants off me talking about it, but I will if you want me to. Like I said, it's not a secret. It's a physical illness. If you had Diabetes, you'd take your insulin, wouldn't you?

Am I normal? NOOOO! :D

The "Eggs-Factor"

I love my chickadees! I have wanted to have chickens since I was 14 years old and went to stay with my amazing Aunt (who was more like a big sister to me, being only 14 years older than me). She had kennels, breeding miniature schnauzers for showing and selling, and a small piece of land on which she kept a goat, a pig, a shetland pony for her (then) young son, ducklings and chickens. I loved the few weeks we spent there before my parents arrived, but that's a totally different story for another day maybe. Just being outdoors and generally helping out and looking after the animals. It's one of my happiest memories. Sadly, she is very ill now and living in the US. It won't be long, but again, not ready to talk about that either... maybe another day.

By far, the best part was feeding the chickens and I decided then that I wanted to be a farmer's wife! Oh, young foolish dreams...

Fast forward (*ahem* 30 years...ooooh! ouch!) and here I am with two grown up young girls of my own, and a while back on tv, there was a week of documentaries about the treatment and wellbeing of battery farmed chickens. I've always said, that if you're going to eat it, you should be prepared to know the facts behind the scenes of production, so we all sat and watched every minute, no matter how upsetting it was. Those pristine cellophaned packages on the supermarket shelf don't just appear like magic. Remembering my time with my Aunt, we talked and my girls agreed that we wanted to do our little bit.... you can't change the world all on your own (you can eat a whole elephant but only a mouthful at a time!). So after a little online research, I found a locally based rescue charity. Long story short, last week, we took on 6 ex-battery hens. These poor ladies had been reared, being kept 4-6 birds to an A3 size piece of paper wire cage. They are deemed non viable when their egg production falls below 4-5 eggs per week, and then it's off to the pie factory!
When we let them into their new home, it was surprising to see how quickly they adapted and already you could see the differences in their personalities. We're getting between 2-5 eggs a day.... there's nothing nicer than collecting a warm egg, washing and boiling it.... no comparison to shop bought eggs... nom nom nom!

We have Daisy, Mabel, Doris, Twizzle, Twink and Babs (note I am not solely responsible for the naming ok?!) 3 of them have learned to lay in the nesting boxes and, as their legs are getting stronger, they are learning to roost and have taken themselves off to bed for the past 3 nights without any help or encouragement. I've been taking a stool into the run in the afternoon sun and we've been having deep and meaningfull conversations (they're surprisingly good listeners) and are eating corn out of my hand. They looooove corn on the cob and I'm sure they can even hear me buying it at the supermarket.... waiting for me to get home, they're huddled in the corner, looking shifty, tooled up with flick knives and wearing bandanas. I have to open the run and lob them in like hand grenades. Like piranhas devouring their prey, the cobs are stripped bare in 30 seconds flat.

These girls have been a revelation, considering what they've been through and how they've adapted so quickly. I've decided to volunteer my help for the charity and my first rescue is on Saturday. I'm apprehensive, because I know what I see isn't going to be pretty, but I'm excited too to know that so many chickens will be given the chance of a better life, and there will be others who will experience what I have..... I'm still looking for my farmer though (but don't tell the boyfriend!)