My mother says that I'm a damn hoarder.
Well, I don't tend to throw things away. Not that I'd live three metres deep in used tissues but I have files of old bills, boxes of various paperwork, train tickets accumulated since around 2001 and similar stuff. For some reason, I like to have my life archived somehow. Let's admit, I'm not the most orderly person so a good part of those receipts, cinema tickets and opera programmes are just stacked around. But, they're there.
While browsing the internets sort of randomly, I came across an article in The Atlantic which describes the ephemeral nature of the internet. I didn't need to go and lie down for a while out of the horror that I may not be able to access this or that. I'm apparently anxious or paranoiac enough to download stuff I like and save it to DVDs which are another stack of some-or-another. (When I go to Ikea, I need to get more storage boxes.) I abhor the clouds, no damn way I'm storing my data somewhere out there. I had a computer to die a sudden death back in around 2008 or 2009 and I lost quite a bit of my files, and before, I had a computer stolen, along with the data that included my almost finished thesis; what saved me was my habit of printing out and photocopying everything. (I also need more bookshelves. My model, Norrboten, Norrland or some other Norr thingy ceased production. Judging from watching the channels, I guess that most of the production ended in soap opera sets. Now what.)
The other day, I got a bout of what-will-I-do-if and as I tend to hoard stuff, I started printing out all my paypal receipts. I got only to 2013, 6 years to go yet. It rocks in a way, I'm bookmarking all the book bills and I'll finally assemble the thing called The Book List I've been keeping since I was 16 or so. On paper torn out from a school notepad. I will be able to add a lot of info to my Ravelry files, too. And I may end up with a neat row of files full of neat stuff; I can live with the lacunae caused by thrown-out receipts from brick and mortar stores but I must say that the idea of one database (the bills) supported by other database (old diaries, with the exception of the badly missed one from 2008 that was left on a train to Rome) and a few more partial databases (those train tickets, for example) will be nice when I'll be getting demented. Or some future wacko may use it to build a museum collection of some-or-another.
Saturday, 17 October 2015
Monday, 5 October 2015
Motivation
As I mentioned, my psychiatrist keeps giving me small homeworks. Task of the month is to find two pleasurable activities and do them daily. Not both, at least one.
Accidentally, when talking about something entirely different, a friend pointed out that there are companies that produce all sorts of herbal infusions and soaps and stuff who buy out herbs.
I love picking herbs, drying them and then... Well, frankly, herbs are generally overrated. They're natural, yeah, sure, but those which are not poisonous or dangerous have only a mild effect, part of which is the feel-good thing. Nothing bad with the feel-good thing. If someone feels better because he's drinking something that smells nice, I very much agree. Actually, I'm a pretty decent herbalist and if I were more of a cynical liar, I guess I could turn it into a business but I can't bring myself to lying to people that this or that could cure their cancer or broken ribs, nor could I explain how this feel-good potion enhances body's natural defenses by purifying it from toxins, I'd say it's mild diuretic, should help with the swollen ankles, use twice a day and if it doesn't help in five days, see your doctor.
But I'm digressing. There are people who pay money for herbs! Send a bag of dried St. John's Wort, we'll pay you three and half handfuls of cowrie shells per kilo! Someone wants to pay me for having walks and plucking flowers! So... I'm plucking flowers, drying them and having a goddamn good time. In fact, it's not that easy job, the other day, I brought a huge bag of plant matter and it was one whopping kilo of fresh stuff.
That was written at the end of June. Since then, a heatwave struck so stuff didn't grow much and now we're nearing winter. I probably wanted to make an excellent point or some such but I got distracted or forgot or some such. In the name of housekeeping, there'll be a few more stubs. Serves you right, dear readers.
Accidentally, when talking about something entirely different, a friend pointed out that there are companies that produce all sorts of herbal infusions and soaps and stuff who buy out herbs.
I love picking herbs, drying them and then... Well, frankly, herbs are generally overrated. They're natural, yeah, sure, but those which are not poisonous or dangerous have only a mild effect, part of which is the feel-good thing. Nothing bad with the feel-good thing. If someone feels better because he's drinking something that smells nice, I very much agree. Actually, I'm a pretty decent herbalist and if I were more of a cynical liar, I guess I could turn it into a business but I can't bring myself to lying to people that this or that could cure their cancer or broken ribs, nor could I explain how this feel-good potion enhances body's natural defenses by purifying it from toxins, I'd say it's mild diuretic, should help with the swollen ankles, use twice a day and if it doesn't help in five days, see your doctor.
But I'm digressing. There are people who pay money for herbs! Send a bag of dried St. John's Wort, we'll pay you three and half handfuls of cowrie shells per kilo! Someone wants to pay me for having walks and plucking flowers! So... I'm plucking flowers, drying them and having a goddamn good time. In fact, it's not that easy job, the other day, I brought a huge bag of plant matter and it was one whopping kilo of fresh stuff.
That was written at the end of June. Since then, a heatwave struck so stuff didn't grow much and now we're nearing winter. I probably wanted to make an excellent point or some such but I got distracted or forgot or some such. In the name of housekeeping, there'll be a few more stubs. Serves you right, dear readers.
Another serving of depression
I'm halfway through second box of new psych meds; it seemed that it may have started working one way or another as in the first month using it, I consumed quite less clonazepam.
When I went to get my refill and for a monthly chitchat with my shrink, I found out that I had been scheduled to someone else. No chitchat (or, to be exact, whines), but I could read over the doc's shoulder to find out that, as per the docs' notes, I'm oriented, no hallucinations, not suicidal, show autistic traits and don't seem visibly depressed. Heh, I'm good in not looking very depressed. I'm chatty, especially when in stressful social situations, and I have brain enough to be entertaining and funny and coherent. As for autistic traits, well, could well be. I'll ask details. I know that I can't read social situations too well, for example, but I prefer to blame poor socialization in tender age and being called weird. I'll ask the doc.
I felt okay. Not excellent but when I take into account all the work crap, passably well. Regulars already know that work crap has passed various turning points, sank under the lowest low several times and now it's just an unending agony of routine, boredom and those sickening moments of surprise when someone, instead of doing their job, starts thinking without knowing how to and I need to fix the ensuing problems.
But, back to the next point: what stupid silly things can be triggering. I found a studio that had some dance classes, started doing contemporary, sort of hated every minute of it because I'm fat, ugly, out of shape and haven't danced in years so I had hard time taking it easy that I'm the clumsiest person around. And, then, trying to avoid doing something hurtful to my knee, I fell on my thumb and twisted it. Right thumb, obviously, and this way, I learned that one uses thumb of their dominant hand for more things than one notices. I've spent the week since blaming myself for being fat, ugly, clumsy and generally useless and the sassy blue bandage didn't really lift my mood. After all, it's a proof that I'm fat and clumsy.
And now comes the excellentest bit of logic. I'm fat, ugly and clumsy so I'd better hide under a stone instead of going and getting some exercise so I'll remain fat, clumsy and ugly, my life is a waste etc.
No way out.
When I went to get my refill and for a monthly chitchat with my shrink, I found out that I had been scheduled to someone else. No chitchat (or, to be exact, whines), but I could read over the doc's shoulder to find out that, as per the docs' notes, I'm oriented, no hallucinations, not suicidal, show autistic traits and don't seem visibly depressed. Heh, I'm good in not looking very depressed. I'm chatty, especially when in stressful social situations, and I have brain enough to be entertaining and funny and coherent. As for autistic traits, well, could well be. I'll ask details. I know that I can't read social situations too well, for example, but I prefer to blame poor socialization in tender age and being called weird. I'll ask the doc.
I felt okay. Not excellent but when I take into account all the work crap, passably well. Regulars already know that work crap has passed various turning points, sank under the lowest low several times and now it's just an unending agony of routine, boredom and those sickening moments of surprise when someone, instead of doing their job, starts thinking without knowing how to and I need to fix the ensuing problems.
But, back to the next point: what stupid silly things can be triggering. I found a studio that had some dance classes, started doing contemporary, sort of hated every minute of it because I'm fat, ugly, out of shape and haven't danced in years so I had hard time taking it easy that I'm the clumsiest person around. And, then, trying to avoid doing something hurtful to my knee, I fell on my thumb and twisted it. Right thumb, obviously, and this way, I learned that one uses thumb of their dominant hand for more things than one notices. I've spent the week since blaming myself for being fat, ugly, clumsy and generally useless and the sassy blue bandage didn't really lift my mood. After all, it's a proof that I'm fat and clumsy.
And now comes the excellentest bit of logic. I'm fat, ugly and clumsy so I'd better hide under a stone instead of going and getting some exercise so I'll remain fat, clumsy and ugly, my life is a waste etc.
No way out.
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