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I’m being referred for counselling and my Jobseekers claim has been switched over to ESA (basically disability benefit.)
I didn’t think it would happen anywhere near that fast. Now at least I don’t have to deal with the Job Centre making me apply for 30 jobs a week any more, and some of the pressure is off.
The only downside to today was my mother blithely proclaiming things like ‘when you get your head straight we’ll be able to do (x)’ and bringing up the ideas of confronting my abuser and going to the police. She doesn’t want to admit that I have problems that the abuse didn’t cause, the same way she doesn’t want to admit that my brother is a violent drug abuser.
Healing is a process, and it’s going to take a lot longer than my mother thinks. But at least I’ve taken the first steps, and nothing will stop me from being happy about that.
Anxiety is so weird. I finally managed to make a doctor appointment for myself, which I’ve been meaning to do since the beginning of this year.
After I put down the phone:
Five minutes later:
I have no idea what I’m even going to say. Last time I went to this doctor I decided I was going to tell him about the abuse, but I choked and just wound up describing my anxiety instead. He gave me antidepressants (which I never took) and I haven’t been back since.
Wish me luck, I guess.
If you only ever learn one thing about apocalyptic history, let it be that in 1806, a chicken soon to be known as The Prophet Hen of Leeds began laying eggs with the phrase ‘Christ is coming’ inscribed on each one. The townspeople’s terror of doomsday was cut short, however, when someone realized the hen’s owner was just writing on the eggs herself and then shoving them back inside the bird. Everyone minus the chicken probably laughed about it later. (x)
I have pretty serious issues with food texture/flavour.
Lumpy mashed potatoes make me gag. Overly smooth mashed potatoes (looking at you, Smash) also make me gag. I used to get scolded when this happened at the dinner table, because I was obviously doing it on purpose and for attention.
The only way I can eat carrots is if they’re inside a forkful of mashed potato. Same with green beans. It’s honestly not the taste that bothers me, it’s the texture, and the mash masks it enough for me to tolerate.
I can’t stand toppings on pizza, and I used to be obsessed with salt and vinegar crisps to the point where I would refuse to eat any other flavour (I wasn’t too bothered about eating the crisps themselves - I’d just lick the flavour off.)
Looking back, it’s pretty baffling that nobody ever really noticed or seemed to give a damn about the obvious problems I have when I was younger. I guess a weird kid who sits quietly with a book is less attention grabbing than one who throws bricks at swans and stamps on frogs on school outings.
Shepard refuses to pilot the Hammerhead back to the Normandy.
At any other time Garrus would consider that a blessing, especially since his stock of anti-nausea meds is running low. Given the events of the last few hours, though, it’s cause for concern; so is the alarming paleness of Shepard’s skin and the distant look in his eyes. Even Jack’s profanity-laced tirade against Cerberus doesn’t seem to rouse him, and when they reach the Normandy he disappears up to his cabin almost instantly, still in full armour.
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