HELLO MY NAME IS ANNETTE AND I AM AN ADDICT!!

There you are, I have admitted it. . .

When I was a small child, middle of three sisters, I had no knowledge of personality and certainly didn’t know what an addict was, During this period of my life my sisters and I were innocently addicted to having fun, this we did most days growing up. We were fortunate to live in a very pretty part of Devon and spent our days embroiled in various fun pursuits. One of our favourites was swinging back and forth across the stream (use this term lightly because to any seven year old a large body of water moving faster than a snail is probably more like a raging river than a stream) clinging onto a large knot tied in one end of a length of old rope. The rope was slung over a high tree, which incidentally was cut down every evening, under the cover of darkness probably by a concerned parent and slung back over again by the farm boys who were our daily ‘let’s see what mischief we can get up to today’ companions. We also played chalk games in the road, snail and hopscotch; we were rarely disturbed by cars as there was just the farm at one of end of the road and a few shops at the other.

I can’t quite believe that I am going to openly admit to this next game, we did survive though, writing this blog is testament to that.

A train line ran at the back of our bungalow and at particular times during the day, With the farm lads for support and generally because they were believed to be superior at counting and keeping tallies we would listen out for the whistle heralding the arrival of the hissing metal snail, (I have created this metaphorical imagery in order to allay your fears for our childhood innocent safety) our goal, our addiction, was to score the highest number of passes across the tracks and determine which of our merry band had nerves of steel comparable to those of the train.

Whilst we awaited the arrival of the train we often whiled away the time precariously balancing whilst high wire walking across the wonderful dry stone bridge which crossed the little river dividing river and rail. The air was often quite pierced intermittently by our shrieks of laughter, quieter still when our mothers’ would stand outside and call us in for bed, knowing that just moments ago the sound of shrill laughter and fun could be heard just outside that closed window.

When I was sixteen I went to study fashion at Art College. I came to know what an addict was, we had several in our group of one kind or another, it was the seventies after all. The majority of my ‘college set’ was made up of those addicted to having fun. This fun, pre computers, internet, digital cameras, video recorders and mobile phones consisted of parties, pubs and Pimms!

I never realised that I had an addictive personality. Thinking about it now I suppose that it was when I began to read that the addictions arrived along with the authors. We studied classical literature therefore reading was a compulsory part of our directed study. (This area of study would never now form part of your fashion degree). My mother always read and still does but the books I saw her reading as a child were those found in women’s magazines. She used to tell us that when she was a child her mother used to send her to her room to tidy, she would find a book and begin to read. Hours later a call would reach her occupied mind. . “I hope you aren’t up there reading!” On hearing this and re-telling to my children I have said so many times that I was, and still am the type of parent that would put the reading before any tidying ever took place, between reading and tidying there is no contest.

My aunt also told me similar stories of books and laundry even when she was married she would do the washing, it would of course been Monday, washing was always done on Monday, she would hear her husband returning from work and quickly hide the book under the clothes in the pile untouched due to an afternoon spirited away to some distant land or time transported on the wings of the written word. I was not even aware that the criminally addictive behaviour gene had reared its obsessive head. In those wonderful early days I simply enjoyed studying, reading, working and finding the wrong type of partner. . . I have to say that the latter came far too easily and of course outstayed its welcome.

When I began working for myself, I became addicted to work as that was the only way I could survive financially. I had two young children and a partner who was addicted to talking, primarily to other people. A caffeine addiction honed to perfection ensured that sleep, or the necessity for sleep wasn’t an issue. My body tolerated this obsession for caffeine for many, many years until such time as I returned once more to industry and working for an employer. This was a lovely family business where breakfast was cooked by the owner’s wife and eaten together as a working family unit. Coffee was provided at this time and no other during the working day. A manic week of ‘cold turkey’ abstinence and masses of determination stopped this addiction in its espresso strength tracks and that is where it remains to this day.

What else am I addicted to?

The necessity for answers is a rather troubling addiction primarily in cases of relationships. A sane person will know only too well that the more you search for an answer, and I have the tenacity and endurance of a terrier at a trouser leg, the more the answer will run screaming like a banshee in the opposite direction.

I also have an addiction to food that I have intolerance to. For example eating animal fat will over the course of several days cause my digestive system severe distress, it doesn’t have to be too much, just a bar of chocolate, some ice cream, a cake. I love ice cream, I love chocolate and I love cake, especially when the cake is chocolate and the ice cream is on the side!!! This is possibly my most serious addiction to date, and I know that my family and friends would agree. I fight huge battles with this invisible monster, a fearsome creature that lurks unseen within the family size sweet packet and who isn’t placated till the very last sweet is consumed. I can have sweets and chocolate in the house for months on end, safe in their slumber of the unopened packet. Often great effort has to be expended to open a bag of sweets, especially when your conscious is insisting that you don’t BUT your subconscious, always the stronger twin, probably born first, insists that you do.

The very second that the seal is broken all hope is lost!

I am addicted to studying. I am one of those lifelong learners that people bang on about. I have managed to fast track my way up the educational ladder whilst balancing an extremely challenging workload (60 or more hours each week) and will never rest till I reach the last rung. I can imagine that some people would say that there is no last rung as far as education is concerned and this may indeed be the case and could explain why when there is any sighting made of this last metaphorical rung I move it higher still. Coupled with this is the fact that I am addicted to work. I have combined these addictions because for me work is study and study work, the two are inextricably entwined.

For a short while I became addicted to finding a ‘life’ you know that work life balance that everyone talks about, talks about how this is necessary for a healthy body, mind and spirit. Well I believe that I had found this wrapped up in a creative, quirky film editor. The shocking reality was a creative, quirky, lion in Jacobs’ sheep clothing. (yes ok he was a Leo who dressed in black)!!!

About a year ago I found my most time consuming all encompassing addiction to date. . . FACEBOOK

To be precise a variety of virtual games on facebook, and thank goodness for them at the moment because it has been so easy with time weighing heavily on my hands to fill my endless day with cooking, farming and hunting for endless collections of eggs, spices and the like. Often though I will check in early hours of the morning and realise that I logged out early hours of the same morning. I didn’t use the term addicted lightly in this respect.

The very best thing about facebook is that it lets me multi task my addictions. I can become immersed deep inside my latest endeavour, my right hand controlling the mouse of my virtual world whilst my left hand does battle with the sweet monster in the real world!

Hello my name is Annette and I am an addict . . . .

It has been three days since I opened and finished a bag of sweets

BUT

It has been one hour since my last facebook session!!!

When is a bed no longer a bed?

When the item in question becomes a sofa, a chair, a table, a life’s stage and ultimately an extremely comfortable prison. . .

On my stage the drama of recovering from painful foot surgery has been unfolding, one long, often seemingly endless, day at a time. Actually I wouldn’t even say day as they have rather become messed one into the other. The hours stretch out before me as endless and often as silent as a dark tunnel meandering through some gloomy, desolate landscape. My previous life’s tunnel would be more comfortable housing the bustling Euro express for example. But for now and the next four weeks or so I am painfully and emotionally darkly aware that tomorrow will be the same as yesterday and the day after the same as the day before. . . .

Post surgical reality is that I have time on my hands, actually in all honestly what I have is time on my arse! About 23 hours a day for the last 30 days. . . I have spent these days sitting, half lying or fully laying down, but all with my feet up at waist level or higher. The throbbing in my feet from surgical removal of Morton’s Neuromas (plural, yes more than one), has been complemented by a culmination of other pains. If the surgery was a metaphorical meal then the resulting pains could be likened to a quality colourful garnish. . . . . It has been a while since I have spent so many hours dwelling on pain and suffering, my own that is, I have passed some of this endless time swearing about my condition of the moment, hour or day to my lovely daughter and son. I have sworn out loud to an empty house or facebook page any audience has been rewarded conscious or otherwise to a barrage of colourful swearing and ailments. I realised that there was the distinct possibility that I was turning into a hypochondriac with Toutettts!

For days I dragged myself around the house with my new crutch companions . . . there must have been a reason why I was told most definitely to use them at all times. What I have, at home, are stairs, stairs and more stairs. I completed myself daily on my growing ability to juggle one crutch whilst carrying its partner at the prescriptive 90 degree angle.

I quickly became adept at balancing the crutch not required for stair descending or ascending whilst moving from one location to the other. I was informed that it was necessary to spend at least an hour resting between relocations, permitted, as I am, to walk only for five minutes in any hour. My main problem here apart from the obvious, boredom factor and pain is that I am cursed with the bladder of a two year old, or at least one with the capacity of a tea spoon, I add this because I have personal knowledge of children with bladders that would happily hold the contents of most Olympic sized swimming pools.

Unfortunately, though typically, my need for the toilet increased whilst the ability to comfortably make the stair journey diminished. Dragging myself around up and down stairs has caused pain in my arm and shoulder to become so urgent that I have been forced to take painkillers, something which I am generally loath to do. (more opportunities for swearing).

My feet aren’t in constant pain now, thankfully, the throbbing and burning has been replaced by a periodical watered down version. When I was in ‘real’ pain at the beginning of this journey I didn’t really have the time to think much about anything apart from toilet, eating and resting but now 30 days later I have time, time to think about everything time to experience the emotional pain of 30 days and nights being held captive in my own house.

This is crazy because I have spent weeks here when of course I had the ability to go out I didn’t, like when I had the ability to clean I didn’t. What was I doing, how was I spending my time you may ask??? Well on facebook of course I have an incredibly demanding virtual life. . . . .

Human nature . . . aren’t we a perverse lot!!

Every day I make myself the promise of setting up and writing a blog, not for anyone other than myself rather a platform to process the inner ramblings that are my present, and in honesty, my permanent state of mind. Every day too I believe and resolve anew to write the letter to the DVLA informing of the date when my last car was scrapped and therein lays the problem that information isn’t carried around in my head. Locating said information requires, at worst, delving into piles of carrier bagged paperwork, at best making another phone call to the garage to ask them when they destroyed it.

I also resolve to phone Brighton University to discuss the e-mail that they sent regarding the educational researcher study position.

If this isn’t enough of a daily challenge I also have definitely, yes definitely without backing down or giving in to temptation and laziness to eat healthy YET again.

Right at this moment Adel is musically proclaiming that she’s bored’ she echoes completely my sentiments. . . . . actually though thinking about it I believe that Steve Martin did this emotional condition more justice in LA Story when he wrote on the window of his apartment ‘bored beyond despair’ this statement probably better describes my present condition.

Yesterday, whilst balancing in the shower, I was thinking about the amount of ‘real life that I squander each day immersed in the virtual world of facebook where cooking and farming and egg hunting are the order of my day.

I have began to realise that the mess around my house is driving me to the brink of a distraction. The only reason now that I am not tidying is because I know that at the moment cleaning really would be detrimental to my health??

Just a month ago I could:

· murder weeks in the little yard (did this at 5am on the morning of surgery)

· Trawl around in the pond to remove weed which was transported on the back of the, much desired, school frogs, which incidentally, despite the spacious Harrods style living style accommodation, have packed bags and left!

· Remove twenty years of detritus from my house, cart the evidence of past financial and school endeavours along with the often odd drinking binges (children and friends not mine, this isn’t another addiction that I need to removal help with) to the skip, hospice shop, school fete or other well appointed new abode (came over all Beatrix Potter for a moment, apologies).

· Get in my car and drive seven and a half hours (4.5hr journey time according to Google maps, but failed to realise that it was necessary to check in with the instructions whilst driving – SAT NAV not available for journey) to surprise an ex boyfriend who flirted with me relentlessly for the past six months and then at the witching hour of re-affirming our shagging vows changed his mind only to disappear once again into ‘other’ peoples’ lives. . . .

Hang on I did actually do the latter, but hey that’s a narrative for another day another time, and very probably another life.

Farewell for now audience of mine if I do indeed have one, Cafe World calling . . . . . .