Chocolate Beverages

I was at the vending machine in college today, and got both a “hot chocolate” and a “chocomilk” to compare. They were… pretty similar. They both were served hot. The hot chocolate was a shade darker, and had slightly more of an aroma of cocoa, but they tasted almost the same. Maybe one is suitable for lactose intolerance and one isn’t – I don’t know? A friend I was with thought that the chocomilk had more of a milky taste, but I was only half-sure I could detect this. There definitely wasn’t a more “creamy” texture to the chocomilk; both drinks had a certain viscosity to them, and a slight tendency to coat the tongue. The “chocolate” taste was a little dusty in both cases, and I found them both a little oversweet.

I don’t think I’ll be changing from my usual coffee.

The Other Supreme Buddha

I read this article yesterday, and I think it influenced the manifest content of my dreams last night. Also while I’m on the topic the “Stuff White People Like” blog, I feel like mentioning that it often cuts really close to the bone. It’s not fun to see how closely one fits a stereotype!

Anyway, I dreamt that the Buddha pulled up to my house in a blue car, just as another blue car was pulling out of my driveway. He resembled a statue of orange stone. I invited him in, and offered him anything he cared to eat out of my fridge. He didn’t find anything he cared for, though – most of the things were half-eaten – so he asked whether I had any paint (or possibly I offered him some paint). While I was looking, I asked the Buddha whether or not he was a vegan. He told me that the “real” Buddha was a vegan, but that he wasn’t, because he was only the Buddha for people who were just “into” Buddhism. At this point I noticed that he was dressed like a hippy, and had a scruffy beard and sunglasses. I felt a little sorry for him, although he did not seem unhappy.

I found some light blue paint, and some tent pegs, and gave these to the ersatz Buddha. I have a vague memory of him chugging the paint, but the dream is hazy at this point; just after this, I woke up.

My analysis so far indicates that the Buddha might be a representation of myself on my return from hospital. Also, if we merge the symbols of the cars and the paint (as they were the same colour), the fact that the Buddha came out of the car, but took the paint into himself, implies a confusion of the inside/outside relation.

Sexism in the Aristocats

At the risk of seeming fixated on Disney (but then, I am), I thought I’d mention this. In the Aristocats, the cat Duchess’s two male children, Berlioz and Toulouse, are named after a French nineteenth-century composer and painter, respectively – appropriately, since Toulouse paints and Berlioz plays piano in an early scene. Her daughter, by contrast, is given the much more generic name “Marie” – possibly after Marie Antoinette. Why not name her after a nineteenth-century prima donna or something (since Marie sings along to Berlioz’ playing)? I sense a lack of respect for women in their creative endeavours…

Hm, in the time it took me to write that out, I managed to lose interest in the subject. Yawn.

Pizza Night

I think that it’s about time I returned to my blog. My subject today? The last pizza night on Kilroot ward!

Thursday’s was the night when four guys with anxiety disorders got themselves some pizza. Ross, Peter, Sean and I assembled in my room to order our usual from Dominos in Crumlin. Before this got started, though, Ross pointed out to Peter and Sean the view from my room, viz. the big honking rats in the courtyard below. We tried to count them, but they spent a lot of time going in and out of the cover of bushes and holes in the pavement. We only have a rough estimate – I’d say around six.

Ross is on a kick at the moment of exposing people to the triggers of their anxiety (I incidentally think this was the idea behind his mentioning the rats), so he thought I should jack up my social anxiety by making the call to Dominos. Partly because my social anxiety makes it hard for me to say no to people, and partly because it sounded like a good idea, I went through with it. Bad idea. I’m not going to say any more about it, but basically Ross had to call them back and actually place the order.

Anyway, our appetites whetted by our rat-watching, we really dug into the pizza, wedges, and so on, when they arrived. Topics of conversation included:

• How do we divide up all the food?
• Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (via a comparison of the rats in the courtyard to Shredder).
• Which mental illnesses are the worst to have? This one got pretty involved and confusing pretty quickly, because things like the intensity of the illness had to be taken into account.
• Which mental illnesses do the characters from Winnie-the-Pooh have? Apparently this has been put on somebody’s blog before, but I can’t find it anywhere, so here it is again: Pooh Bear has an eating disorder; Piglet has an anxiety disorder; Rabbit has OCD; Eeyore has major depression; Owl is approaching senility; Tigger has ADHD; Christopher Robin has gender dysphoria.
• What is the deal with the nurses in St. Patrick’s Hospital? They come into our room every hour to check up on us. They write down what we’re up to – it goes into our files! They force us out of bed in the morning! They call me on the phone even though I find this extremely anxiety-provoking! It’s all most frustrating, and we find it really brings down the bearability of the whole “psychiatric hospital experience” for us. I’m considering setting up a patients’ union to somehow voice and maybe address these complaints.
• Which country is the best – France or Italy, and then, after some thought, France or Spain. Or maybe it was Italy or Spain. To modify a Simpsons quote – “Nobody ever chooses France.”

I feel like I’m forgetting a lot, but hey, if anyone wants to add anything, there’s a “comments” feature. I’m off to watch a Woody Allen film – I sort of want to write an essay on hypnotism as a theme in his films.  Sayonara!

Worrying

After my ECT today, I found that I had forgotten how to solve the Rubik’s cube. I was quickly able to refresh my memory online, but nonetheless – who knows what else I have forgotten? Obviously I don’t, and indeed for the most part can’t, know.

Then again, I suppose there is little point in worrying about it. I should focus on the positive – the therapy actually does seem to have done some good today. I am tired, but am also rather less depressed than I felt at the weekend.

Oh, the Indignity…

Well, I’m home from hospital for the long weekend, and am, predictably, rather bored. I’m simply too depressed to read anything more demanding than over-analyses of cartoons – but then, at least they’re pretty fun.

In a bid to get me out of the house (fresh air being conducive to mental health, I imagine?), my father has taken to going for walks with me in Saint Anne’s Park in Clontarf. Today, there was a light rain falling, and the only other people in the park were dog-walkers. This made me feel rather “doggy”; I was, too, after all, being “taken” for a walk.

I can’t walk by the playground in that park without feeling a twinge of nostalgia – I used to go to there fairly regularly until I was maybe ten or so, and then didn’t go to the park at all for most of my adolescence. As a result, there is a gap in my memory; I don’t remember growing too old for the playground, but here I am, seven years older than the upper limit. Nostalgia!

Anyway, it’s back to hospital for me now. I might write another entry there. Or I might have a nap. It’s all good.

Peace Out!

Cannula stigmata!

It’s just occurred to me that the cannulae – the things that administer my anaesthetic before my ECT treatments – leave a small, but cool, “stigmata”-style scar on the back of my hand. The only thing cooler would be if Jesus himself underwent an anaesthetic before crucifixion. Medical drama and religious experience make for good combination? Free-associating from that, I’m now searching my memory for medical imagery in Tarkovsky… certain things from Stalker probably fit the bill best; specifically tiles and… do I recall a syringe being one of the objects submerged in muddy water? Perhaps a brassy-looking one?

Dreadfully bored in hospital at the moment, which is why I’m writing this bally thing up. I have, say, two hours until I can reasonably expect to fall quickly asleep after getting ready for bed. Until then, I can (1) watch Winnie-the-Pooh online, or (2) Read Arthur Conan Doyle. Neither really captures my imagination, but one must do something…

…

Oh, actually, DisneyCorp has made copyright claims against youtube since the weekend, so I can’t watch 1977’s The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh after all. How disappointing. I suppose I’ll have to read – damn it! – instead.

First post!

This is my first half-assed attempt at blogging, inspired by catchthepigeon’s own first – albeit more full-assed – efforts. Dateline: The reception of St. Patrick’s Hospital. What’s going on? We – Michael, Ross, and I – are talking about that episode of the Simpsons where Marge is a guidance counsellor and Homer is Mister Sparkles, and the conversation drifts – inevitably – into the Simpsons’ recent decline.

Now a turn for the frightening has been taken! Ross and Michael are going to bring up my anxiety with their doctor (I believe he is known as Pat around these parts?), and I just know that this is going to end with crowds of mental health professionals literally shaking the anxiety out of me! Just… just grabbing me by the lapels and shaking, and yelling “calm down” into my face.

Oh, but in the time it took for me to write the above, conversation has drifted back to tv shows, via Vikings. All is once again well.