Party

I've never been to a party I didn't want to leave.

Over the last few days, plans have been laid for my brother's wedding and all its associated (sigh) festivities. My father is going to the stag do in Hamburg (I said the Reeperbahn was a district of dubious repute, but that's probably why they're going) and my mother and sister are going to the hen night at The Birdcage in Manchester.

I've not been invited anywhere.

Except, of course, to the wedding itself where, it is implied, I will disappoint people if I don't turn up.

My misadventures at parties are well known in the family, from the times I sat in the car at my mother's cousins' parties to the time I left very early during my parents' Silver Wedding because it was too crowded and noisy. My alternative way of coping, should easy escape not be possible, is to drink too much. My chocolate throwing antics at my grandparents' on Boxing Day 1991 are particularly famous.

I am damned for not enjoying myself, or being enjoyable, or not trying hard enough at either. And when I try, I am damned for getting it wrong. To be quite frank, the way I'm treated by my family, I have doubts they know the difference between 'mentally ill' and 'mentally retarded', such is the patronising way they deal with me.

If certain assurances are not made for me, I'm not going.

'Disappointments' or not.

Lizards

Here come the lizards

Someone is talking to me. I reply. Am I doing the right thing? Why are they looking at me like that? Have I done something to offend them? Best get on with my work and not think about it.

Here come the lizards, here come the lizards

I must have seemed distant or standoffish or something. I can't think of anything I did wrong. Must have been something. I'm sure they're probably talking about me now and how weird I am. I can't ask them because I'll seem even weirder.

Here come the lizards, here come the lizards, here come the lizards

I'm sure they're avoiding me. Did they give me a funny look just then? Why did they start whispering when I went by? Are they laughing? I must be the laughing stock of the whole place now. Close your eyes, and remember to breathe. It's not working. Why do I have to think these things. I wish I'd not thought anything at all.

Here come the lizards, here come the lizards, here come the lizards, here come the lizards

etc.

Update

Sorry for not posting for 2 months. Been busy. Busier than I expected to be 2 months ago.

Further to my 'assessment' for Incapacity Benefit, I passed. Passed, that is, fit to work. To be ill, I had to score 10. I scored 5. I doubted their methodology, but it seems they were right. I got a (minimum wage) job 2 weeks ago, and it's not been easy. The work is easy. But the people. The people are difficult. I no doubt have been building a reputation as an uncommunicative weirdo there. I'm resigned to this. Such things happen wherever I go. I no longer expect anything from anyone, let alone sympathy and understanding

I had a meeting with my psychiatrist 3 weeks ago. I've been referred to the Sheffield Asperger Syndrome Service to see if they can spot the bats flapping round my head. I got sent a large questionnaire for a close relative to fill out, and directions to the place for an appointment to see them at the end of January.

My life is not easier, just difficult in new ways.

Olthwaite

My father watches a lot of TV comedy. He always has. Mostly his tastes run the gamut between Bernard Manning and Roy 'Chubby' Brown. Occasionally, he watches something more challenging, as long as it doesn't contain anyone too intelligent to make him resentful.

Ripping Yarns was one of those.

One episode in particular (along with the more typical spoofs of public school, sport, colonialism and the Second World War) was titled 'The Testing of Eric Olthwaite'. This was the tale of a young man who talked ceaselessly about one or two subjects to the exclusion of all else. Eric was so boring, his parents ran away from home.

I wish mine had.

I was, and probably still am, someone who can talk endlessly about things that interest me. My father is the same, but since he does not share my interests to him I am boring. Throughout my childhood he mocked me because of this. I once bought a comic that said Sol Brodsky was dead. I thought my father, a 1960s comics fan would be interested. No. For years afterwards he recounted the tale in an 'Eric Olthwaite' voice saying "Sol Brodsky's dead today, mother". I was 13 years old at the time.

I learned a hard lesson here. Whether it has standed me in good stead is another matter. I learned not to say anything if I had any doubt about how what I said would be received. I learned that if I was enthusiastic about something, people would ridicule me for it. I learned that if something is enjoyable, then it's sad and pathetic.

Now I live an entirely enclosed life. I stay in this room and indulge my pursuits. And I don't tell anyone. They won't understand. I think they'd understand more if I was viewing porn and 'extreme' action videos rather than looking up Royal Geneologies and Adam Curtis documentaries. But sex and violence (and combinations of both) are not sad and pathetic.

Discovered enthusiasm is ridicule. You will be destroyed for liking things others don't.

And now, my parents complain I stay in my room and never talk to them. I'm sorry, but some things are hard to forgive.

Medical

I went for the medical yesterday. Went about as expected.

Found the anonymous building it was at surrounded with scaffolding and the sound of construction work. One of those things if you live in an expanding university town.

The office was remarkably large but barely furnished The doctor didn't bother checking anything physical on me. He looked and sounded bored as he ticked off the checklist on his PC. I can't really blame him if the people in the waiting room are any indication of those he has to see (I think most people would describe them as chavs - there was even a sign in reception that said "Consumption of Alcohol is Not Permitted on These Premises").

I was asked the usual questions. How did I feel? How did my feelings affect what I was able to do? Was I capable of this, that and the other? Do I drink or take drugs? Do I have any friends? Was I anxious in coming here today? And I was expected to know the answers to all these questions.

He asked me how I was getting home. I always find it unnerving when people try to make small talk, especially when they so obviously have no interest but do it because their training says it's a Good Thing to Do.

His report will be passed to my Personal Advisor, who I've yet to meet and probably has not learned of my existence. No doubt this will be a poorly-paid Civil Servant skilled in hassling and demeaning the 'unworthy' as those are the types who tend to be successful. Even if only people come off Benefits just to avoid them. It all goes towards hitting government targets. And we all know targets are more important than people.

Medical

I received a letter on Wednesday. I have to report to a 'Centre' to undergo a 'medical examination'.

As suspected, I must have tripped off a function in a computer program. I've been on Incapacity Benefit for a year. Therefore all efforts must be made to get me off it. No doubt the Benefits Agency have 'targets' to meet.

Since I'm on IB due to 'depression' (what my sick notes say), quite how they'll examine me is open to question. There will probably be a written test, probably box-ticking as this is easy to quantify. I will probably fail, and thus judged fit for some sort of work, as I'm not catatonic or psychotic. Basically, I'm being set up to fail because some civil servant wants a performance-related bonus, just as I lost my job because a manager wanted to make his presence felt.

After that I will be passed to what the letter terms a 'Personal Adviser' who will make me attend a 'Work Focused Interview'. This will assail me with hassling and demeaning words and demands that I justify myself, and prostrate myself in order to get work.

If my benefit is stopped, it's no real loss. I have over £30,000 in the bank so I won't starve. It's just disconcerting that I'm going to have to go through a system that presumes I'm a malingerer and must be punished.

My own plan was to start applying for temporary jobs in retail (my previous line of work) around November, when shops traditionally look for extra Xmas staff. But my plans mean nothing in the computer-generated, cost-cutting, target-driven world of the Benefits Agency

Alcohol

I drink too much. You don't have to tell me.

They say that an alcoholic is someone who drinks more than you do. I average a bottle of wine (or equivalent) a day. And what's worse, I drink it at home. Alone.

Despite the physiological evidence (ie. the liver breaking down alcohol at a consistent rate no matter the conditions), it's a 'given' that drinking alone is worse for your health than drinking while 'out'. That is utterly stupid. Maybe they think that being with people mitigates the toxic effects. Though I've never noticed any difference. I drink when I'm 'out' to numb the stress, rather than make me sociable.

What with the evidence from town centres every Friday and Saturday night, it seems that people 'going out' end up engaging in a lot of anti-social activities. But that's ok. It's traditional. These facts are known. Anyone who stays at home to drink is a depressive and violent family abuser. Right?

I've never hit anyone or smashed up the place after drinking alone. In fact, I don't even get what could be termed 'drunk'. My drinking harms no-one and nothing. But people maintain an inbuilt suspicion and distaste of someone who drinks alone.

You're probably thinking - but surely if I didn't drink, I'd feel so much happier? I can't speak for other people, but drinking or not makes little difference to my overall mental state. I had a breakdown at 18, at which time I drank maybe twice a year. I had problems and depression for many years without alcohol. So why do I drink, you ask. There's no complex psychiatric explanation here. I drink because it makes life less boring and stressful for the duration.

And anyway, society thinks I'm a sick weirdo. So why confound their expectations?