Random Scribblings in the Margin

It is unseasonably warm and sunny. This means that people like me, who overheat easily and are trying to avoid being a Sweaty McStinkfeet, will be walking the pavements in sandals.

(For yes, trainers do actually come off! They are not welded to your feet until such time as they disintegrate from their own terrible fumes.)

Here is a typical, though not exhaustive, list of things I would rather not have near my naked toes:

• Pools of human piss, canine piss, Special Brew or White Lightning (the four are often indistinguishable)
  
• Lumps of phlegm in a saliva suspension
  
• Dog shit
  
• Used condoms

No love, for fear I might catch something,

Lorna

Now granted, when it comes to psychiatric treatment, I am not a nice person. I am angry, I am ruthless in achieving my goals, and I am a smartass. The shrinks don't like this. It hurts their feelings.

Thing is, my anger, my ruthlessness and my smartassery has done more for me than they ever have. They're what I turn on myself when dealing with things like my eating disorder, the urge to get drunk, the urge to cut up my arms, and strings of panic attacks or checking that stop me getting on with my day. When I'm tired and down and running on empty, I can throw them on and swirl them like a badass leather trenchcoat and they hold me up for a little bit longer. They're the autopilot I switch to when dealing with situations that would leave me a sobbing heap on the floor if I actually engaged emotionally. They're also pretty good for dealing with people who would otherwise walk all over my stated wishes with their professional status and their psychonormative privilege. They work.

So the prospect of ditching them, in order to spare the feelings of people who have done worse than nothing for me? Unlikely to go down well.

(This post was brought to you by this morning's upcoming psychiatric appointment.)