Category Archives: Other Writing

Help me get my dissertation bound, please!

I’m entirely serious today. I have to hand in two copies of my MA dissertation by 12th December 2018 and they have to be in hard binding. The university recommends Lincoln Binding. They do everything to the university specification, but for two copies it’ll cost me at least £101. I have to hand both in but I get one back and the other goes into the library.

You may or may not be aware of this but I am disabled and don’t work, and I just can’t afford it. I’m writing today to ask if anyone would like to assist in getting my dissertation bound, please? I’m thinking of adding a page to the back with a list of those who donate and thanking them for their support. I’m struggling with my mental health at the moment because of other stressors and this is just adding to the load.

Paypal: rosemariecawkwell_184@hotmail,com

I have questions…

Specifically, questions about the universe.

Right, so the universe is expanding. Current theory and available data suggests this.

My question, a question I’ve had for about 20 years, is, what is the universe expanding in to?

This is another of my ‘brain won’t shut off’ thoughts.

I was trying to visualise it all last night but I struggled with something. When people refer to ‘the universe’ do they mean the mass and energy created in the Big Bang, that now forms the galaxies of the universe? Or are they referring to everything, all that is?

I tried to come up with a way to visualise what I mean and I’m struggling. The best I’ve got so far is a balloon. At Big Bang, the singularity of energy that ‘exploded’ to produce all the energy and matter in the universe, is represented by a flaccid balloon. It starts to inflate and expands as air is forced into it, representing the expansion of the universe. There’s lots of energy produced, formation of stars, dark energy etc.

Now, what is that balloon expanding into?

Is there a reality outside of the universe, a box the balloon is expanding into? If there is, does the ‘box’ grow to fit the ever expanding balloon, or is there a limit that the balloon will reach? And what is the nature of that box? And, if we continue the analogy, will the balloon burst at some point in time, stretched to breaking point by the mass and energy that makes it?

Say there isn’t a ‘box’, what is there? Does something come into being with the expansion of the universe into that space? What is the nature of that space?

It’s all so confusing!

My confusion was added to when I read an article in New Scientist a few years ago about bubble universes. What’s in the space between?

See, this is why I never got anywhere as a scientist, my brain gets distracted by probably pointless questions that others have probably already answered. In the other hand, it does provide me with inspiration for writing. Got something bubbling away.

I am almost definitely not a great loss to science

I was having one of my ‘can’t turn brain off’ nights last night. I had a few thoughts, like autistics are about 1% of the population, add the other neurodivergents and that probably comes to 5 – 10% of the human population. Maybe there was a evolutionary advantage to having a small number of people in a group that thought and processed the world differently.

And then I got up this morning, did my usual Twitter, Facebook and WordPress gander and realised, it’s all been thought before and articulated better, by people much more intelligent than I am.

So I think I’ll go back to writing stories.

Ignore the pacing, tapping and twitching, I’m just stimming.

This week I’m going to write about stimming. The calendar asks the questions what is stimming and how is it related to masking.

Stimming is autie slang for those things we do to self-sooth when anxious, among other things.

I have a variety of stims. I flap my arms, like a confused penguin, usually when I’m in the chemists and waiting for my medication. It works particularly well when I’m wearing my waterproof jacket, because it makes a rustling sound that I like. I rub my hands on my thighs especially when I’m wearing jeans. The texture and movement is soothing. Texture seems to be important for me, rough textures work well. I also like physical actions, like throwing a ball at the wall and catching it. Crafting is possibly a stim too. It’s a socially acceptable stim to crochet or sew in public.

Why do I stim? Because I get anxious and I need to send the energy somewhere, I suppose.

What has stimming to do with masking?

If I can redirect the anxiety to an activity I can hold up until I get home. It helps me maintain the facade of calm and attention, except when I can’t and then I stim because I need to. That’s when the mask drops in public and I get funny looks. That’s not fun. Especially as I think some of my behaviours that might have been stimming as a teenager were the reason some people bullied me at school. It was twenty years ago but the worry is still there that someone will attack me for doing what I need to do to be comfortable.

So that’s my take on stimming and masking.

Anyway, I’ve discovered this evening that Monday evening after 8 pm is a good time to go shopping. There was only two other people in the shop when I went to get my food shopping. It was great. No queue at the tills, no children getting too close, hardly any staff getting in the way with containers. It was great. Plus I had an audio book on my tablet, with the volume quite high. I’m going to end up deafening myself.

Dissertation update: Week 9

I got a bit of feedback from my supervisor earlier in the week on the most recent draft. Still need more of the city in the description. So on Wednesday morning I added 1400 words describing the first trip Lucie and Robbie take from Nettleham to Washingborough adding lots of details about the route and scenery.

Google Maps is a life saver! I’d mostly remembered the route correctly but it helped to have it mapped out with images.

Apparently the essay is good now. I just need to get everything arranged properly for the final presentation, provided my supervisor is happy with the creative piece.

I’m other writing news, I managed a thousand words this morning and a read through of everything I’d written so far of Her Last Death. I’m up to 21949 words now. I’m hoping to reinstate my 1000 words a day policy but it depends on what else is going on. I’m currently achy as hell but I can’t decide why. I think I’m going to do nothing this weekend.

In reading news, I’ve read one of the London Mysteries I’m reviewing a week today, and my copies of Wrecker and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot which I’ll be reviewing later in the month have arrived.

I’m what else I’m doing news, my rainbow draft excluder is coming along nicely, the garden is beginning to pick up and my cross-stitch is looking okay. I’ve been swimming and to the AAF café this week. That’s probably why I ache, I’ve pushed myself a bit. Oh, and next week I meet my support worker!

Anchor chains

I was laid in bed thinking last night about the connections we make with other people, especially our families. My brain came up with a metaphor. I get metaphorical at times, it helps me understand the world.

Our links to family are the anchor we’re born with, keeping us firmly in place. We learn to know who we are and where we are, just the basics, a starting point. That’s our port of anchor, our home. Eventually we grow up, and want to sail away, so we haul in the anchor and head out to sea. We take our anchor with us, a security against losing ourselves. Got lost? Drop your anchor, check your compass and charts, rest and then head back out on your journey, safe in the knowledge that you can stop and rest if you need to. You can go home if you need to, to repair the anchor, replace the mooring ropes, get a decent cup of tea.

Sometimes the rope is rotten and the chain rusted. It snaps in time, and you flail around unconnected until someone throws you a new rope, and you can get yourself a new anchor. You might have tried to keep going, with that rusty anchor chain and the fraying rope, hoping to repair it soon, but never being able to. The break, though inevitable, still comes as a shock.

If you’re lucky, you have a few spares, ready and willing to help hold you steady (friends). If not, you’re thrown about on the waves, struggling to get to shore. This is how I think of those with abusive families. From observation, the rope, to an outsider, is fatally flawed, but the sailor keeps sailing, hoping one day things will change but they never do. The rope gets more frayed, the anchor chain rustier. Eventually it breaks, it was going to, but the break is painful for the sailor because they’ve relied for so long on the faulty equipment. This is the part of your brain and society that reinforces the message that says “No, you mustn’t cut of your narcissistic/abusive/controlling mother/father/sister/brother, they’re family.”, or the abusive person that tells them they have no one else, that none will ever love them, look after them, the way the abusive person does, even though common sense and your friends say “Run away as far and as fast as you can. Cut off all contact, they’re bad for you.”.

The fact is, the anchor – the abusive family member – doesn’t care, it’s doing its own thing and now at least it isn’t being hauled around by/constantly connected to the ‘demanding’ sailor. Oh, it might wish you were still there, but only so they can continue abusing you. They’ll say you cut the rope, it’s your fault they left, but that’s just deflection. They were rotten to start with.

Leave the anchor, deep and lost on the seas.

Sail away and find a new way to get to shore.

Call for help.

If you have spare ropes (friends) that’ll hold you for a while, you can tie up elsewhere, find another anchor, one you choose, rather than one foisted on you. Maybe the old ropes and anchor stopped you from getting spares, (social isolation) and you struggle to get to shore.

Call for help.

Someone will answer, maybe they’ll lend you a temporary anchor, just until you find yourself a new one. This is a support group, or a therapist, that sort of thing.

Some people have perfectly fine anchors and ropes, strong, unfreyed, uncorroded, and still choose to cut themselves loose, leaving a dangling rope and a lost anchor. They have their own reasons, even if they don’t make any sense from the outside. They might have other anchors, ‘better’ ones, waiting to be used; or they might believe their perfectly fine anchors and rope are damaged and they need to be thrown away.

Or, maybe they just want to go on an adventure, are tired of being in one place, feel stuck or scared. So they cut their mooring ropes and sail away. Maybe everything will go well, they find temporary moorings, borrow new anchors and rope, and eventually come back. Full of stories, ready to fish up their old anchor, clean it off and start again. And maybe they’ll need help. Maybe, they’ll discover they left the anchor on the seabed for too long and it’s rusted and too far gone to be cleaned up and reused; maybe someone else fished it out, appreciated that it was a fine anchor and decided to make it their own. So, disappointed, they have to get a new anchor. Maybe they’ll keep the one they abandoned but tried to recover as a memory or souvenir, or they’ll see it hanging from another ship’s anchor chain, having been rescued soon after being abandoned, and feel sad they’ve lost something they hadn’t really had the chance to appreciate. And they’ll sail on.

Make of that what you will. My brain in a strange place.

Non-verbal communication works better for some people.

I have a headache and I’m coughing and stuffy. It’s either a cold or heyfever. Choices, choices.

Anyway, I’m whiling away my time reading, as usual now I’ve sent in another email with my dissertation, and today’s choice is one of my book shopping spree purchases: Odd Girl Out, by Laura James.

Reading it, I’ve found so many things, thoughts, feelings, that I recognise. That I’ve felt or experienced, despite our different backgrounds and upbringing. The oddness of other people, not understanding the social rules, being immersed in books, not understanding the whole football thing, practical empathy, being overwhelmed by other people’s feelings, especially negative feelings, not quite getting why people lie, there’s so much!

She talks about the irony of an autistic woman in a communications profession – she’s a journalist. Communication deficits are a hallmark of autism. The fact is, we communicate well in writing. I prefer to write than talk, because I can be very precise in writing. I mean what I write. There’s no need to assume otherwise. If I’m being satirical, humorous or sarcastic I can indicate that either directly with a symbol, or with the sentence structure. It’s also solid, I have information in writing, so I can refer back to it if I get confused or need reassurance. Or to win an argument.

Speech is different. If I say something, other people have a habit of deciding the meaning based on my face or body language, rather than the actual words used. My face does not always show my feelings. My words get jumbled up if I’m stressed or answering an unexpected question. I can’t always hear and process speech. I forget what’s been said or what I’ve said. Sometimes. Beware, I also have the ability to recall conversations from months or years ago with accuracy. Sometimes I lose the ability to speak, especially under stress, or if I’m heading into a shutdown. It’s very frustrating.

So, because autists have problems with verbal communication, our ability to communicate at all is written off as deficient. This attitude keeps the non-speaking from being given any respect at all, and those of us who do speak are told we’re too good at communicating to actually be autistic when we go for a diagnosis. It’s not just doctors either, when autistic people advocate for themselves they get push back from certain people – they can’t possibly be autistic if they can write a tweet. *massive eye-roll* Or they must be ‘high functioning’ and don’t understand the experience of ‘low functioning’ people. Almost invariably, when asked what they mean by ‘low functioning’, not speaking is included in the criteria. *again, eye roll*

Just because there’s a block between mind and mouth doesn’t mean there’s a block between mind and hand, or low intellectual ability, or low competancy. People need to stop assuming speech is the only valid means of communication. Give people the means to communicate and actually read what they’re saying.

Right, now I’ve got that off my chest I’m going back to reading my book.

Over 500 followers!

How did that happen? You crept up on me! It’s taken almost 7 years, since starting this blog in mid-2011, to get to 507 followers. I don’t run the biggest book blog on the planet, but I hope I keep my followers amused and informed. I was surprised the first time someone who wasn’t a friend or family member decided to read and follow my blog. I’m still surprised every time I get an email telling me someone has followed my blog. Thanks, it’s appreciated.

Screenshot 2018-05-31 21.38.10

I really started to focus on the book blogging in 2014 and saw a massive increase in visitors. With odd dips, my visitor numbers and followers have steadily increased and I’ve made some lovely booky contacts. Since my mental health crash in 2015, and subsequent inability to work a ‘normal’ job, I’ve been able to devote more time to reading, and my own writing. It helps with my recovery from serious mental illnesses, and with processing my new diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome/ASC.

So thanks, everyone, for your support and comments. More book reviews and book-related posts coming in June. Two crime novels and an historical adventure this month, plus my birthday, the weekly dissertation updates and any bonus stuff I feel like writing. I’m reading a book about a German First World War spy, called Regina Diana, from Pen & Sword, at the moment, so expect a review at some point soon.

 

 

 

If you want to help keep me in notebooks, pens, food, gas, the usual stuff, you can donate through PayPal using:

paypal.me/RosemarieCawkwell