Since I was three Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling have been my doctor. According to my dad he was a good friend of my mother, but my mother said Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling was a good friend of my dad. So seeing they both denied their acquaintance with my Doctor, I found it best to not ask any questions.
But unfortunately, he asked me.
"So, Ms. Twain Broomshead" he said, in the usual 'let's start' tone of voice. "How is your mother?" I was taken aback to be honest, didn't expect him to ask about my mum. -"she''s" I said, "She's fine" I said, searching his PhD-face for answers. -"I'm glad to hear" He said. "She hasn't" He looked down at his hands and hesitated "erhm. mentioned me, has she?" he asked. I was being rude, but I couldn't help it. - "No!" I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world (as it was!) He didn't seem offended at all by my rude behaviour. Just shuffled some papers and looked me right in the eyes. I couldn't look away.
- "Your mum and I" he said. His eyes just widening slightly, "we were made for each other". I was expecting some dramatic explanations, a wild accusation perhaps, some huge gesticulations and a few loud words. But he said nothing. He simply grabbed his pen, clicked it and didn't mention what we had just talked about.
With my purse full of new pills and medications and the worlds most puzzled expression glued to my face, I left Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling's office this morning.
I really have no idea what he was going on about. My mum? And my doctor?
That's just gross!
//an upset Fran
Monday, July 31, 2006
Strengthen Your Inner Woman
"I'm so glad you're here, welcome everyone" she said. Her hair was tied back in a very tight knot, gathering into a thick brown ball at the back of her long head. She was sitting high above everyone else in a tall chair, surveying everyone from above. She let her hands fold gently in to her lap, waited, waiting for us to finally become silent. Squeezing hands, speaking names and introducing ourselves until we were all neatly sitting in a horseshoe formation around her.
She let the silence remain for a few seconds, let every last uncomfortable shift pass until she spoke. "Only 1 out of 4 people with a panic disorder receive treatment." Her voice was cool, straight and clear. There was no way anyone could misunderstand her words. Her face glanced over all the women in the room.
"Twice as many women suffer panic disorder than men." She said, her last word sounding final.
"Therefore, it's very important that every last one of you, attend each and every one of my classes. This is going to be tough, and if you're not prepared to work, then you can walk out the door right now". - ow, I thought. She was one of those. The ones that liked to scare and gather respect. The kind that pretended like her job was extraordinary, like nobody could do it like her. That it was a lot of work and that everyone that attended her courses were very "strong" people. A confidence-booster kind of person, I thought.
My lines of thought were suddenly broken as a very good looking woman suddenly got up.
- "I've had enough of this shit" she said flatly. Turning on her high heels and stroding out of the room. A slight murmur spread across the tiny group of women. Nobody seemed to notice the fact that their tutor was looking so taken aback she was about to fall off her very tall chair. And as I thought this, she rumbled to the floor. Indeed she rumbled, the skinny womans bones cacked and banged against the ground underneath her. - "What is this place?!" a woman called, dividing the masses of women now gathering around the tutor on the ground. "The woman clearly needs a beating" she said, rolling her sleeves up and delivering a punch right in the nose of the tutor.
I looked into Jenny Amkins equally shocked face. "What on earth are you doing?!" Jenny Amkins called to the woman, but it was not to be heard by anyone but myself, now every last one of them were involving in the crazy situation by either cheering or delivering punches in whatever directions they liked.
This was better entertainment than "Eastenders" I thought for myself. Watching the amount of blood on the ground rapidly increase.
The chaos then suddenly came to a halt. A very old woman with so many wrinkles she looked like a little grey raisin was running around in circles and screaming. "THE BADGERS!!!" she shrieked. The women gave each other puzzled looks. "THEY'RE ALL OVER!!" she continued. As sudden as it had all started, it stopped. Nobody seemed interested in fighting anymore. People just slowly picked their handbags up, now and then wiping blood from their noses or trying to rub bloodstains off their clothes with spit. After a few moments nearly all of them had limped their way out of the room, the old lady still screaming.
"We better get out of here" Jenny Amkins said, gathering her things from underneath her chair as well. I couldn't agree more.
Let's just put it this way.
Strengthen Your Inner Woman - "Don't be afraid" - Women Therapy Liberation Group Doesn't exist anymore.
Frannie
She let the silence remain for a few seconds, let every last uncomfortable shift pass until she spoke. "Only 1 out of 4 people with a panic disorder receive treatment." Her voice was cool, straight and clear. There was no way anyone could misunderstand her words. Her face glanced over all the women in the room.
"Twice as many women suffer panic disorder than men." She said, her last word sounding final.
"Therefore, it's very important that every last one of you, attend each and every one of my classes. This is going to be tough, and if you're not prepared to work, then you can walk out the door right now". - ow, I thought. She was one of those. The ones that liked to scare and gather respect. The kind that pretended like her job was extraordinary, like nobody could do it like her. That it was a lot of work and that everyone that attended her courses were very "strong" people. A confidence-booster kind of person, I thought.
My lines of thought were suddenly broken as a very good looking woman suddenly got up.
- "I've had enough of this shit" she said flatly. Turning on her high heels and stroding out of the room. A slight murmur spread across the tiny group of women. Nobody seemed to notice the fact that their tutor was looking so taken aback she was about to fall off her very tall chair. And as I thought this, she rumbled to the floor. Indeed she rumbled, the skinny womans bones cacked and banged against the ground underneath her. - "What is this place?!" a woman called, dividing the masses of women now gathering around the tutor on the ground. "The woman clearly needs a beating" she said, rolling her sleeves up and delivering a punch right in the nose of the tutor.
I looked into Jenny Amkins equally shocked face. "What on earth are you doing?!" Jenny Amkins called to the woman, but it was not to be heard by anyone but myself, now every last one of them were involving in the crazy situation by either cheering or delivering punches in whatever directions they liked.
This was better entertainment than "Eastenders" I thought for myself. Watching the amount of blood on the ground rapidly increase.
The chaos then suddenly came to a halt. A very old woman with so many wrinkles she looked like a little grey raisin was running around in circles and screaming. "THE BADGERS!!!" she shrieked. The women gave each other puzzled looks. "THEY'RE ALL OVER!!" she continued. As sudden as it had all started, it stopped. Nobody seemed interested in fighting anymore. People just slowly picked their handbags up, now and then wiping blood from their noses or trying to rub bloodstains off their clothes with spit. After a few moments nearly all of them had limped their way out of the room, the old lady still screaming.
"We better get out of here" Jenny Amkins said, gathering her things from underneath her chair as well. I couldn't agree more.
Let's just put it this way.
Strengthen Your Inner Woman - "Don't be afraid" - Women Therapy Liberation Group Doesn't exist anymore.
Frannie
Xander, here boy!
- "What you like the most about our time together?" He asked, clearly fishing for compliments. - "The food" I said. He looked deflated. -"so, so I might just be a pizza sitting right here then?" He said, smiling, but seeming a bit insecure.
-"Don't be silly!" I said, snickering. "A pizza doesn't have a car!"
His eyes were searching my face for traces of a joke, but I hid them carefully. He didn't find them, and was left uneasily in his seat as I excused myself to the ladies room.
Since then he's followed me around like a dog.
//Frannie
-"Don't be silly!" I said, snickering. "A pizza doesn't have a car!"
His eyes were searching my face for traces of a joke, but I hid them carefully. He didn't find them, and was left uneasily in his seat as I excused myself to the ladies room.
Since then he's followed me around like a dog.
//Frannie
- ring ring?
I really don't know what to say.
Trying hard to get over everthing that had to with Xander (scroll down!) He called me very early this morning. My phone just wouldn't stop ringing, by the time I was digging my head deeper into my pillows I was fully awake. I grabbed it, saw his name across the display. Fuck.
I answered, but didn't say a thing, just listened to his breath.
Clearly drunk his voice seemed to break every second sentence.
"Frannie" he said coarsely "Frannie, baby" he said, I could tell he was drunk. "What the fuck happened Fran? You di-dn't call me!" I swallowed, didn't know if I could say his name without crying. "Fran?" he said. I remained silent. "Are you pissed at me Fran? What's wrong?" I didn't dare to speak, just sat there and listened. I could hear him lick his lips, then bite them. "oh, God, Fran" I was upsetting him. "I should've called you, I'm so-rry" He said, his voice breaking in the middle of his apologize.
- "no" I said, testing my voice. "No, no it's not your fault". Surprisingly I was calm, my voice was steady. "I should've called you Xander, I just didn't have the time. I'm the one who should be sorry". I could hear his cheek touch the phone as he smiled. - "so great to hear your vo-ice" he said, his own voice breaking again. - "ditto" I said, smiling too.
"Where are you?" I asked. - "outside your flat, it's wet here". The rain was splashing down outside my third floor window. I giggled. - "like to borrow my shower?" I said. He laughed. - "if you could be so kind".
He smelled awful as he came in my door, soaked and unshaved. "What have you been doing?!" I asked. Never seen him like that before. - "oh" he said, shrugged, his raincoat squeaked. "you know, not much". I shook my head and let his words hang in the air. - "Xander" I said, but didn't touch him. I was glad he wasn't like my other ex, Liam Smithers, he suffered from Ablutophobia, the fear of bathing. So I let him undress and heard the shower going. So strange to have him back in my flat. - "COULD I BORROW YOUR RAZORS?!" he shrieked from within the shower cabinet. I smiled to myself. - "knock yourself out" I said. I was digging through my closet, trying to find something that might fit him, but there was nothing. "I don't have any dry clothes for you" I said through the bathroom door. - "Get me a towel and I'll be pleased" he said.
And he was.
I made us toast and tea. We just cuddled up together like nothing had ever happened between us. Like it was just a few days ago we spent that weekend in Boxford together. I'm speechless!
Alright, have to go, I have to finish my Alliumphobia "Cure your fear of garlic" - course before I attend that cooking class on wednesday. (iih, excited!)
*Frannie*
Trying hard to get over everthing that had to with Xander (scroll down!) He called me very early this morning. My phone just wouldn't stop ringing, by the time I was digging my head deeper into my pillows I was fully awake. I grabbed it, saw his name across the display. Fuck.
I answered, but didn't say a thing, just listened to his breath.
Clearly drunk his voice seemed to break every second sentence.
"Frannie" he said coarsely "Frannie, baby" he said, I could tell he was drunk. "What the fuck happened Fran? You di-dn't call me!" I swallowed, didn't know if I could say his name without crying. "Fran?" he said. I remained silent. "Are you pissed at me Fran? What's wrong?" I didn't dare to speak, just sat there and listened. I could hear him lick his lips, then bite them. "oh, God, Fran" I was upsetting him. "I should've called you, I'm so-rry" He said, his voice breaking in the middle of his apologize.
- "no" I said, testing my voice. "No, no it's not your fault". Surprisingly I was calm, my voice was steady. "I should've called you Xander, I just didn't have the time. I'm the one who should be sorry". I could hear his cheek touch the phone as he smiled. - "so great to hear your vo-ice" he said, his own voice breaking again. - "ditto" I said, smiling too.
"Where are you?" I asked. - "outside your flat, it's wet here". The rain was splashing down outside my third floor window. I giggled. - "like to borrow my shower?" I said. He laughed. - "if you could be so kind".
He smelled awful as he came in my door, soaked and unshaved. "What have you been doing?!" I asked. Never seen him like that before. - "oh" he said, shrugged, his raincoat squeaked. "you know, not much". I shook my head and let his words hang in the air. - "Xander" I said, but didn't touch him. I was glad he wasn't like my other ex, Liam Smithers, he suffered from Ablutophobia, the fear of bathing. So I let him undress and heard the shower going. So strange to have him back in my flat. - "COULD I BORROW YOUR RAZORS?!" he shrieked from within the shower cabinet. I smiled to myself. - "knock yourself out" I said. I was digging through my closet, trying to find something that might fit him, but there was nothing. "I don't have any dry clothes for you" I said through the bathroom door. - "Get me a towel and I'll be pleased" he said.
And he was.
I made us toast and tea. We just cuddled up together like nothing had ever happened between us. Like it was just a few days ago we spent that weekend in Boxford together. I'm speechless!
Alright, have to go, I have to finish my Alliumphobia "Cure your fear of garlic" - course before I attend that cooking class on wednesday. (iih, excited!)
*Frannie*
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Fear and Relaxation
- "it is said that the relaxation response counters the fear response." She said. Her nails a red woosh through the air as she was gesticulating wildly.
The class scribbled as mad. I had long since stopped taking notes in classes. I found it better to sit perfectly still and just absorb everything. Especially when on my Panophobia "How to handle being afraid of everything" - courses, that were clearly the most helpful ones. Automatically I raised my hand. Her enthusiastic, blue-eyes caught mine, they were so broad it often seemed as if she was keeping them open with force. Her gaze inense upon me, she said "yes, Fran?" Her eyes had just popped down to the sticker on my chest for a split second, yet she said my name as she was used to it.
She was good.
"In what way is it best to stimulate a relaxing emotion to counter a panic attack, or a wave of fear?" I asked. Her face froze a split second, like she was having a hard time understanding what I had just said. Then, as a robot responding just a bit slow to it's commands, her body started moving again. "That definitely depends. It's different from person to person. All kinds of things that are looked at as relaxing for some can be upsetting for others. Like being nude for example". Someone made a squeal on the front row.
- "I see" I said "Thank you". The man on the front row, now hyperventilating, was so loud nobody heard my thanks. Though it didn't matter. I'd have to answer my own question myself. Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling had strictly forbidden me from trying to cure myself from my own phobias. I had attempted once before. When suffering from a very heavy Botanophobia (the fear of plants) I had locked myself into a plant nursery at night. The next week I was at the hospital covered in deep, red wounds after crashing through a greenhouse, screaming.
But this time it was different. After snoring through another hour of Cyberphobia (the fear of working on a/using a computer) - remind me to stop going to them! - I took the bus home. I only passed by a news stand to see if I could catch a glimpse of any job-ads, but I didn't really try. My mind far off, elsewhere. Grey weather today, not very nice at all, still quite warm. I collected my mail and got home. Very thoughtful I stumbled past all the painting equipment spread around my apartment (nearly done now!) and heated up some beef and rice from lunch. I need to find a way to use what I learnt today as a way to potentially cure myself.
I'll definitely go see the doctor again as soon as I have time.
The class scribbled as mad. I had long since stopped taking notes in classes. I found it better to sit perfectly still and just absorb everything. Especially when on my Panophobia "How to handle being afraid of everything" - courses, that were clearly the most helpful ones. Automatically I raised my hand. Her enthusiastic, blue-eyes caught mine, they were so broad it often seemed as if she was keeping them open with force. Her gaze inense upon me, she said "yes, Fran?" Her eyes had just popped down to the sticker on my chest for a split second, yet she said my name as she was used to it.
She was good.
"In what way is it best to stimulate a relaxing emotion to counter a panic attack, or a wave of fear?" I asked. Her face froze a split second, like she was having a hard time understanding what I had just said. Then, as a robot responding just a bit slow to it's commands, her body started moving again. "That definitely depends. It's different from person to person. All kinds of things that are looked at as relaxing for some can be upsetting for others. Like being nude for example". Someone made a squeal on the front row.
- "I see" I said "Thank you". The man on the front row, now hyperventilating, was so loud nobody heard my thanks. Though it didn't matter. I'd have to answer my own question myself. Dr. Howard U. F. Eeling had strictly forbidden me from trying to cure myself from my own phobias. I had attempted once before. When suffering from a very heavy Botanophobia (the fear of plants) I had locked myself into a plant nursery at night. The next week I was at the hospital covered in deep, red wounds after crashing through a greenhouse, screaming.
But this time it was different. After snoring through another hour of Cyberphobia (the fear of working on a/using a computer) - remind me to stop going to them! - I took the bus home. I only passed by a news stand to see if I could catch a glimpse of any job-ads, but I didn't really try. My mind far off, elsewhere. Grey weather today, not very nice at all, still quite warm. I collected my mail and got home. Very thoughtful I stumbled past all the painting equipment spread around my apartment (nearly done now!) and heated up some beef and rice from lunch. I need to find a way to use what I learnt today as a way to potentially cure myself.
I'll definitely go see the doctor again as soon as I have time.
Flat-out.
Don't know what to do. What to do?
What to do.
His name is Xander L. Flatford. Perhaps the only specimen of the male sex that has ever let his eyes rest on my eyes instead of letting them just glide past them. He was indeed special. He could do that thing with his face, it made him look extremely strange, but he knew as he would do that, I would burst out into laughter. He could listen, his ears always open, his mouth asking questions, his fingers playing with mine, his head nodding. Wow, what happened?
Thinking back to it, I can't believe I did what I did. I mean, the memories, seem like some Hollywood film. Flashes of us smiling, washing my hallway stairs, he would always help me with that. He would cook me a nice thai stir fry and feed it to me, piece after piece, smiling, laughing, his eyes sparkling from the candlelights. His laughter came out nice and light, afflicted by the wine as he was. He was no poet. He was though, ironically, brilliant with words. His voice would make my knees weak, it would soften my spine, make my face glow with heat.
Xander had two years of schooling as a journalist behind him. For obvious reasons he couldn't finish it. And that's how I met him, at Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class. To be honest, that's the most silly name of a phobia that could ever exist! It frightens away it's own patients from telling them whats wrong with themselves. A phobia that is against long words that consists of over 30 letters, that's pretty silly.
Anyway, taking those classes together for five months was enough. After sitting in that room, for hours, feeling that heavy chemistry just thickening the room (worse would it be if we by accident touched) and the looks. His deep brown eyes. Wow. Yeah, it was more than enough.
I'm naturally hard to get I think. Always avoiding eye contact, blushing if it would occur. Stare obviously in another direction, freeze if I'd be touched, with Xander it was worse than ever. Without knowing it, I guess that's how I kept him interested for so long. By being something he couldn't achieve, precious, mysterious. Ai, ai. His eyes could show his lust so clearly at times, I didn't know what else to do, but to just smile, desperately trying to hide a face flourishing with colour. His confidence wasn't even intimidating, it was just another one of those things with him. I was free together with him, could talk to him about everything.
We finished our Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class in May together. Spent a lovely weekend in Boxford with him. But from then on, it just all slipped a part.
Not very clearly. We just glided away from each other. Our conversations didn't loose their spark or chemistry, on the contrary. We just didn't have the time to talk. Classes and courses occupying most of my time, Xander finally returning to his education after 7 months rehabilitating. We were both busy. We didn't call, didn't meet. But I refuse to think either of us actually forgot. Would be hard to do so.
That way Mr. Flatford, flat-out disappeared out of my life. He just disappeared. Haven't talked to him for two months. It wasn't until this morning after I'd taken my usual medication, that I wrapped up in blankets and stared hard out the window. A cold wind tatooing the feeling of tears to my cheeks. My eyes edged with red, I went to Russophobia class this morning. My lector told me tears was a way of the mind to free itself of waste. I cried all the way home on the bus.
- "Salty tears, I'd lick them off your cheeks and whisper silent words to you, to your ears only" He had told me. He had embraced me, squeezed me tight, promised me that he wouldn't ever let me go.
But he did.
Finding my desk is now just covered in tears and it's nearly time for Nelophobia Therapy Circle, I'll end it here.
/Frannie
What to do.
His name is Xander L. Flatford. Perhaps the only specimen of the male sex that has ever let his eyes rest on my eyes instead of letting them just glide past them. He was indeed special. He could do that thing with his face, it made him look extremely strange, but he knew as he would do that, I would burst out into laughter. He could listen, his ears always open, his mouth asking questions, his fingers playing with mine, his head nodding. Wow, what happened?
Thinking back to it, I can't believe I did what I did. I mean, the memories, seem like some Hollywood film. Flashes of us smiling, washing my hallway stairs, he would always help me with that. He would cook me a nice thai stir fry and feed it to me, piece after piece, smiling, laughing, his eyes sparkling from the candlelights. His laughter came out nice and light, afflicted by the wine as he was. He was no poet. He was though, ironically, brilliant with words. His voice would make my knees weak, it would soften my spine, make my face glow with heat.
Xander had two years of schooling as a journalist behind him. For obvious reasons he couldn't finish it. And that's how I met him, at Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class. To be honest, that's the most silly name of a phobia that could ever exist! It frightens away it's own patients from telling them whats wrong with themselves. A phobia that is against long words that consists of over 30 letters, that's pretty silly.
Anyway, taking those classes together for five months was enough. After sitting in that room, for hours, feeling that heavy chemistry just thickening the room (worse would it be if we by accident touched) and the looks. His deep brown eyes. Wow. Yeah, it was more than enough.
I'm naturally hard to get I think. Always avoiding eye contact, blushing if it would occur. Stare obviously in another direction, freeze if I'd be touched, with Xander it was worse than ever. Without knowing it, I guess that's how I kept him interested for so long. By being something he couldn't achieve, precious, mysterious. Ai, ai. His eyes could show his lust so clearly at times, I didn't know what else to do, but to just smile, desperately trying to hide a face flourishing with colour. His confidence wasn't even intimidating, it was just another one of those things with him. I was free together with him, could talk to him about everything.
We finished our Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia "Don't let the books block your mind" class in May together. Spent a lovely weekend in Boxford with him. But from then on, it just all slipped a part.
Not very clearly. We just glided away from each other. Our conversations didn't loose their spark or chemistry, on the contrary. We just didn't have the time to talk. Classes and courses occupying most of my time, Xander finally returning to his education after 7 months rehabilitating. We were both busy. We didn't call, didn't meet. But I refuse to think either of us actually forgot. Would be hard to do so.
That way Mr. Flatford, flat-out disappeared out of my life. He just disappeared. Haven't talked to him for two months. It wasn't until this morning after I'd taken my usual medication, that I wrapped up in blankets and stared hard out the window. A cold wind tatooing the feeling of tears to my cheeks. My eyes edged with red, I went to Russophobia class this morning. My lector told me tears was a way of the mind to free itself of waste. I cried all the way home on the bus.
- "Salty tears, I'd lick them off your cheeks and whisper silent words to you, to your ears only" He had told me. He had embraced me, squeezed me tight, promised me that he wouldn't ever let me go.
But he did.
Finding my desk is now just covered in tears and it's nearly time for Nelophobia Therapy Circle, I'll end it here.
/Frannie
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Wallpaint
The store was about the size of a large arena, the height of the roof was so high, I had to lean heavily on my shopping cart several times during my shopping trip. Huge racks covered in buckets met me at last, after using nearly half an hour down all the rows of screws, hammers, mats, lawn mowers, fertilizers, seeds, shovels, bags of compost, fences, nails, wood boards, pots, garden gnomes and terrace lace.
It struck me at first as a task close to impossible, MI:Wallpaint, wouldn't make a good film. Anyway, suffering from Octophobia as I am, would make it quite hard for me to find a paint that was the excact number of (let me get dad to spell it out, hold on) eight. (I just need to sit down for a bit, my dad and step-mum is about to leave, they seem rather upset after my announcement of suffering from Novercaphobia which is the fear of your own step-mum. But, for my defense, she is awfully intimidating when she does that thing with her teeth that gives her that strong resemblance with a horse, before she laughs mentally. And not to mention her hideous furcoat). So I went over to the counter and handed the man behind it (- his name was Minsc) my folded note of "Brilliant Rosé 8" with my gloved hand.
At first he gave me a quizzical look, and I suddenly recalled what my lector at my Russophobia - How to Avoid It class had told me about treating potential Russians, over whom which I suffer from a neverending paranoia. This person named "Minsc" could just as well be from Belarus, I thought, and that changed everything. I gave him a beaming smile and asked him as sweetly as I could, if he could be a darling and retrieve this colour for me.
Unluckily, he handed me the note back, without even looking at it, and pointed over to the racks of paint "just take the bucket from that row right there madam" he said. It struck me that his English was even more fluent than mine. Simultaneously a pulsating emotion of Octophobia was waving through me. I couldn't get that bucket myself! I tried to stand up straight, but the huge arena (!) was already spinning before me. - "I - I have a bad a-arm" I said, stumbling to retrieve my balance, though standing still as I was. His eyebrows were nearly touching the top of his head by the time he stopped moving them upwards. He then tried to hide an annoyed sigh as he nicked the note out of my hand and walked over to the shelf. With a swift movement he grabbed two buckets and walked back towards me. Slammed them into my cart and smiled so fake, he could've been Jenny Amkins GUCCI bag.
I can't even recall if I said thank you. I felt nauseous and the high racks were now tripling before my eyes. As quick as I could, I pushed my cart towards the entrance, rapidly digging money from my pockets, I got to the cashier, lifted the cart up, even though I felt weak, and emptied the lot over the counter. I had no time to tactically manage to get someone to lift the paint out of the cart for me. The woman looked at me, terrified, but I didn't mind. I was too busy managing to stand up straight. *bip* *bip* *bip* *toc* *toc toc toc* - her manicured nails were beating against the cashier. She said a number, but I was unable to percieve any information. I simply handed her way too much money, grabbed my bags and got out of the store.
The bus ride was relaxing, outside I used some of the techniques from my Panophobia"How to handle being afraid of everything" - course and I soon felt a lot better.
Didn't have time to look into that job thing, but started painting, went to an extra Octophobia class, of course the usual Rectophobia and Meditation Class before having tuna for tea, and then going to bed.
- What a day! Frannie.
It struck me at first as a task close to impossible, MI:Wallpaint, wouldn't make a good film. Anyway, suffering from Octophobia as I am, would make it quite hard for me to find a paint that was the excact number of (let me get dad to spell it out, hold on) eight. (I just need to sit down for a bit, my dad and step-mum is about to leave, they seem rather upset after my announcement of suffering from Novercaphobia which is the fear of your own step-mum. But, for my defense, she is awfully intimidating when she does that thing with her teeth that gives her that strong resemblance with a horse, before she laughs mentally. And not to mention her hideous furcoat). So I went over to the counter and handed the man behind it (- his name was Minsc) my folded note of "Brilliant Rosé 8" with my gloved hand.
At first he gave me a quizzical look, and I suddenly recalled what my lector at my Russophobia - How to Avoid It class had told me about treating potential Russians, over whom which I suffer from a neverending paranoia. This person named "Minsc" could just as well be from Belarus, I thought, and that changed everything. I gave him a beaming smile and asked him as sweetly as I could, if he could be a darling and retrieve this colour for me.
Unluckily, he handed me the note back, without even looking at it, and pointed over to the racks of paint "just take the bucket from that row right there madam" he said. It struck me that his English was even more fluent than mine. Simultaneously a pulsating emotion of Octophobia was waving through me. I couldn't get that bucket myself! I tried to stand up straight, but the huge arena (!) was already spinning before me. - "I - I have a bad a-arm" I said, stumbling to retrieve my balance, though standing still as I was. His eyebrows were nearly touching the top of his head by the time he stopped moving them upwards. He then tried to hide an annoyed sigh as he nicked the note out of my hand and walked over to the shelf. With a swift movement he grabbed two buckets and walked back towards me. Slammed them into my cart and smiled so fake, he could've been Jenny Amkins GUCCI bag.
I can't even recall if I said thank you. I felt nauseous and the high racks were now tripling before my eyes. As quick as I could, I pushed my cart towards the entrance, rapidly digging money from my pockets, I got to the cashier, lifted the cart up, even though I felt weak, and emptied the lot over the counter. I had no time to tactically manage to get someone to lift the paint out of the cart for me. The woman looked at me, terrified, but I didn't mind. I was too busy managing to stand up straight. *bip* *bip* *bip* *toc* *toc toc toc* - her manicured nails were beating against the cashier. She said a number, but I was unable to percieve any information. I simply handed her way too much money, grabbed my bags and got out of the store.
The bus ride was relaxing, outside I used some of the techniques from my Panophobia"How to handle being afraid of everything" - course and I soon felt a lot better.
Didn't have time to look into that job thing, but started painting, went to an extra Octophobia class, of course the usual Rectophobia and Meditation Class before having tuna for tea, and then going to bed.
- What a day! Frannie.
I'm thinking, light magenta
Perhaps even something over the scale of deep pink. I think it's about time I retire my limegreen livingroom and change it into something new. There is nothing as satisfying as changes, especially not when it comes to colours around you.
I was at the doctor today again, he claimed the reason why I was having a rash was because of a "new" phobia I have aquired through my hobby of redecorating. He called it Atelophobia - Which is the fear of imperfection. I had him write it down for me because of my Athazagoraphobia That is my fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting things. A lot of a- phobias today! hehe!
At the Mottephobia course "Do not seek the Light", where I fight my increasing fear of moths, Jenny Amkin suggested I'd look for a job. Especially seeing my hobbies just seem to encourage more disorders, I might as well have a look around. My neighbour, a rather skinny woman complained over my lack of exercise. "All you do is run back and forth to those classes, you have done so since you were four years old. The only thing you need to realise, is that these aren't helping! You should get out and get some fresh air!" she had said briskly, then slamming her door in my face. She didn't lend me that cup of painkillers either.
So, having to avoid my neighbour as much as possible (which is becoming very very difficult) I'll have to find a job that fits in-between all my classes! But before I do so, I'll discuss that wallpaint further.
- Frannie.
I was at the doctor today again, he claimed the reason why I was having a rash was because of a "new" phobia I have aquired through my hobby of redecorating. He called it Atelophobia - Which is the fear of imperfection. I had him write it down for me because of my Athazagoraphobia That is my fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting things. A lot of a- phobias today! hehe!
At the Mottephobia course "Do not seek the Light", where I fight my increasing fear of moths, Jenny Amkin suggested I'd look for a job. Especially seeing my hobbies just seem to encourage more disorders, I might as well have a look around. My neighbour, a rather skinny woman complained over my lack of exercise. "All you do is run back and forth to those classes, you have done so since you were four years old. The only thing you need to realise, is that these aren't helping! You should get out and get some fresh air!" she had said briskly, then slamming her door in my face. She didn't lend me that cup of painkillers either.
So, having to avoid my neighbour as much as possible (which is becoming very very difficult) I'll have to find a job that fits in-between all my classes! But before I do so, I'll discuss that wallpaint further.
- Frannie.
Tina from Anger Management
"A chair is not nice to get thrown at your ear" said Eric.
The group repeated his words solemnly, like robots, clearly without passion, or with understanding.
He smiled sheepishly, seemed satisfied with their progress, at least they were not beating each other up, or calling each other names anymore. I looked over at Tina. She was not moving at all. Her head was even more round and plump than before, somehow it seemed to be swelling. Her eyes slowly increasing their size, her face gaining a deeper red.
It was too late when I discovered that her knuckles were whitening and that she was whispering curses under her breath. I honestly didn't think about warning anyone else, I was keene on saving my own bony ass by diving across the circle of chairs, and hiding behind Pete, the whale-guy.
By the time I had reached Pete's swetty behind, Tina was leaping across the ring once again, a fist above her head, prepared to strike. What drama, I thought. Tina was always that dramatic.
She was about the size of a taxi, her hair tight up in a blonde ponytail. Her nose was lightly specked with tiny freckles, but as she was always upset or angry, those were rarely visible through a plum-red frown.
- "Tina!" Eric called. I couldn't understand how he had the time to do so, being buried underneath her huge body only half a second later. I can recall hearing thumps and thuds, but I can't think of a way that Tina could actually strike Eric at all, as when she sat on his skinny body, she wasn't just covering the whole of him, but also major parts of the floor. Pete stood up from his chair. He was the calmest one of them, and to be frank, I have never seen him angry, not even slightly agitated. His mood seems to be deep down under his fat. He doesn't even smile, never seen him do it. Never.
With a bear paw, Pete grabbed Tina's shoulder and pulled her up from the floor. How, I have no idea, and once again he impressed me with his blatant calmness, even as Tina was pounding away at his chest with blunt fists, crying. Without a speck of emotion he led her swiftly back to her chair and pushed her down into the seat. Tina covered her eyes with her sausage fingers and was shaking in whimpers. Pete then lifted little Eric from the floor. His suit was slightly crumpled, but he himself, seemed to hold such a deep calm, he seemed even more down to earth than Pete.
He couldn't say anything, because as he opened his mouth, his mobile phone let out that liberating "pling!" - meaning the class was over. Tina, with a startling speed for her size, blurted out some words I shall not repeat, before storming out and thundering down the hallway. The room would then rapidly thin out, before it would be completely empty.
I took the bus home, gasping for breath in the tiny passenger seat, feeling a seizure of claustrophobia was attacking me, gulping down unhealthy amounts of asthma medication and stuffing my face with many a colourful pill, when I thought that:
whatever these Anger Management courses were giving me, it wasn't curing anything but my thirst to write a blog.
The group repeated his words solemnly, like robots, clearly without passion, or with understanding.
He smiled sheepishly, seemed satisfied with their progress, at least they were not beating each other up, or calling each other names anymore. I looked over at Tina. She was not moving at all. Her head was even more round and plump than before, somehow it seemed to be swelling. Her eyes slowly increasing their size, her face gaining a deeper red.
It was too late when I discovered that her knuckles were whitening and that she was whispering curses under her breath. I honestly didn't think about warning anyone else, I was keene on saving my own bony ass by diving across the circle of chairs, and hiding behind Pete, the whale-guy.
By the time I had reached Pete's swetty behind, Tina was leaping across the ring once again, a fist above her head, prepared to strike. What drama, I thought. Tina was always that dramatic.
She was about the size of a taxi, her hair tight up in a blonde ponytail. Her nose was lightly specked with tiny freckles, but as she was always upset or angry, those were rarely visible through a plum-red frown.
- "Tina!" Eric called. I couldn't understand how he had the time to do so, being buried underneath her huge body only half a second later. I can recall hearing thumps and thuds, but I can't think of a way that Tina could actually strike Eric at all, as when she sat on his skinny body, she wasn't just covering the whole of him, but also major parts of the floor. Pete stood up from his chair. He was the calmest one of them, and to be frank, I have never seen him angry, not even slightly agitated. His mood seems to be deep down under his fat. He doesn't even smile, never seen him do it. Never.
With a bear paw, Pete grabbed Tina's shoulder and pulled her up from the floor. How, I have no idea, and once again he impressed me with his blatant calmness, even as Tina was pounding away at his chest with blunt fists, crying. Without a speck of emotion he led her swiftly back to her chair and pushed her down into the seat. Tina covered her eyes with her sausage fingers and was shaking in whimpers. Pete then lifted little Eric from the floor. His suit was slightly crumpled, but he himself, seemed to hold such a deep calm, he seemed even more down to earth than Pete.
He couldn't say anything, because as he opened his mouth, his mobile phone let out that liberating "pling!" - meaning the class was over. Tina, with a startling speed for her size, blurted out some words I shall not repeat, before storming out and thundering down the hallway. The room would then rapidly thin out, before it would be completely empty.
I took the bus home, gasping for breath in the tiny passenger seat, feeling a seizure of claustrophobia was attacking me, gulping down unhealthy amounts of asthma medication and stuffing my face with many a colourful pill, when I thought that:
whatever these Anger Management courses were giving me, it wasn't curing anything but my thirst to write a blog.
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