2 posts, in just one month?! Madness, surely.

Surely indeed - 2nd October, 29th October, well within the month, with breathing space either side. Not quite the tomorrow I promised, but perhaps getting closer.

I keep supposing I need to have done something fitnessy, or diety, to warrant a post, but it turns out I made up the blog myself, I don't think anyone particularly reads it, I've already told all manner of lies in my empty post-update promises, so why not just write what I want? I think what I need to do is start writing something, just anything, regularly. I keep imagining I might give up my real job one day and write a book. I'd love to write a book, I tell myself (and a select few others). If only I ever actually wrote something down...then I'd be well on my way. I suppose if I don't ever write anything down I can't ever come to the conclusion that nobody would want to read my book. While it's in my head it can be terribly interesting, and witty, and readable. A best seller even.

I don't think I could write fiction. I'd mostly just write about things, boring things, that happen around me. I don't suppose it would be terribly interesting really - my life is not specially exciting, or different, or adventurous. The other thing that is not terribly interesting is the kind of person who talks about a fabulous book they've just not quite written yet. The kind of person I'd tell to get on and do it then, if it's that fabulous - just write it.

I watched a TEDtalk (my topic of the week a couple of weeks ago, as I bored everyone at work with, well, at the weekend, I watched a TEDtalk on...with it's vast range of topics it can fit almost any conversation. People are not as interested in TED as they are in telling stories about themselves.) by a man who talked about trying something new for 30 days, write a book, take a photo, eat vegetables, ride a bike, he'd done lots of different things for 30 day stints - a bit of discipline for 30 days saw him write about 2000 words a day, and he came out with what he described as a terrible novel. Shows it doesn't take long to spew out some content, if you actually sit down and write it.

So here I am, spewing it all out. I, if I do say so myself, really like my name for my blog. After picking it sometime last year I hadn't really thought much about it - unfortunately my absence from the blogosphere (sounds like something an old person trying to be cool might say) doesn't weight heavily on my mind - until recently.

2012 has been quite some year, it has at the very same time been my very best and my very worst year. I have been as happy as I can ever remember, and as sad as I can ever imagine being. The kind of sad that doesn't just blow over. Some days I just come home from work and cry. I say I didn't really know why, obviously it's because I am grieving, but I don't know what specially marks one day, or one week out from others. One week it seemed to be every day, so I wrote things down on a page of things I am worried about. Or sad about. Things that were on my mind. I wrote it in a pad of arty paper my mum gave me, which I hauled out of one of my many piles of things. After writing it I had a flick back through the rest of the pages, which I'd written/drawn on early last year I think. Turns out I was sad, and lonely, and down, then too. But all so easily forgotten when things start going well.

I might copy my worry list on here. It certainly helped to write it down. I've not shown anyone yet. When all my sad bubbled up and over again recently I very nearly showed my viking man. But I didn't. I'm annoyed at myself for not - I'm not very good at talking, better at writing, but I think sometimes talking is a good idea. I have a couple of people at work I would talk to, but I always feel if I don't have anything specific to say, then I'm not sure I need to. All I really want to say is, I'm sad today. I don't want you to do anything, I just want someone to know. Which feels a bit like burdening someone else with your sadness, making them worry about you, just to make yourself feel better, which doesn't seem very nice.

Since my littlest brother died, nearly 4 months ago now, I think I've been very easily irritated, not particularly tolerant, and probably teetering on some kind of edge...up and down, up and down. Maybe on a seesaw, on an edge. With something fairly hefty on the other end to bump me up sometimes. It's strange being "bereaved" (which I can't help just seeing as an anagram of beavered...), or "losing someone", which lends the question, where did you have them last? If I knew that, they wouldn't be lost...or maybe just having a dead brother, being 5 instead of 6, man down, having a sibling die. I don't really know how you're meant to word it - I haven't actually had to tell anyone yet except my viking man, and 3 friends, who I texted, because I couldn't think what to say. So I've never said it to anyone. It must have been awful for mum and dad, telling us for starters, then telling everyone else, just out of the blue for so many people, over and over and over again. I worry what will happen when I do have to tell someone. I have a little panic whenever I get into a situation where it might come up - I feel a little bit like I don't want to ruin other people's day by saying it. "Did you have a good summer?" "No, actually, my little brother died. How was yours?". It's just not the answer they're looking for. I suppose I'll have to tell someone, sometime. For the moment I can't even really tell stories about him to most people who know without them looking horrified, or with sympathy eyes - even if it's a story about slug pie - which is a really good story, with a kind of moral, and is actually quite funny. But everyone misses the point, because the whole point of everything now, apparently, is that he's dead. I don't really need reminding of that. I think about it pretty much all the time.

Every week, it seems, is suicide prevention week this year. Must be the season for it. Everyone's depressed. Or has a friend with depression. Or knows someone, who knew someone, who tried to take an overdose once. Or is raising awareness for mental health, "Cos it's a really big issue, ya know? Like, you just don't understand how big a problem it is. It's really hard for some people you know -not everyone's as lucky as you." "OMG I had like the worst 18th birthday ever, THE WORST - you can't imagine..." "Yeah, it's really hard, my friend has depression, I just don't know what to do.". And I'm sad for all these people, I really am - I wouldn't wish it on anyone, it must be awful, and I absolutely agree we need to raise awareness, and stop the stigma, and it must be terrible to have a friend who is unwell. But I can't help being a bit angry inside too.  I don't want to talk about it, because I can't help thinking, I'll see your twin towers birthday, and raise you a little brother killing himself the day before your birthday, I'll see your depressed friend, and raise you a dead sibling, and no, I don't need to imagine how hard it is, and I'm sorry but I don't think any of this qualifies me to give some kind of expert advice on knowing someone with depression - I clearly didn't do a very good job of that, do not take tips from me.

Et cetera...et cetera. Everything annoys me. But it is easier to just keep quiet, keep the peace, I don't want people to fuss, I don't want people's sympathy, I don't even want to speak to most people about it. I don't even speak to you about the weather, why would I suddenly want to speak to you about something like this? I think I would just like a bit of slack, and a bit less selfishness - I don't want it all to be about me, but I'd like if you realised that it is not all about you. All the time. Though that seems to be all you know.

I'll write my worries page another day. Censored maybe.

B-b-b-b-b-b-b-blog?

I seem to have some kind of blog stutter, I have things to say, but I just don't seem to be getting them out...perhaps because I'm not doing any of the things I set out to do, which is not so good for the old chubb-o-meter, motivation, or desire to report back. Day 4,567 - Nothing has changed. Does not make for a good Captain's log.

All the while I have not been writing things I haven't been doing a whole lot else, except eating apparently, getting fatter, and less fit. So every day I don't write, I get further and further down the slippery slope away from my goals. Something needs to change. A few things have changed, perhaps I shall blame my demise on those.

I saw a video of myself trampolining the other week. Now trampolining is quite good exercise I think, but once a week of anything doesn't really cut it. It's good fun though. But I genuinely didn't realise I'm as tubby as I appear to be. I'm like a wrong way round body dysmorphic, the fat girls Kevin Bridges talks about in his sketches. I used to be quite muscly, now I'm kind of....lumpy. I'm still not a total beast, I've just generally filled out in all directions. Some filling in? unfilling? emptying? whatever the opposite of filling out is, needed.

I now tip the scales at a whopping heavyweight **kg. Which is embarassing to say, and quite ridiculous. Especially given that I was chubby when I was a good 10 kegs less. Now, well, that's a beast and a half right there. To add insult to obesity I am also still paying a gym membership, which I haven't used in an awful long time. Being the wily problem solver that I am, I thought to myself...gyms are places you can run, and swim, and train. I have a gym membership. I could do with running, and swimming, and training...I know! I'll go to the gym!

I think I need a routine. Perhaps an up in the morning and out to the gym for 45 minutes type routine. I'll not make a specific long term goal till I've done that for a while. But I have one in mind, Fat Lucy's 1000 mile challenge will also be reinstated, or woken from it's dormant slumber.

I've fallen in love. Not with food, I already loved that. Or with exercise apparently. I do love that, we're just estranged, artistic differences maybe. With a boy. Well a man, a boy, at my age, would be a bit disturbing, and illegal. I think that is the root of my health demise...I'm not holding him personally responsible, I just think the two are connected. Well, no, I probably am holding him personally responsible.

Before, when I was sad and lonely, I thought, I must try to be thin and beautiful, then surely my true love will find me, he'll rescue me (ready plucked and beautiful) from the highest room, in the darkest tower, my sylph-like figure shall emerge gracefully out a tiny window, we shall ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. In the end these things didn't happen, there were no windows, or dragons, or horse back. There was a viking, a (long)brief interlude and a pantomime. And then he just kept liking me, even if I didn't have pretty hair, or make-up on, or hadn't shaved my legs, or plucked my eyebrows, and even when I'm a bit fat. He doesn't seem to mind. Which I find quite genuinely baffling. But I've not said anything, you know, trick him into thinking nothing's changed, till one day I get stuck trying to get out the door and he realises I weigh 43 stone.

Hopefully it won't work out that way. So, in summary, I blame my loving viking man for me being fat(ter). But I'll need to change something, stop all this sociable eating, start some walking and gymming and swimming and make life more healthy all round.

I'm off to play netball, my second ever attempt. Someone shouted at me last week, and I think I was maybe a wee bit too eager, and stood on a waif like girl's toes. I'm pretty sure she stood on mine too, but she didn't even dent the soft trainer fabric...

Back tomorrow, (< said with mild-moderate conviction, and no intentions of taking any sort of responsibility if it turns out to be a lie). Laters dudes.