Suddenly I see

As long as I can remember, I've had a fascination with picking at myself. Not just any part of me, but specifically, my head. Even when I'm not itchy, I scratch. At one stage, as a child, I used to rub sand into my hair to have something to pick at.

Pretty odd behaviour, right?

I found it became even more pronounced when I'm stressed; this year has been hell on wheels, for the most part, and it got to the point I was giving myself actual sores on mys calp. Let's just say that going bald was never an option.

Today, I found out that what I'm doing is an actual mental condition. Yes, it seems that I may well have Dermatillomania.

The hell? Hmm, as a semi-hypochondriac, I have to wonder if it's not just me jumping on the mental-illness bandwagon. But I know that's not it.

I don't pick at any other part of me but my scalp, and yes, I end up feeling humiliated and ashamed about it - but I can't stop. I've even found myself doing it in my sleep. If that's not totally whacked out, i don't know what is.

So, Dermatillomania what's that all about?

From Band Back Together:

Dermatillomania or Compulsive Skin Picking (CSP) is the urge to rub, pick, scratch, squeeze or dig into the skin, often to remove some perceived irregularity or flaw such as a flake of dry skin or a pimple or scab. The action may be performed with the fingers, nails, tweezers, needles or any other instrument.
Picking can happen on any part of the body or in a combination of places.
Picking is usually preceded by an intense urge to "fix" the spot.

Yes! Even when it's not a good idea - like when driving

The urge becomes the focus of attention until relief is found by acting on the urge.
Often the picking happen in a trance-like state and in severe cases, a person can spend several hours a day performing the actions associated with trying to "smooth out" or remove all the problem spots.
The picking is almost always followed by a feeling of guilt, shame and regret about the damage done to the skin. Sufferers often are also diagnosed with social anxiety disorder and depression.
Many people do not realize that CSP is a real illness and do not report it or seek treatment.

You can be damn sure I'll be telling Des about this when next I see her.

CSP is not listed in the DSM-IV. Dermatillomania labeled as an impulse control disorder (grouped with things like kleptomania and pyromania).
CSP is now often considered by many professionals as a Body-Focused Repetitive Behavior (BFRB).
Some professionals will classify it as an subtype of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder because a large percentage of people with OCD also pick their skin.
Many of the emotional and psychological processes resemble those of Trichotillomania (Compulsive Hair Pulling) and you may find the resources for Trichotillomania helpful, as well.

Wait, there's something ELSE?

Okay, no, that part's not like me. I'm interested in my scalp - not my hair.

Dermatillomania has a much higher incidence in women than in men.
CSP is not the same as self-injuring or self-harming behaviors (like cutting or burning). Dermatillomania sufferers are not trying to inflict damage upon themselves. Instead, people with CSP are trying to "correct" some imperfection.

So why do I do it?

Some believe Dermatillomania is a natural "grooming instinct" gone haywire. These people theorize that there is a genetic or biological component.
Others think it is a self-soothing mechanism or emotional outlet because many sufferers report being "zoned out" or trance-like while picking.

That's for sure.
Is there any treatment? Well, apparently anti-depressants might help. Since I'm on Ritalin, Valdoxane and Esperide, maybe that combination will help. Time will tell.

So, there you have it. Sorry; this blog has pretty much been light-hearted until now. But what the hell. You always knew I was a freak, right?

* I should mention that this post was inspired by Chibi Jeebs' Break-up Letter to Dermatillomania, which was what sparked off my realisation.

Owie. Yuck. And also, yay!

It's been a torrid few days here in the Ysabel-MadCat household. Apart from the big announcement at my work and the rush to wrap up the last few days at the office (and the consequent cramming of a month's worth of communication into less than a week by my esteemed colleagues in the other city, less said the better), my department was also introduced to our new manager, who'll be starting at the end of January. We all knew she was coming, of course, but it's nice to finally have official confirmation.

Then, last Monday, 13 December, the department went out for our year-end lunch. Nice enough, although - unlike every single other department in the entire company - we had to fork out of our own pockets because our acting head doesn't want to run foul of the compliance department. Which sucks, quite frankly.

It was a tasty lunch, quite filling, not too expensive, and we followed up with a stroll around the shops that dot that particular restaurant's precinct; not to my taste, fairly whitebread, I'd say, all French Provencal and fake-rusted garden ornaments, that sort of thing - pretty enough, just not my kind of style. I wasn't enjoying it very much, frankly, because I was feeling rather over-full - quite Christmas-lunch-full, in fact, which was rather odd, considering all I'd had was a lamb roast, mash, a glass of wine and a few spoons of chocolate mousse. After a final cup of tea, we headed back to my colleague's house for a couple of cocktails, which I mixed (quite weakly, as we still had to drive back home that night) while we chatted and kuiered quite convivially in the balmy evening air. As MadCat was on night shift last week, he saw to the animals and when I got home at 9pm, all I had to do was go straight to bed, to toss and turn uncomfortably all night.

Tuesday was a bit of a nightmare of discomfort, as my chest hurt all day and I was quite the moaning Minnie, annoyed with my arrogant colleagues from that distant port city and snowed under with silly bits of work that, quite frankly, were streaming in because people had only thought of these items at the very last minute. That night I lay alone in bed, thinking I was having a heart attack, the pain was so excruciating. I tried to phone my mom - as I tend to do in all such situations - but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. So eventually I got up and wrote my funeral wishes - rather dramatic, I know, and thank goodness I didn't post them to my blog, but really, that's the sort of thing that makes me feel better - writing out my will before a long journey, or setting out my funeral wishes when I'm all on my own, or something else devilishly superstitious.

Wednesday was sheer hell. I just couldn't muster the strength to do anything. In between bouts of getting ready for work, I had to keep lying down. It was sheer torture. Eventually MadCat came home from work, and convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor. I called both my bosses, and they were both sick as dogs, too - both had been vomiting all night. In total, four of us had been struck down by some virus at that restaurant. It wasn't the food - that had been delicious, and perfectly cooked; someone was carrying a virus on his or her hands, and passed that to us through the meal, either through cooking or delivering.

But there was more. Before heading to the doctor, I'd taken delivery of Deafboy and Adventure Girl's pups - because it was bucketing down, and the pups needed a dry spot for the day, as there was nowhere else for them to go; they couldn't spend a third day outside in the rain. You can imagine what awaited me when I came home from the doctor, with four excited dogs stuck in the lounge and the patio, sleeting rain driving in and the four of them rushing around dragging water everywhere. Poo piles. It was lovely.

Eventually I managed to drag my carcass through to the bedroom, order the dogs through to my room and passage with me, and pass out. And that's how we spent the day, with me occasionally getting up to let them all out for pee breaks, then back into bed,. then out again when MadCat awoke, then out again when Adventure Girl came to fetch them, and back to bed for me for the rest of the night.

So it's gone since then, with the occasional foray into the world to test the waters for Candlewick's kitchen tea, and a fabric shopping expedition with BellyDiva. But I still haven't recovered, and in fact had a relapse this weekend - this time with added puking. Wonderful. I'm still queasy, and very unhappy. I hope this does not bode ill for Christmas Eve, and Day, and Boxing Day, too.

Tomorrow (today?) I'll post about the quite nice afternoon we had on Friday, with the geeky photographers, and how that perked me up somewhat. It was good. A ray of sunshine in an otherwise awful week. And there'll even be pics! It's a plus.

Feel the burn

So, I'm sick. We're both sick, but MadCat has been sick for almost two weeks (and worked nightshift in that time), while I've only had it for two days.

But that was enough to have us blow off Sunshine for her birthday dinner tonight. 'Cos let me tell you, none of those folks would've been happy with us hacking and coughing all over them or while trying to eat.

It's not gunky and snotty; not that kind of sick. But it's constant coughing, dry coughs that rub the throat raw. We've been drinking Witdulsis and Borstol and Borsdruppels (can you say eeuw? LIQUORICE!) all day, hot toddies and ginger and chilli and orange at hand. No help.

I am trying not to swallow too much because it hurts like a motherfucker. All I want to eat is some kind of mousse or soft poached eggs or soup or ... nothing, really. It hurts.

But, dammit, I wish we were at Casalinga with the others!

Lalalala

So we stayed until 11:30 last night, uploading files. Let me restate that.

11.30. That's PM. Uploading files. Big-ass files. And hey! Here I am, again (I've been here for an hour and a half already, people. You can't buy dedication like this!).

Soooo ... I'm a little punch-drunk. Just a leetle. I was fine driving home last night (although I had to turn around halfway, come back up the R55, and take my normal "come to work" route back because there was a 2-kilometre (or so) line of brake lights heading through Diepsloot and up the hill ahead of me! IT WAS MIDNIGHT! Why was there a freaking TRAFFIC JAM?

Anyway, the Coke Light (ugh) that SimsBuddy bought (accompanied by delicious, I'm-going-to-regret-this-in-two-weeks pizza) helped keep me alert for the drive home. The four hours of sleep, though? Not so much help. At least MadCat had warmed the bed for me, so I was able to snuggle into his shape and pass out without shivering my ass off.

Heheh. I said "ass". I am 7 years old. And how lame was THAT?

Sigh. Clearly I need COFFEE! And I have used the last of my delicious Mocca Java. Now I am drinking Ricoffee, which: YUCK. But add three heaped spoons, and six of sugar (did I mention I am SLEEPY and need a rush?) and it almost tastes like ... sludge (hence the SIX SPOONS of sugar!).

Ooh, just remembered! Last night, Greeneyes had been trying to help me set up the file upload system and when we'd determined that it was working, left for home - but he was so concerned about me staying late that he offered to come back and bring me a home-cooked meal! And he'd do it, too. I'm glad he has a wonderful wife (and it doesn't hurt that they're both gorgeous to look at). Man. When I have boys, I hope to bring them up as sweet, polite and all-round wonderful as Greeneyes.

Now I am reading Miss Doxie archives while uploading files (it takes FOREVER to get them attached, and then sent). More as the mood strikes.

At least I didn't come home to a steaming pile of poop last night!

Burning down the house

My sister arrived in JHB yesterday on one of her quarterly trips up here for Childline. I left my course early to fetch her, ended up sitting in traffic for two hours to get to the airport (typically, I hit rush-hour traffic on the way, although at least I saw some new sights since I went via the Edenvale / Kempton Park route for part of the way). Anyway. Sis was delayed by two more hours because her original flight had been cancelled;in the end, she got to me at 19:00 instead of 17:00, as expected. Loaded her into the car and headed home to a delicious meal cooked by MadCat (his roast chicken and veg makes the most satisfying meal ever).

Traffic was fairly light, it was late, we were both tired and hungry, so I made Midnight shake her tailfeathers up the N3. Round about Marlboro - so about 30 minutes later - I got a call from Moosquared: MadCat had burnt his hand and could I get home ASAP. My inital thought was, "Well, if he's burned his hand, why doesn't he just rinse it off and put on some Germolene?"

Then she mentioned the hot chip oil. And suddenly "burned his hand" took on a whole new meaning. I told her to tell him to run cool water over his hand and hold it in a basin of tepid water until we got there. Then Sis phoned him and I told him the same thing. Then Nic phoned again and I told her we were in Rivonia Road.

Yes, it took me less than 10 minutes to get from Marlboro Drive offramp to my house. I didn't know a double-cab could go that fast without overturning around corners.

I didn't wait for anything when we got home. I walked in that bathroom and saw MadCat holding his hand in teh water, and when I looked down, I thought it was just the pressure he was using to hold it down that was making his fingers look so white. Until he moved his hand, and the skin swirled around in the water.

Not pressure. Melted skin.

Thank goodness for three first-aid kits, and my sister. I didn't panic, but I know I was nowhere near as calm as she was. She put on the surgical gloves, she applied the Burnshield dressings, she was the schoolteacher while I handed her things.

MadCat was trying his damndest to be brave and ignore the pain, but I've been burned, badly burned, before, and I can tell you - the minute, the very second you take your hand out of that cool liquid, the second air hits the burn, it is like liquid fire crawling under your skin. It is an agony more intense than anything you have ever experienced. He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a grimace. He was scarily calm, and kept insisting that he wasn't in shock.

Too bad for him we're the daughters of a nurse; a nurse who worked in trauma units more often than not.

We stopped in the kitchen to lock up on the way to the clinic, and that's where I saw the burned linoleum and the fire extinguisher. It wasn't just hot oil; the liquid had exploded. He's lucky to be alive, and we're lucky he wasn't so badly burned that he couldn't put it out.

We loaded him into the car and Sis phoned NHC; no answer. Randburg Medicross no longer has a 24-hour casualty. Olivedale it was. We found out while on Republic, and that's where I started putting Midnight through her paces.I put on my hazards, and then I pretended I was driving a BMW; I crossed intersections at red lights where I could, weaved in and out of traffic, and tried to drive as quickly but as safely as possible to Olivedale. I didn't flash anyone or hoot; but I made it to Olivedale in five minutes down Malibongwe, and that's saying something.

MadCat had a bit of a hissy fit at the very nice male receptionist when he was told he'd have to go through triage; but it's important, and that's when I was able to tell the nurse that he's an epileptic and had had a seizure. And that's where the story came out; that he'd been cooking supper for us, and decided that he wanted potato skins while waiting for us to get home. He'd started the oil. then must have had a seizure and wandered off to the computer room. He came to when he smelled smoke, and went into the kitchen, where he saw the pot smoking. So he put on the gloves and started taking the pot outside and then it ignited.

Thank goodness he has fast reflexes - he closed his eyes in time and his eyelashes (and hair) got singed but no damage to the eye.

That was the scariest thing, for me; looking at those beautiful eyes, those eyes I see last thing before I go to sleep every night, and seeing that the eyelashes have been burned off one side, makes me realise just how big a deal this was. He could have lost an eye. He could have been disfigured. His eyelashes burned, dammit!

We waited what seemed like hours, but was really only 15 minutes, before he was called through. Then I was called through about half an hour later, where a very nice male nurse called Thabo showed me how to keep the bandages moist and told me I'd have to do so for 24 hours until he came back to have his wounds checked. They did up both his arms and his right foot, where the oil had splattered. The doc even wanted to do his face, but fortunately the splatter burns there were very minor and just required some ointment. Then they gave him liquid Tramacet to make him fly, and sent him home.

And Sis finally got her roast chicken.

We've got to do something about these seizures.

Shake your booty

Second session withe the belly-dancing DVD. I didn't sweat as much (maybe the chilly weather had something to do with that), and I'm getting a little better with my timing. My joints aren't aching as much, though I can feel that my back is going to be stiff tomorrow. Still not up on the arm movements, and those two left are definitely around for a long while!

Heheh, MadCat is considering teh Comrades! Well, he wasn't - he just wants to be able to sprint 10 000m - but being the little obsessive that he is, he's getting that gleam in his eye ... only if he's able to win, though!

Run out of dog food for Mo, and only get paid on Saturday. Guess the girl's going to have to eat rice, lentils and giblets for a while!

Oz aerobics - Bellydancing 1

My first use of this DVD. Can I tell you how hard this damn thing is? It all looks so deceptively simple - just gentle movements, side to side, a few hops, leg twists and lots of hand movements. How hard could it be?

Hard enough that there were rivulets - not drops, rivulets! - of sweat running down my face halfway through the DVD (about 25 minutes in). As I type this, my T-shirt is soaked through, there is sweat running from my hair and my capris are sticking to me.

I found the instructions simple, but no easy. And thankfully, even though they're beautiful bombshells, I didn't feel that sense of YES! YES! YES! that I get from normal aerobics instructors. Maybe it's because they're Australian?

Anyway - so far my belly-dancing is shameful. Nessie would be horrified if she saw me now, just six months after I stopped the classes. I have no sense of rhythm, I can't even walk with the hip swings, and my shimmying is pathetic (but when was it not?). Not to worry! A few weeks of this on a daily basis and I'll pick up the steps again fairly easily - I hope.

And now, I'm off to bath - before my fresh sweat turns to a miasma of stench. Phew!

The making of a legend

Picture the scene: MadCat has taken Pod and Ferret out for drinks with his friend Iaculus, so they can all listen to Iaculus's favourite live band, White Rabbit (a very good cover band, by the way). They're dressed über-casually, and end up in a rather spiffy restaurant (Voodoo Lounge in Linksfield, perfect for supper club, ahem). To ease their nerves at being woefully under-dressed, the ladies drink a couple of glasses of wine over a rather lovely dinner. Later, they all move into the pub where Pod orders several tequilas for herself and Ferret - after all, it's a Mexican night, and MadCat is driving, yay! I mention the amount of alcohol consumed as some sort of (lame) explanation for the events to follow

They get down on the dance floor, listen to some pretty good covers (and I don't mean simply 70s or 80s here, either). Some Good Charlotte, a bit of Green Day, Violent Femmes and apparently they even do Offspring and System of a Down (although not that night). Great stuff. Suddenly, hark: what is this they hear? A jalapeño-eating competition for the guys, prize a R300 bar bill. Well! Pod and Ferret are incapable of passing up jalapeños at the best of times, never mind when there's a decent prize at the end. Scoffing at the notion that this competition is only for guys, the two step up onto the stage and prepare for a feast - after all, Ferret used to eat these out of the bottle with a fork, and Pod can put away a goodly amount in one sitting. Should be a breeze!

The MC steps up, bowl in hand, filled with deep-fried, crunchy-looking chillies.

It's at this point that I, MadCat, being of sound mind and judgement (yeah, right!), must add my point of view. I had been energetically called to the stage by Pod and Ferret, and found a decent spot from which to note the (doomed) proceedings. When the bowl was passed to Pod and Ferret and they'd both removed a chilli each, time seemed to slow down for me, as my brain, having zeroed in on the "jalapeños", immediately set to work figuring out why those "jalapeños" didn't look like jalapeños. "MadCat," it said, "that's not a jalapeño. Jalapeños are long and thin, and green.". "Ah," I remarked, "Pod and Ferret eat these things all the time; they know what a jalapeño looks like; I'm sure you're mistaken." "No," my brain retorted, as my mind was filled with images of jalapeños vs. habaneros, "do I have to draw a bloody picture for you?" Immediately, my thoughts turned to me running up onto stage and slapping the offending chillis out of the hands of the two hapless babes (all in slow-motion, of course), while frantically nodding my head sideways and shouting "Nooooooooooooo!". By the time all this had registered, Pod had already inhaled two of the bastards, and Ferret was already reaching for a third. It was at that point that Pod gave the cutoff signal and vacated the stage with vigour. Ferret stayed, but only for a few moments longer, before she too succumbed to the habaneros' overwhelming firepower. "I told you so," said my brain, smugly. Ferret then also exited the stage with the vertiable determination of a crusading knight. Well, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I shall now let you continue reading the rest of this sorry saga.

A vague notion crosses Pod's mind that these are rather small and fat jalapeños, but the countdown begins and there's no more time to think. Pod, Ferret and the three male contestants each pop a pepper into their mouths, chew rapidly and swallow. Down the hatch, and time for a second. As Pod pops it into her mouth, and bites down, her mouth suddenly sends a warning - this is NOT a jalapeño! Her throat starts closing, unwilling to accept this fake jalapeño and even trying to bring it back up, but she fights the urge and swallows what's in her mouth - after all there's nowhere to spit it and she's not throwing up in front of all these people! She turns to Ferret and slashes her hand across her throat, signal for defeat. Ferret, who is reaching for a third chili, looks surprised for a second - and that's when the bite hits her. She gags and follows Pod off stage, both trying desperately not to cough, heading straight for their table and the lovely beers standing there.

In less than a minute, Pod has downed a Hunters and has picked up Iaculus's beer without asking. Tears are streaming down her face and she can barely hear over the roaring in her ears - the roaring of blood sent into a frenzy by an accelerated heartbeat as her body tries to outrun the pain. Drinking is not helping; it's simply washing the pain further down her throat. To her right, Ferret is red-faced and wheezing, eyes streaming, an expression on her face that is normally only achieved by being tied to a chair and hooked up to an electrical torture device. They grab for the lemons in the glasses and chew on these; Pod spots a tot of passion fruit for the now-forgotten Suitcase delivered but a wee while ago, and holds the contents in her mouth, hoping the thicker liquid will help - but it's no good. Iaculus comes round the table and tries to tell them something about licking the lemon, not eating it. This is unintelligible gibberish. Pod grabs Iaculus by the shirt and snarls at him: "Screw the lemon, get us MILK!" Without a word, he turns and hurries off through the crowd - no wonder, having been confronted by a wild-eyed harridan who just breathed paint-stripping chili fumes into his face.

The two are searching frantically for something, anything, to put into their mouths, something that will prevent them from biting out their tongues and stamping on them to put out the flames, when Iaculus arrives, milk in hand. They seize the cool liquid and gulp, holding it in their mouths to wash away the chili oil that's hooked into their tongues. Finally, some actual relief. At least the roaring has subsided somewhat, although Pod would still like to take a scourer to her mouth and throat. Worse, every time she burps, she can taste fresh, raw chili. This must be what hell is like, unable to just make the pain go away. Iaculus steps up and offers to hypnotise her. At this stage, anything is welcome, so she closes her eyes and listens to what sounds like nonsense - concentrate on what the soles of your feet are feeling, can you hear what Ferret's saying (she's arguing with the waiter about what type of chillies those were), bet you can't hear what the people at the next table are talking about (us), are the soles of your feet hot or cold? Surprisingly, it's working; the pain exists, but it's no longer threatening to cause acute respiratory failure. There is a line of fire stretching from her lips to her stomach, which is roiling around in protest, but it's no longer hot lava. Iaculus is a life-saver.

Iaculus heads off to order more milk, returns to the table and reports that the three guys who were on stage are in the bathroom, crying and wailing, sucking up as much water as possible from the washbasins, splashing their faces, stamping their feet. This makes the ladies feel better. Only one person managed three, so they're not complete failures.

She phones Ffeog. What should they do? What did they eat? "Was it shaped like a bell pepper?" he asks. That sounds about right, confirms the side of Pod's brain that was actually paying attention and trying to warn her before she began this ordeal. "That was a habanero," says Ffeog. "You ate two? Maybe you should have your stomachs pumped." Great. This from someone who eats hot chillies for kicks and giggles.

The waiter comes over and refuses to believe that they ate habaneros. No, he says, the chef knows what he's doing, and he says they were jalapeños. The chef battered them and popped them in the deep-fryer until the batter browned. Basically, the contestants were eating raw chillies, seeds, ribs and all. The two insist that those were like no jalapeños they have ever eaten - not in shape or in taste. The waiter goes off to confer with the chef and returns, adamant that they are wrong. He's lucky not to be breathed on. The ladies are not impressed.

The fun is over; the time is coming to leave. Ferret goes to the bathroom and throws up, but Pod's not too keen on having all that chili come back up - a decision she will regret later. For some reason, the two start dancing again. Madness, I tell you! Finally, they drag themselves away and go and find the guys. Got to go home. The endorphins have kicked in and Pod is about dead on her feet.

Ah - bed. Asleep as soon as she hits the mattress, Pod is awakened several hours later by the urge to worship the porcelain god. This is a bad idea, she thinks. She doesn't want that chili revisiting her oesophagus. Nothing happens. Two hours later, however, a series of cramps so severe they have left her crying for her mommy, like a baby, have convinced her that the pain to come must be endured, if only to rid herself of the vile poison in her system. The chili hurts almost as much coming back up as it did going down. There's chili in her nose! Maybe snorting milk will help. The already tender spots at the back of her throat are now on fire.

This time it's MadCat who steps up to the plate. He offers her a Schedule 5 painkiller. A morphine derivative. Half an hour later, not only is Pod pain-free, she's floating. This is great. This is wonderful. Ferret awakes, and they go online to see just what the hell it is that they ingested. There's the jalapeño - sort of banana shaped, rather large - about the size of a middle finger. And there's what they ate - bell pepper-shaped, smallish - as long and wide as the two first joints of a pinkie finger. As Ffeog suspected - they ate habaneros. Two habaneros each. To put this in perspective, the jalapeño is 5,000-8,000 on the Scoville heat scale. The habanero is 150,000-200,000. This is not a fun chili. This is not something to use in a competition, unless you are a demon sent from hell. This is something that sends people to hospital.

It's several hours after the fact, but at least one thing is clear: Pod and Ferret can barely walk down the hallway. Their cojones of titanium are getting in the way. It might have been unwittingly, but they ate two habaneros each, and survived. The only thing left now is revenge.

Ferret interjects: So from my side the story goes like this: I have more balls than brains. Logically I knew what I was putting into my mouth was NOT a jalepeno, but pride is a dangerous play mate and I went ahead anyway. I knew something was wrong when I felt my ears begin to burn. Curious, one eats with one's mouth not with one's ears, how could my ears be burning? It was the first thing that registered because my mouth and throat had been singed completely and therefore had no immediate sensation. When I did regain oral sensation, I honestly believed I was going to die. My heart developed a murmur and my lungs clamped shut. They say you get a rush of Seratonin when eating hot foods but I don't believe a word of it - all I wanted to do was die!!! I did not cry and of this I am extremely proud, but I believe my face was set in a rictus grin of near death.

I could not hold the offensive chillies for long, and as Pod has mentioned, I deposited them in the nearest porcelain recepticle at the earliest possible moment. This was almost as painful as eating them, but I still believe it was the right thing to do. I can write all day about this BUT I won't. What I will suggest is that you try the same thing. Not because I wish to encourage you to expand your horizons, but purley for the selfish reason of wanting someone else to suffer along with me. Thank God, Pod joined me on that stage because if she hadn't she would have laughed her arse off at me, thereby making things considerably worse. Thank you, oh Loyal Friend. Stupidest thing I have ever done followed closely by rap-jumping off a 70-storey building.

The Fried Ferret.

Courage under fire

Let's see ... taking the punishment on behalf of my four-years-younger cousin, who was being bullied by some boys in my class at primary school, letting them punch and kick and "mousey" me, without showing any sign of pain - and then breaking one boy's jaw and ending all the bullying. Standing up to my gym teacher for humiliating my best friend in high school. Getting in front of a steriod-junkie musclehead and stopping him from barging up the stairs and punching the head off my Ally McBeal-sized (female) friend, who was moving out of his psycho slut girlfriend's apartment.

I guess most of my friends and family think my true moment of bravery was the time Deafboy and I were attacked in my house, stabbed, tied up, tortured and terrorised. I let myself be raped because I knew it would keep Deafboy alive beside me, and when the moment came, I was able to get free and fight, and then I beat the everloving snot out of my attacker despite the deep stab wound in my back. Well, that's why my friends think I'm brave, anyway. Actually, I think I did what had to be done in order to survive. Personally I think I was brave because I didn't let it get to me and change me into someone fearful of the world, but propel me further along my path of optimism. We were scared shitless the whole way through, but I guess that's what courage is all about.

Just recently, being so open and honest with MadCat about my life, when before I have laughed and smiled and covered up the things I thought would make people uncomfortable - like the attack. It's the kind of bravery that scares me a whole lot more than being hurt physically. I'm not that strong, that big or that swift, so it's a given that I'll come off second best in most altercations. But opening up and being as vulnerable as I have been recently, telling MadCat all my deepest, darkest secrets, admitting things that I've hidden even from myself for 30 years ... yeah, that's the height of bravery to me.