It was with a certain sense of pride that I watched last weekend's Olympic opening ceremony. Music, film, comedy, sport, industry, one small island was at the forefront of so much of it, and that small island happens to be where I was born and bred. Once or twice during the ceremony I thought, hey, that's a bit odd, but eccentricity is after all a particularly British trait. The only slight annoyance for me in an otherwise impressive ceremony were those film clips. I wanted to see what was going on inside the stadium. I bet the Chinese found it all rather baffling - it was a very different show to the one they came up with four years ago. I must say it made a nice change to see the teams come out according to the Roman alphabet for the first time since Sydney.
I do like the Olympics. For once individual sports get a look in. In the UK in the eighties and nineties, you'd often see individual sports on TV - athletics, swimming, boxing, snooker, darts, tennis, sometimes even squash or badminton. But in New Zealand in 2012, team sports are totally dominant: the various rugby teams, the Warriors league team, the netball franchises, and more recently the Breakers (basketball) and Wellington Phoenix (football). I gather (from hearing names like Susan Devoy) that people used to care about individual sports in NZ, but those days are long gone.
I've only caught sporadic Olympic action so far. I've enjoyed the weightlifting the most - it's simple, it's dramatic, and there's something quite marvellous about seeing someone lift nearly three times his own body weight (even if he might be juiced up to the eyeballs).
A couple of questions about the London Olympics:
1. Who designed the logo? It's awful! It doesn't help that the zero in 2012 looks a lot like Australia.
2. Who designed the font? I quite like it, but it looks a little too Greek for London.
Last Friday I saw a psychologist at Massey. She thought I did have Asperger traits but didn't think it was worth my while getting a diagnosis. She emphasised the importance of exercise and social contact. Perhaps most importantly she said I need to exercise even when I feel like crap both mentally and physically. The session cost me $130; I decided not to get a report which would have been another $130. It wasn't completely pointless but I still feel rather let down by the mental health system. I don't qualify for any actual help, without paying through the nose, simply because I've got a job. It wasn't always this way but the current government have cut back mental health funding to the bare bones. Now that's a false economy if ever there was one.
I'd planned to come off Efexor completely under my own steam but having reached 150 mg, I made an appointment to see the doctor yesterday. He recommended that I stay at 150. He also said I shouldn't bother taking any supplements, that I need to get back on that e-therapy course that I'd given up on, and that I probably should set aside a couple of grand for a full course of CBT.
On Monday night I played my first ever live poker tournament at the Cambridge Hotel pub, just down the road from me. It was all very anxiety-provoking for me - lots of scary people of both sexes with tattoos; at times it felt like being in a Western movie. I had a reasonable understanding of the game (no-limit hold 'em of course) but the physical chips and cards, as well as all those scary people who were regular players, added several extra dimensions to the experience. I bought in for $10; four hours (and plenty of good fortune) later I took home $85 for finishing in the silver medal position out of around 25 or 30 players. I've been on edge for the rest of this week - I wish there was some way I could calm down.
In other poker news, it looks like I might be getting my hands on the US$1400-odd I tried to withdraw from Full Tilt Poker over a year ago, just before the site was shut down. I'd almost given up on the money but Poker Stars have just bought the company. It's not a massive amount of money but it's still my bloody money, so this is excellent news.
It was sad to hear last week of Margaret Mahy's death. I read plenty of her stuff as a kid, completely oblivious to her Kiwiness.
Showing posts with label psychologist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychologist. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
It's not fair
It was a slow day at work today. Life is going by in slow motion anyway at the moment, but one of our computerised systems (one of the two I have to use all the time) was down virtually all day, finally spluttering into some kind of life at 4:30. Not only was work impossible, but a lot of yesterday's work had been wiped too. I haven't found it the most intuitive of systems, even in its fully functional state. Before I know where I am, I've got four or five different windows and I never know which one I should be clicking on next. The other system I use is a black-screen jobby that came into being in 1980. As did I. As did Pac-Man. And it does look like one of those eighties games that have since become retro-cool.
I've always been a bit skeptical of computers, at least when they have to do anything remotely important. I remember when my local dentist's in the UK moved from a manual appointment system to a computerised one, and what used to take a few seconds (as the receptionist wrote your name in a book) suddenly took ages. It was like pulling teeth.
I saw the doctor today. When I told him I wanted to taper off my Efexor he was a little concerned at first, but he agreed in the end. I'll drop down to 300 for a month and see how I go. He mentioned counselling but then said I wouldn't qualify (unless I wanted to pay heaps for it) because I still have a job. Great. So they offer ambulance-at-the-bottom-of-the-cliff counselling.
He said I could get e-counselling however. Man/woman being replaced by computer again.
For the last two months I've oscillated between crap and just about OK (or, in the case of last Friday, actually quite good). The steepness of my latest decline has taken me aback a bit. I really have no idea what caused it. And what's different this time is that I feel angry at the injustice of it all. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I'm trying my best to do everything right - go to the gym, cook and eat proper meals, get to bed at a sensible time, take all the right pills, and so on. Why isn't it making any bloody difference?
I've really got to stop this head-banging stuff. It seems to "work", by replacing a very anxious bad feeling with a much calmer bad feeling, but obviously it isn't good in the long term.
Mum and Dad have just phoned me. Oh god. They're really worried about me - my depression has got past the point of being able to disguise it on the phone. After I'd got off the phone they rang me back again. They'd just discovered meetup.com. You could do this, you could do that, you could do the next thing. Yes (and it is a really good idea), but I can't take anything in right now and I really don't want to talk to anyone. I told Mum to "stop bombarding me with shit."
My brother arrives from the UK tomorrow. He's here for two weeks with his girlfriend. Unfortunately I won't see him.
I've always been a bit skeptical of computers, at least when they have to do anything remotely important. I remember when my local dentist's in the UK moved from a manual appointment system to a computerised one, and what used to take a few seconds (as the receptionist wrote your name in a book) suddenly took ages. It was like pulling teeth.
I saw the doctor today. When I told him I wanted to taper off my Efexor he was a little concerned at first, but he agreed in the end. I'll drop down to 300 for a month and see how I go. He mentioned counselling but then said I wouldn't qualify (unless I wanted to pay heaps for it) because I still have a job. Great. So they offer ambulance-at-the-bottom-of-the-cliff counselling.
He said I could get e-counselling however. Man/woman being replaced by computer again.
For the last two months I've oscillated between crap and just about OK (or, in the case of last Friday, actually quite good). The steepness of my latest decline has taken me aback a bit. I really have no idea what caused it. And what's different this time is that I feel angry at the injustice of it all. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I'm trying my best to do everything right - go to the gym, cook and eat proper meals, get to bed at a sensible time, take all the right pills, and so on. Why isn't it making any bloody difference?
I've really got to stop this head-banging stuff. It seems to "work", by replacing a very anxious bad feeling with a much calmer bad feeling, but obviously it isn't good in the long term.
Mum and Dad have just phoned me. Oh god. They're really worried about me - my depression has got past the point of being able to disguise it on the phone. After I'd got off the phone they rang me back again. They'd just discovered meetup.com. You could do this, you could do that, you could do the next thing. Yes (and it is a really good idea), but I can't take anything in right now and I really don't want to talk to anyone. I told Mum to "stop bombarding me with shit."
My brother arrives from the UK tomorrow. He's here for two weeks with his girlfriend. Unfortunately I won't see him.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Flat
Nothing really matters any more. There are very few ups and downs; everything is flat. I've got a job interview on Friday and I should feel excited, determined, nervous, something, but I'm struggling to feel anything. It's like I've disappeared down an emotional black hole. I discussed this with my counsellor last week; she said it's probably a combination of my medication and a lack of stimulation from other people.
In other news, my brother arrived in Christchurch this morning and I spoke to him about an hour ago. I don't yet know whether I'll fly down there or vice versa.
In other news, my brother arrived in Christchurch this morning and I spoke to him about an hour ago. I don't yet know whether I'll fly down there or vice versa.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wow!
Tuesday. What a day. At 9am I fired up the SCOOP badugi tournament, not really expecting much. I was sure I'd played significantly more badugi than most of the field, and I rated my chances of some kind of payout at just about even, but making the serious money was such a remote possibility I had hardly considered it.
I didn't start well. In the first hour I won just one pot. During the first break I brought my washing in and then got back to business. Or so I thought. Dammit, I've lost my internet connection. Unplug, plug, unplug, plug. Still no reading, captain. I ring Vodafone. I'm on hold for ages. Stop it with the dance music at this time of the morning, would you? I finally get through to a bloke who was nice enough but clearly not based in New Zealand. "Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in?" "Yes, five times." I was told to type in various passwords and codes, then he noticed his switchboard was red hot. There was an Auckland-wide outage; he gave me a two-hour timeframe. Oh well. A quick back-of-an-envelope calculation told me I'd be blinded out of the tournament in almost exactly two hours.
I wasn't too disappointed. I hadn't invested much time or money in the tournament and I had plenty of other stuff to be getting on with. I left my computer on just in case; having worked in a large company I knew that "two hours" can be anywhere from a minute to some time next Tuesday.
When my connection miraculously sprung back to life - I was out for forty minutes - I still had nearly 80% of my initial 5000 chips. Things didn't improve much after that though, and I thought there can't be many tournaments where you can win just one pot in more than two hours of play and still show signs of life. In the third hour, with half my original stack left, I made a six badugi to virtually double up against a fellow short stack who I could tell had simply had enough of this badugi shit. I kept hanging in there but in the fourth hour, with half the 2408-player field remaining, I got involved with a couple of marginal hands and my stack was crippled. I was then dealt a one-card draw to a rough eight and had no real choice but to commit. I was three-bet by a monster draw and my tournament life hung by a thread. On the second draw I hit the two of diamonds to make 872A, my opponent missed, and I survived. I was about a 35/65 underdog on that hand. Two out of three times I would have exited right there.
I capitalised on my good fortune to build my stack up to 31,000 only to become one of the short stacks again as the money approached. When the bubble burst with 440 players left I was down to 11,000. Then something funny, but totally understandable when I think about it, happened. People started dropping like flies. You see, the payout structure was totally wack. Paying 440 is too many. Most of these people would only get their money back, plus a tiny bit more, and what's the point of that? And even as players were eliminated, the payouts hardly went up at all; 200th only paid slightly more than 400th, while even 100th was only enough to double your money. So it was hardly surprising that many of the short stacks said "sod this" and loosened up their play. Hence I decided to do the exact opposite. I haven't got a lot of chips here, but if I can just wait for a good hand and let everyone else knock each other out, who knows?
This strategy seemed to work. I played straightforwardly, betting aggressively with my good three-cards and staying out of the way with anything dodgy. With eighty or so left I hit the tournament lead and, almost in disbelief, took a screen shot of the lobby. At the ten-hour mark I realised I had a number of advantages over much of the field:
1. Yes I've been playing for ten hours and I'm getting a little tired, but think of all the poor sods in the States downing cans of Red Bull to avoid falling asleep at the wheel, or rather the screen. In contrast it's 7pm here and I'm still very much awake.
2. I've taken - and studied for - a lot of exams in my time, so concentrating on one thing for ten hours or more in a day is not a foreign concept to me.
3. I'm playing only this tournament. There were big Omaha tournaments going on at the same time. The very thought of playing simultaneous badugi and Omaha sounds like a nightmare. And of course people will be playing cash games and surfing the net and heaven knows what else.
I never thought seriously about the money until we were down to two tables, or to be more specific, eleven players. By this stage I was guaranteed a couple of hundred, but man were there eleven of us for a long time. And my stack was dwindling. Reaching the final eight would mean an extra hundred or so, while seventh paid over twice what eighth did! I wondered what was so special about seventh. As I said, the payouts were all wack. In fairly dire chip poo, I then won two big hands. On the first of these I committed with 43A while my opponent, who had tried to push me off my hand, had complete junk. I won the second as my six badugi went up against a seven.
As we hit the much-needed 15-minute break at the twelve-hour mark, I was chip leader with five players left. I glanced at those prizes again. What's fourth? Whoa. What's third? Oh man. I took a walk around the block in a bit of a daze. On my return we were soon down to three. Many more hands become playable three-handed, so I had to keep telling myself not to just click fold all the time. When we got heads-up I was at a slight chip disadvantage. Also I’d played very little heads-up badugi so I was flying by the seat of my pants. What should I three-bet with pre-draw? Three-card sixes? Smooth sevens? Nine badugis are monsters now, right? My opponent then wanted to make a deal. He was talking chip equity numbers and I had no real idea if I was being screwed over or not. In hindsight perhaps I was (at the time I was behind in chips by nearly two to one) but some PokerStars guru was on hand and everything seemed above board. I felt I had very little bargaining power as I’d never been anywhere near that situation before, and heck, win or lose the resulting payout would be beyond my wildest dreams (I later found out that my foe had taken home four figures a few times before). I took over the chip lead and on a couple of occasions I was a massive favourite to win, but after going head-to-head for more than an hour I’d had my chips. Second place for a whopping payout of US$4758. I was stunned.
Despite the previous day winning more than enough to pay for my next car (and the insurance for it!), yesterday was just a normal day, though I was very tired from Tuesday’s 14-hour-plus marathon. I talked at length with my counsellor about my relationship with Mum. Last night I attended the men’s depression group for the first time in ages (and also the last time in ages). I’d thought about buying drinks for everyone as a gesture, or perhaps going across the road to Hell Pizza (which, as the player who beat me was called Hellhound, would have been appropriate). In the end, as Andy suggested, I just got a few nibbles. We chatted about life, one of the blokes read out part of a play he had written, and I even talked about my gambling exploits with a “don’t try this at home” disclaimer.
Yesterday I spent some time just sitting out in the garden; it was a glorious autumn day. I realised one thing: whatever my next job is, I don’t want it to involve staring at a screen for 14 hours a day. I want to see some sunshine, some people, some life. I haven’t done enough of that lately. Tomorrow I’ll be seeing the careers advisor again.
The results of Britain’s general election will come in tomorrow. It will be a very tight race. If I was still in my old job I’d follow it on the internet at work, but I’m not sure if I will tomorrow. I’m hoping for a hung parliament and the Lib Dems to gain some influence, though I’m not sure it will really make much difference whatever happens.
It’s not long till I’ll be on the plane and I’ve still got so much to do before then. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write a quick post giving some idea of my itinerary over the next six or seven weeks. One thing’s for sure: poker will be off the radar.
I didn't start well. In the first hour I won just one pot. During the first break I brought my washing in and then got back to business. Or so I thought. Dammit, I've lost my internet connection. Unplug, plug, unplug, plug. Still no reading, captain. I ring Vodafone. I'm on hold for ages. Stop it with the dance music at this time of the morning, would you? I finally get through to a bloke who was nice enough but clearly not based in New Zealand. "Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in?" "Yes, five times." I was told to type in various passwords and codes, then he noticed his switchboard was red hot. There was an Auckland-wide outage; he gave me a two-hour timeframe. Oh well. A quick back-of-an-envelope calculation told me I'd be blinded out of the tournament in almost exactly two hours.
I wasn't too disappointed. I hadn't invested much time or money in the tournament and I had plenty of other stuff to be getting on with. I left my computer on just in case; having worked in a large company I knew that "two hours" can be anywhere from a minute to some time next Tuesday.
When my connection miraculously sprung back to life - I was out for forty minutes - I still had nearly 80% of my initial 5000 chips. Things didn't improve much after that though, and I thought there can't be many tournaments where you can win just one pot in more than two hours of play and still show signs of life. In the third hour, with half my original stack left, I made a six badugi to virtually double up against a fellow short stack who I could tell had simply had enough of this badugi shit. I kept hanging in there but in the fourth hour, with half the 2408-player field remaining, I got involved with a couple of marginal hands and my stack was crippled. I was then dealt a one-card draw to a rough eight and had no real choice but to commit. I was three-bet by a monster draw and my tournament life hung by a thread. On the second draw I hit the two of diamonds to make 872A, my opponent missed, and I survived. I was about a 35/65 underdog on that hand. Two out of three times I would have exited right there.
I capitalised on my good fortune to build my stack up to 31,000 only to become one of the short stacks again as the money approached. When the bubble burst with 440 players left I was down to 11,000. Then something funny, but totally understandable when I think about it, happened. People started dropping like flies. You see, the payout structure was totally wack. Paying 440 is too many. Most of these people would only get their money back, plus a tiny bit more, and what's the point of that? And even as players were eliminated, the payouts hardly went up at all; 200th only paid slightly more than 400th, while even 100th was only enough to double your money. So it was hardly surprising that many of the short stacks said "sod this" and loosened up their play. Hence I decided to do the exact opposite. I haven't got a lot of chips here, but if I can just wait for a good hand and let everyone else knock each other out, who knows?
This strategy seemed to work. I played straightforwardly, betting aggressively with my good three-cards and staying out of the way with anything dodgy. With eighty or so left I hit the tournament lead and, almost in disbelief, took a screen shot of the lobby. At the ten-hour mark I realised I had a number of advantages over much of the field:
1. Yes I've been playing for ten hours and I'm getting a little tired, but think of all the poor sods in the States downing cans of Red Bull to avoid falling asleep at the wheel, or rather the screen. In contrast it's 7pm here and I'm still very much awake.
2. I've taken - and studied for - a lot of exams in my time, so concentrating on one thing for ten hours or more in a day is not a foreign concept to me.
3. I'm playing only this tournament. There were big Omaha tournaments going on at the same time. The very thought of playing simultaneous badugi and Omaha sounds like a nightmare. And of course people will be playing cash games and surfing the net and heaven knows what else.
I never thought seriously about the money until we were down to two tables, or to be more specific, eleven players. By this stage I was guaranteed a couple of hundred, but man were there eleven of us for a long time. And my stack was dwindling. Reaching the final eight would mean an extra hundred or so, while seventh paid over twice what eighth did! I wondered what was so special about seventh. As I said, the payouts were all wack. In fairly dire chip poo, I then won two big hands. On the first of these I committed with 43A while my opponent, who had tried to push me off my hand, had complete junk. I won the second as my six badugi went up against a seven.
As we hit the much-needed 15-minute break at the twelve-hour mark, I was chip leader with five players left. I glanced at those prizes again. What's fourth? Whoa. What's third? Oh man. I took a walk around the block in a bit of a daze. On my return we were soon down to three. Many more hands become playable three-handed, so I had to keep telling myself not to just click fold all the time. When we got heads-up I was at a slight chip disadvantage. Also I’d played very little heads-up badugi so I was flying by the seat of my pants. What should I three-bet with pre-draw? Three-card sixes? Smooth sevens? Nine badugis are monsters now, right? My opponent then wanted to make a deal. He was talking chip equity numbers and I had no real idea if I was being screwed over or not. In hindsight perhaps I was (at the time I was behind in chips by nearly two to one) but some PokerStars guru was on hand and everything seemed above board. I felt I had very little bargaining power as I’d never been anywhere near that situation before, and heck, win or lose the resulting payout would be beyond my wildest dreams (I later found out that my foe had taken home four figures a few times before). I took over the chip lead and on a couple of occasions I was a massive favourite to win, but after going head-to-head for more than an hour I’d had my chips. Second place for a whopping payout of US$4758. I was stunned.
Despite the previous day winning more than enough to pay for my next car (and the insurance for it!), yesterday was just a normal day, though I was very tired from Tuesday’s 14-hour-plus marathon. I talked at length with my counsellor about my relationship with Mum. Last night I attended the men’s depression group for the first time in ages (and also the last time in ages). I’d thought about buying drinks for everyone as a gesture, or perhaps going across the road to Hell Pizza (which, as the player who beat me was called Hellhound, would have been appropriate). In the end, as Andy suggested, I just got a few nibbles. We chatted about life, one of the blokes read out part of a play he had written, and I even talked about my gambling exploits with a “don’t try this at home” disclaimer.
Yesterday I spent some time just sitting out in the garden; it was a glorious autumn day. I realised one thing: whatever my next job is, I don’t want it to involve staring at a screen for 14 hours a day. I want to see some sunshine, some people, some life. I haven’t done enough of that lately. Tomorrow I’ll be seeing the careers advisor again.
The results of Britain’s general election will come in tomorrow. It will be a very tight race. If I was still in my old job I’d follow it on the internet at work, but I’m not sure if I will tomorrow. I’m hoping for a hung parliament and the Lib Dems to gain some influence, though I’m not sure it will really make much difference whatever happens.
It’s not long till I’ll be on the plane and I’ve still got so much to do before then. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write a quick post giving some idea of my itinerary over the next six or seven weeks. One thing’s for sure: poker will be off the radar.
Monday, April 12, 2010
I'm NOT being negative
It hasn't been a great few days. My conversation with Dad on Wednesday only made me feel worse about myself. I told him about the puzzles and how much they were paying me. "Is that dollars or pounds?" was his immediate reply. Pounds I said (I'd converted the figure). "Oh well. Better than nothing I suppose. I hope they're not taking you too long." C'mon Dad. Give me some encouragement, please. When we hung up, I felt sick. Why do I even bother? If the figure had been in dollars (and therefore less than half as much) I wonder what he might have said then?!
My dad's an artist. Paints pictures. He's made a living from it since 1977. I'm very proud of him. But as you can imagine, his income is unpredictable. He'll sell twenty paintings at an exhibition and then nothing for weeks. These barren spells really get him down. Not because they put my parents in financial dire straits (they don't), but because he only feels his work is any good if people are buying it. When he does make a sale - or two - after a dry patch, the last thing I'd say to him is, "oh right, only a small one then. Hope it didn't take you too long." Let's face it, making any kind of living out of selling art is no mean feat. And it isn't the eighties any more. When I was a kid, his paintings almost flew off the walls. He was one of the best in the business in my own (perhaps biased) opinion, and still is, but art was a fashionable thing to have back then, and people appreciated good art. Now people don't want to cough up two weeks' wages on something to stick on the wall, and would rather spend that sort of money on a 52-inch LCD TV. Or is it LED?
When I met my counsellor later on Wednesday, we talked about all the negativity coming from my parents, and strategies to deal with it. The next day, when I spoke to Mum, I tried out one of these strategies. It failed miserably. I told her that my brother (who almost stopped communicating with my parents for five years) had the right idea. She put the phone down on me. We did later repair much of the damage, but it wasn't nice.
I do think Mum and Dad are partly to blame (they do like to seek out worst-case scenarios) but a lot of the problem is my level of self-confidence. Most of the time this hovers around zero, and when I'm depressed it drops well below zero. I don't have many people to talk to, so anything my parents say (especially if it's less than positive) carries far more weight than it should. Hell, I'll be thirty next week! I'm old enough to have my own family.
I stayed up till 1:30 on Friday night to finish those puzzles (I'd better not tell Dad that) and on Saturday I played tennis. I was on the court in body, but not really in mind. Our opponents were a level above us, so it was hardly surprising that of the four sets I played, I lost three of them 6-1. The first match, with Bazza, started atrociously. The opening set was over in 19 minutes (isn't it funny that I thought to time it?); we put up a much better fight in an hour-long second set, storming out to a shock 5-2 lead and bringing up a set point. But in the end it was a struggle even to take the set to a tie-break, which we lost 7-3. The mixed match wasn't much fun. It was typical of many of my recent on-court experiences. At the start I at least have some idea of what I'm doing, but after a while I no longer know where I am or who I am or why I am. I was really only playing for the exercise and the mental health benefits I get from that; all those games and sets hardly mattered. I'll be playing again tonight.
My poker profit broke through the $500 barrier yesterday in unexpected fashion. I had my first ever tournament victory in a 66-man pot-limit badugi event. Reaching the latter stages of a tournament always requires a slice of luck, and I received mine when, short-stacked and half a dozen players from the money, I hit a seven-outer on the last draw to survive. For once I capitalised on my good fortune by building a healthy stack. Eventually we were down to three. Every time I raised, the player to my left would reraise the max and I'd fold as would my other opponent. Then I got dealt a K-9 badugi (you could perhaps call that a badoggie). I raised. Sure enough, he reraised. I don't think you've got anything. I just had him covered and put him all in. He called and drew two. My badoggie held up. Heads-up play didn't last long. My opponent wasn't aggressive enough, or just went card dead, probably a bit of both, and I emerged as the winner.
Now is a good time to take a short break from online poker. I've got a whole list of jobs that need doing before I go away. Lately poker has been something of an escapism. And it's got well-defined rules, it feels predictable, safe even. I know that probably sounds ridiculous. But after a few hours staring at virtual images of cards and chips flying around the screen, I feel I've wasted that time, and often get more depressed.
I met up with Phil shortly after my poker win. We played pétanque at Bayswater and then had a long chat over a coffee. He's emigrating to Denmark at the end of the month, to live with his girlfriend he met on a work trip over there. I told him about my puzzles; he thinks I could make a serious business out of them if only I'd publicise myself a bit more. When I think about it, I've gone to great lengths not to publicise myself, in all aspects of my life. It was great to see Phil though; he doesn't have any preconceived ideas about how people should live their lives.
Today I'm coming out of my latest bout of depression. When I'm depressed, nothing matters and I don't notice anything. Birds, dogs, trees, music, TV, other people, anything outside me and my depression completely washes over me. Sometimes I can't understand how the rest of the world keeps functioning as normal when I'm malfunctioning so badly. When I get back from my trip I think I'll move out of this flat. Living by myself isn't helping me.
My dad's an artist. Paints pictures. He's made a living from it since 1977. I'm very proud of him. But as you can imagine, his income is unpredictable. He'll sell twenty paintings at an exhibition and then nothing for weeks. These barren spells really get him down. Not because they put my parents in financial dire straits (they don't), but because he only feels his work is any good if people are buying it. When he does make a sale - or two - after a dry patch, the last thing I'd say to him is, "oh right, only a small one then. Hope it didn't take you too long." Let's face it, making any kind of living out of selling art is no mean feat. And it isn't the eighties any more. When I was a kid, his paintings almost flew off the walls. He was one of the best in the business in my own (perhaps biased) opinion, and still is, but art was a fashionable thing to have back then, and people appreciated good art. Now people don't want to cough up two weeks' wages on something to stick on the wall, and would rather spend that sort of money on a 52-inch LCD TV. Or is it LED?
When I met my counsellor later on Wednesday, we talked about all the negativity coming from my parents, and strategies to deal with it. The next day, when I spoke to Mum, I tried out one of these strategies. It failed miserably. I told her that my brother (who almost stopped communicating with my parents for five years) had the right idea. She put the phone down on me. We did later repair much of the damage, but it wasn't nice.
I do think Mum and Dad are partly to blame (they do like to seek out worst-case scenarios) but a lot of the problem is my level of self-confidence. Most of the time this hovers around zero, and when I'm depressed it drops well below zero. I don't have many people to talk to, so anything my parents say (especially if it's less than positive) carries far more weight than it should. Hell, I'll be thirty next week! I'm old enough to have my own family.
I stayed up till 1:30 on Friday night to finish those puzzles (I'd better not tell Dad that) and on Saturday I played tennis. I was on the court in body, but not really in mind. Our opponents were a level above us, so it was hardly surprising that of the four sets I played, I lost three of them 6-1. The first match, with Bazza, started atrociously. The opening set was over in 19 minutes (isn't it funny that I thought to time it?); we put up a much better fight in an hour-long second set, storming out to a shock 5-2 lead and bringing up a set point. But in the end it was a struggle even to take the set to a tie-break, which we lost 7-3. The mixed match wasn't much fun. It was typical of many of my recent on-court experiences. At the start I at least have some idea of what I'm doing, but after a while I no longer know where I am or who I am or why I am. I was really only playing for the exercise and the mental health benefits I get from that; all those games and sets hardly mattered. I'll be playing again tonight.
My poker profit broke through the $500 barrier yesterday in unexpected fashion. I had my first ever tournament victory in a 66-man pot-limit badugi event. Reaching the latter stages of a tournament always requires a slice of luck, and I received mine when, short-stacked and half a dozen players from the money, I hit a seven-outer on the last draw to survive. For once I capitalised on my good fortune by building a healthy stack. Eventually we were down to three. Every time I raised, the player to my left would reraise the max and I'd fold as would my other opponent. Then I got dealt a K-9 badugi (you could perhaps call that a badoggie). I raised. Sure enough, he reraised. I don't think you've got anything. I just had him covered and put him all in. He called and drew two. My badoggie held up. Heads-up play didn't last long. My opponent wasn't aggressive enough, or just went card dead, probably a bit of both, and I emerged as the winner.
Now is a good time to take a short break from online poker. I've got a whole list of jobs that need doing before I go away. Lately poker has been something of an escapism. And it's got well-defined rules, it feels predictable, safe even. I know that probably sounds ridiculous. But after a few hours staring at virtual images of cards and chips flying around the screen, I feel I've wasted that time, and often get more depressed.
I met up with Phil shortly after my poker win. We played pétanque at Bayswater and then had a long chat over a coffee. He's emigrating to Denmark at the end of the month, to live with his girlfriend he met on a work trip over there. I told him about my puzzles; he thinks I could make a serious business out of them if only I'd publicise myself a bit more. When I think about it, I've gone to great lengths not to publicise myself, in all aspects of my life. It was great to see Phil though; he doesn't have any preconceived ideas about how people should live their lives.
Today I'm coming out of my latest bout of depression. When I'm depressed, nothing matters and I don't notice anything. Birds, dogs, trees, music, TV, other people, anything outside me and my depression completely washes over me. Sometimes I can't understand how the rest of the world keeps functioning as normal when I'm malfunctioning so badly. When I get back from my trip I think I'll move out of this flat. Living by myself isn't helping me.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
He's not autistic, he's a very naughty boy
Well thankfully the health care bill squeaked through. There's a hell of a long way to go yet, but this is surely a step in the right direction.
An article on Asperger's syndrome is the cover story of the latest North & South magazine. I had to visit three dairies to get a copy - the first two had apparently sold out. Maybe that had something to do with the striking image on the front page: a screaming boy holding two bananas to his head like horns. The headline reads, "Asperger's (in big black capitals) or just a very naughty boy?" My mum does the odd spot of relief teaching; a couple of weeks ago she had a boy in her class who according to Mum, "had Asperger's or ADHD, I'm not sure which, but he's really just a little shit." She might have been right for all I know; I never saw him. But that does go to show that there are a lot of misconceptions surrounding the condition.
Jen Birch made an appearance in the Asperger's piece. It was a good article, I thought, and it raised some interesting points. In recent years autism in all its forms has become almost sexy, forming the basis of numerous characters in books and TV, but in reality it's a very unsexy condition which makes life difficult for anybody who has it and those close to them.
I might be buying North & South again. There are plenty of other good articles, and I'm still nowhere near reading it all. For instance there's one about the dying (or is it?) art of handwriting in the digital age, and another about Kiwi-based board games. I remember as a kid trying to invent board games. Or rather my dad, who is a very creative person, did the inventing, and I just tweaked them a bit. One of the games involved racing cars on a three-lane "track", the idea being that you use more fuel by driving in the fast lane but get there, well, faster. The winner was the first to complete a certain number of laps (twelve?) but if you ran out of petrol you were in deep doo-doo. You would pick up cards along the way telling you to do this or that, with the pit stop acting as Monopoly's jail. Another of Dad's inventions was a mountaineering game played on a pyramidal "board"; it was a very clever idea I thought, but things quickly got complicated and we abandoned it. Maybe I'll think of resurrecting it one day. I should point out that I rarely played games as a child; the only kid of a similar age around was my brother, and he was never interested. If we played Hangman he'd pick a three-letter word, which was always CAT or DOG. I had a football table, but he'd only play with me if it was the first to score one goal. You get the idea.
North & South also gave me some ideas for books to buy when I'm in the UK (they're too expensive here): Jasper Fforde's Shades of Grey and Petina Gappah's An Elegy for Easterly, a story of life in Zimbabwe under Robert Mugabe. I'll try and make the most of the exchange rate (the pound has plummeted against the Kiwi dollar) when I'm over there.
Monday was a strange day. I saw my counsellor in Albany at lunchtime but I also had tennis up there that evening. Because I currently don't have a car, I basically had to stay up there all day (by the time I'd arrived home on the bus, I'd have had to leave again almost immediately). I hadn't planned my day at all; on the bus I thought to myself, how stupid! I'll be stuck up in Albany all afternoon with nothing to do. The only thing up there is that bloody mall which I've avoided like the plague since the day it opened. Why didn't I plan something?! I felt another bout of depression coming on. I mentioned all of this to my counsellor who did have a couple of ideas: Borders or the cinema. I find malls to be depressing places. They don't have toilets, they have restrooms; some of them even have elevators instead of lifts. But as malls go, the Albany Mega Centre wasn't too bad. I didn't find anything worth watching at the cinema (and besides, that costs money) so I spent my remaining three hours in Borders. They had a vast array of poker books (oh dear) but I eventually sat down to read Daniel Tammet's Embracing the Wide Sky. Thinking I could walk from the mall to the tennis centre, I completely lost my bearings. Already running late, and getting more and more frustrated, I gave in and called a taxi. As it turned out the walk would have been about five minutes.
I was in a bad mood for the start of my singles match. As we warmed up, I knew I'd get blasted off the court. I remember thinking, please just let me win one game. I won the toss and, as always, I chose to serve first. This isn't because I have any confidence in my serve, rather that I don't like serving at 5-4 or 6-5. As if I'd reach any of those scores in this match! I lost my first service game to love - I had no control of my forehand. So I started hitting backhands whenever I could, nearly all of them to my opponent's backhand. He made a surprising number of errors, and after an hour, to my astonishment, I was just one game away from victory at 6-4, 5-3. I promptly dropped serve, and easily the longest game of the match ensued as I tried to break him for the match. He would hit a big unforced error followed by a crunching winner, a pattern that continued throughout the game. On one occasion he skied a ball off the frame, over the fence, on to the bonnet of a car parked outside. Match point. Then bam! Ace. Four match points came and went, and it was 5-5. What happened next was unexpected: I won the next two games easily to win the match. The killer blow was a one-handed backhand winner I hit on the run in the last game. We then won our doubles comfortably, 6-2 6-4. At last I've got used to playing with Superman. I felt sorry for one of my team-mates who lost an interminable singles match against an opponent who put virtually no pace on the ball; it felt as if he was being sucked into a black hole. We won overall by four matches to two.
Mum and Dad's town of Geraldine made an appearance on Campbell Live last night. Tourists in campervans are bypassing Geraldine because they're all now fitted with Navmans (Navmen?) which send them in a different direction. I doubt my parents would have watched it, because like many of their generation, they've got dozens of channels but only ever watch One.
Richard is a big fan of the Cult, a British band who I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant of until a couple of weeks ago, despite coming from the UK and knowing some of their songs. My favourite song of theirs would be Fire Woman. The Cult are playing in Auckland just before I go away; I might be interested in seeing them.
This is my hundredth blog post and probably one of the longest. It's taken me over a year to get this far. For anybody who can’t be bothered trawling through all my ramblings (I can’t blame you), I’ve plugged all 100 posts (including this one) into Wordle, a nifty tool which creates a “word cloud” based on a text. Words that appear more frequently appear as a bigger word in the cloud. So here goes:
An article on Asperger's syndrome is the cover story of the latest North & South magazine. I had to visit three dairies to get a copy - the first two had apparently sold out. Maybe that had something to do with the striking image on the front page: a screaming boy holding two bananas to his head like horns. The headline reads, "Asperger's (in big black capitals) or just a very naughty boy?" My mum does the odd spot of relief teaching; a couple of weeks ago she had a boy in her class who according to Mum, "had Asperger's or ADHD, I'm not sure which, but he's really just a little shit." She might have been right for all I know; I never saw him. But that does go to show that there are a lot of misconceptions surrounding the condition.
Jen Birch made an appearance in the Asperger's piece. It was a good article, I thought, and it raised some interesting points. In recent years autism in all its forms has become almost sexy, forming the basis of numerous characters in books and TV, but in reality it's a very unsexy condition which makes life difficult for anybody who has it and those close to them.
I might be buying North & South again. There are plenty of other good articles, and I'm still nowhere near reading it all. For instance there's one about the dying (or is it?) art of handwriting in the digital age, and another about Kiwi-based board games. I remember as a kid trying to invent board games. Or rather my dad, who is a very creative person, did the inventing, and I just tweaked them a bit. One of the games involved racing cars on a three-lane "track", the idea being that you use more fuel by driving in the fast lane but get there, well, faster. The winner was the first to complete a certain number of laps (twelve?) but if you ran out of petrol you were in deep doo-doo. You would pick up cards along the way telling you to do this or that, with the pit stop acting as Monopoly's jail. Another of Dad's inventions was a mountaineering game played on a pyramidal "board"; it was a very clever idea I thought, but things quickly got complicated and we abandoned it. Maybe I'll think of resurrecting it one day. I should point out that I rarely played games as a child; the only kid of a similar age around was my brother, and he was never interested. If we played Hangman he'd pick a three-letter word, which was always CAT or DOG. I had a football table, but he'd only play with me if it was the first to score one goal. You get the idea.
North & South also gave me some ideas for books to buy when I'm in the UK (they're too expensive here): Jasper Fforde's Shades of Grey and Petina Gappah's An Elegy for Easterly, a story of life in Zimbabwe under Robert Mugabe. I'll try and make the most of the exchange rate (the pound has plummeted against the Kiwi dollar) when I'm over there.
Monday was a strange day. I saw my counsellor in Albany at lunchtime but I also had tennis up there that evening. Because I currently don't have a car, I basically had to stay up there all day (by the time I'd arrived home on the bus, I'd have had to leave again almost immediately). I hadn't planned my day at all; on the bus I thought to myself, how stupid! I'll be stuck up in Albany all afternoon with nothing to do. The only thing up there is that bloody mall which I've avoided like the plague since the day it opened. Why didn't I plan something?! I felt another bout of depression coming on. I mentioned all of this to my counsellor who did have a couple of ideas: Borders or the cinema. I find malls to be depressing places. They don't have toilets, they have restrooms; some of them even have elevators instead of lifts. But as malls go, the Albany Mega Centre wasn't too bad. I didn't find anything worth watching at the cinema (and besides, that costs money) so I spent my remaining three hours in Borders. They had a vast array of poker books (oh dear) but I eventually sat down to read Daniel Tammet's Embracing the Wide Sky. Thinking I could walk from the mall to the tennis centre, I completely lost my bearings. Already running late, and getting more and more frustrated, I gave in and called a taxi. As it turned out the walk would have been about five minutes.
I was in a bad mood for the start of my singles match. As we warmed up, I knew I'd get blasted off the court. I remember thinking, please just let me win one game. I won the toss and, as always, I chose to serve first. This isn't because I have any confidence in my serve, rather that I don't like serving at 5-4 or 6-5. As if I'd reach any of those scores in this match! I lost my first service game to love - I had no control of my forehand. So I started hitting backhands whenever I could, nearly all of them to my opponent's backhand. He made a surprising number of errors, and after an hour, to my astonishment, I was just one game away from victory at 6-4, 5-3. I promptly dropped serve, and easily the longest game of the match ensued as I tried to break him for the match. He would hit a big unforced error followed by a crunching winner, a pattern that continued throughout the game. On one occasion he skied a ball off the frame, over the fence, on to the bonnet of a car parked outside. Match point. Then bam! Ace. Four match points came and went, and it was 5-5. What happened next was unexpected: I won the next two games easily to win the match. The killer blow was a one-handed backhand winner I hit on the run in the last game. We then won our doubles comfortably, 6-2 6-4. At last I've got used to playing with Superman. I felt sorry for one of my team-mates who lost an interminable singles match against an opponent who put virtually no pace on the ball; it felt as if he was being sucked into a black hole. We won overall by four matches to two.
Mum and Dad's town of Geraldine made an appearance on Campbell Live last night. Tourists in campervans are bypassing Geraldine because they're all now fitted with Navmans (Navmen?) which send them in a different direction. I doubt my parents would have watched it, because like many of their generation, they've got dozens of channels but only ever watch One.
Richard is a big fan of the Cult, a British band who I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant of until a couple of weeks ago, despite coming from the UK and knowing some of their songs. My favourite song of theirs would be Fire Woman. The Cult are playing in Auckland just before I go away; I might be interested in seeing them.
This is my hundredth blog post and probably one of the longest. It's taken me over a year to get this far. For anybody who can’t be bothered trawling through all my ramblings (I can’t blame you), I’ve plugged all 100 posts (including this one) into Wordle, a nifty tool which creates a “word cloud” based on a text. Words that appear more frequently appear as a bigger word in the cloud. So here goes:
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sorry Mum, still no news
Man do I miss my car. I'm quite exhausted from all this bussing and walking. Yesterday I saw my counsellor in Albany (how many buses did I take in total? Five?) for some Gestalt therapy which is a new one on me. Basically I pretended to be myself at the age of ten or eleven talking about my lack of friends, then I took on the role of an adult talking to this young boy. Our session was taped.
I managed to upset my mum on Sunday night. She said to me, "had a busy day? No." I told her to please stop saying that. She's been doing this for some time, asking me if I've done something and then saying "no" immediately afterwards. "Did you apply for that job? No." "Did you phone Dave? No." She always fears the worst for me, expects the worst. "I don't know what you'll do when you get back from the UK. I doubt you'll get a job, and you'll be paying all that money in rent. And don't go out and buy another car because it'll only get nicked again..." Dad is just as pessimistic but at least I can have a reasoned argument with him. With Mum, I'd obviously upset her and I felt very bad about this, but it was no use trying to rectify the situation. She just totally shut down. A lot of the problem here is that my parents phone me every day. I know it's because they love me and worry about me, but I find these daily 9pm phone calls put unnecessary pressure on me. Usually nothing of note has happened since the last time we spoke and I feel guilty about that. I suggested to Mum that maybe every day is a bit much, to which she replied, "well I won't ring then if you don't want to talk to me." Oh dear. I do want to talk to her, just perhaps not every day.
My interclub tennis was all over in double-quick time last night. We won our doubles 6-3 6-0 but then I got thrashed 6-1 6-2 in my singles. An unusual pair of results for me: I prefer singles and generally fare much better at it than doubles. My singles opponent was very much a confidence player; last time we played I won a tight first set, after which his confidence was shot and he effectively threw in the towel. This time it was the exact opposite. I had love-40 on his serve in the first game but couldn't take any of those break points. In the second game I had yet more chances but they too went begging. Soon his confidence was sky-high and I was powerless to do anything. The type of shot I played had little bearing on the outcome of the point, so in the end my tactic was to take the pace off the ball and just get everything back. This resulted in some long rallies and multiple deuce games but I invariably came off second best. Knowing his temperament was fragile I never gave up until the last point, though the killer blow for me came in the penultimate game. At 2-4 and deuce, after trading groundstrokes, I hit a lob onto his baseline which he retrieved; his next shot was a clean winner. When it was all over I walked home, grabbing easily the spiciest pizza I've ever had on the way back.
In today's badugi session I picked up right where I left off from last night's tennis. I play 300-hand sessions, give or take a few, but I have a "mercy rule" whereby I quit when I get down $20. Today I invoked that rule after just 140 hands. It was carnage. I won only seven hands, three of those pre-draw and just two at showdown. After taking that kind of hammering I don't feel I can play my best, hence the mercy rule.
I had a very enjoyable, if slightly tricky, Italian lesson today. If I didn't already know some French (which has proved very useful) I might have been all at sea. After the lesson I had the pleasure of riding in a Fiat Bambina.
Tonight we had the men's group. We had a new bloke there who writes stories; tonight we acted one of those out. I'm always envious of anyone who can write anything.
I managed to upset my mum on Sunday night. She said to me, "had a busy day? No." I told her to please stop saying that. She's been doing this for some time, asking me if I've done something and then saying "no" immediately afterwards. "Did you apply for that job? No." "Did you phone Dave? No." She always fears the worst for me, expects the worst. "I don't know what you'll do when you get back from the UK. I doubt you'll get a job, and you'll be paying all that money in rent. And don't go out and buy another car because it'll only get nicked again..." Dad is just as pessimistic but at least I can have a reasoned argument with him. With Mum, I'd obviously upset her and I felt very bad about this, but it was no use trying to rectify the situation. She just totally shut down. A lot of the problem here is that my parents phone me every day. I know it's because they love me and worry about me, but I find these daily 9pm phone calls put unnecessary pressure on me. Usually nothing of note has happened since the last time we spoke and I feel guilty about that. I suggested to Mum that maybe every day is a bit much, to which she replied, "well I won't ring then if you don't want to talk to me." Oh dear. I do want to talk to her, just perhaps not every day.
My interclub tennis was all over in double-quick time last night. We won our doubles 6-3 6-0 but then I got thrashed 6-1 6-2 in my singles. An unusual pair of results for me: I prefer singles and generally fare much better at it than doubles. My singles opponent was very much a confidence player; last time we played I won a tight first set, after which his confidence was shot and he effectively threw in the towel. This time it was the exact opposite. I had love-40 on his serve in the first game but couldn't take any of those break points. In the second game I had yet more chances but they too went begging. Soon his confidence was sky-high and I was powerless to do anything. The type of shot I played had little bearing on the outcome of the point, so in the end my tactic was to take the pace off the ball and just get everything back. This resulted in some long rallies and multiple deuce games but I invariably came off second best. Knowing his temperament was fragile I never gave up until the last point, though the killer blow for me came in the penultimate game. At 2-4 and deuce, after trading groundstrokes, I hit a lob onto his baseline which he retrieved; his next shot was a clean winner. When it was all over I walked home, grabbing easily the spiciest pizza I've ever had on the way back.
In today's badugi session I picked up right where I left off from last night's tennis. I play 300-hand sessions, give or take a few, but I have a "mercy rule" whereby I quit when I get down $20. Today I invoked that rule after just 140 hands. It was carnage. I won only seven hands, three of those pre-draw and just two at showdown. After taking that kind of hammering I don't feel I can play my best, hence the mercy rule.
I had a very enjoyable, if slightly tricky, Italian lesson today. If I didn't already know some French (which has proved very useful) I might have been all at sea. After the lesson I had the pleasure of riding in a Fiat Bambina.
Tonight we had the men's group. We had a new bloke there who writes stories; tonight we acted one of those out. I'm always envious of anyone who can write anything.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Lost years - can I make up for them?
I guess it hasn't been a bad week. Since I last posted I've paid two visits to my counsellor, psychologist, call her what you will, and I'll be making another trek that way tomorrow. Without my car (no it hasn't yet magically appeared), getting up to Albany really is a trek. And a hassle. When you lose your car, your independence goes with it. I still haven't decided whether to get a new one before I go away.
In those last two meetings we spent some time discussing my teenage years. I found this subject a bit upsetting: in those so-called formative years I never really "formed" at all. Four months before my 13th birthday - yes I can pinpoint it accurately - every shred of self-confidence melted away. For the next half a decade I found myself almost completely alone. Peer groups, which play a major role in shaping teenagers, didn't exist for me. It wasn't until late 2001 that I finally developed an identity I was happy with, only for it to be snatched away months later when I left university.
I had a tough time of it on the tennis court last Monday. In the doubles (I played with Superman yet again) we were completely outclassed. Our opponents were an imposing force at the net and everything happened far too quickly for us. After barely half an hour we were behind 6-0, 5-0, staring down the barrel of a double doughnut. We put together a nice little cameo performance at the end to at least salvage two games, but really it was a complete mismatch. In the singles I surprised myself by taking the opening set 6-3. It was the best set of tennis I'd put together for a very long time and reminded me of when I could actually play this game. My opponent had the upper hand in most of the rallies but I was able to work my way into the point and eventually hit a winner myself. He was aggressive at the net but all my passing shots found their target. I couldn't have played any better, but it was still a close set, and it was no surprise when his extra class told in the final two sets which both finished 6-2. I wasn't disappointed with the loss; he was simply a better player.
I've moved my Italian class to a daytime slot and a slightly higher level. There always seems to be a skewed gender ratio at language classes but at last Tuesday's session I was the only bloke there. Not that I minded. It was a small class so we were all able to participate. I'm really happy with my progress in the seven months since I started.
It's been horribly muggy in Auckland this weekend. I only had to poke my nose outside the door and my T-shirt would be sticking to me. After this afternoon's tennis it was like a wet rag.
In those last two meetings we spent some time discussing my teenage years. I found this subject a bit upsetting: in those so-called formative years I never really "formed" at all. Four months before my 13th birthday - yes I can pinpoint it accurately - every shred of self-confidence melted away. For the next half a decade I found myself almost completely alone. Peer groups, which play a major role in shaping teenagers, didn't exist for me. It wasn't until late 2001 that I finally developed an identity I was happy with, only for it to be snatched away months later when I left university.
I had a tough time of it on the tennis court last Monday. In the doubles (I played with Superman yet again) we were completely outclassed. Our opponents were an imposing force at the net and everything happened far too quickly for us. After barely half an hour we were behind 6-0, 5-0, staring down the barrel of a double doughnut. We put together a nice little cameo performance at the end to at least salvage two games, but really it was a complete mismatch. In the singles I surprised myself by taking the opening set 6-3. It was the best set of tennis I'd put together for a very long time and reminded me of when I could actually play this game. My opponent had the upper hand in most of the rallies but I was able to work my way into the point and eventually hit a winner myself. He was aggressive at the net but all my passing shots found their target. I couldn't have played any better, but it was still a close set, and it was no surprise when his extra class told in the final two sets which both finished 6-2. I wasn't disappointed with the loss; he was simply a better player.
I've moved my Italian class to a daytime slot and a slightly higher level. There always seems to be a skewed gender ratio at language classes but at last Tuesday's session I was the only bloke there. Not that I minded. It was a small class so we were all able to participate. I'm really happy with my progress in the seven months since I started.
It's been horribly muggy in Auckland this weekend. I only had to poke my nose outside the door and my T-shirt would be sticking to me. After this afternoon's tennis it was like a wet rag.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Whacked again
Our night tennis competition is played in a large complex; at the start there would be fifty or so players on the courts. By 9pm we’re probably down to about twenty, and from there the numbers gradually dwindle until inevitably there are only two: him and me.
Such was the case on Monday. We began with the doubles which we lost 6-4 6-2. We didn’t play badly but were simply outclassed. I was a clear underdog for my singles; I knew I would need to be at the top of my game to stand a chance. To my surprise I won the first set 6-2 – in that set I was at the top of my game while my opponent made uncharacteristic errors. Winning that set was a bit scary; despite the decisive score I was at best only a slight favourite for the match. In the second set his mistakes dried up and I was soon behind, 2-4 15-40. I dug my way out of that hole and after an hour of play brought up a match point. I’ve had considerable trouble closing out matches, but this time I was determined to put him away. Only I never got the chance. I returned his booming first serve but he powered away the volley. From that point I got more and more frustrated. To their credit two of my team-mates stayed to watch the end of my match, but even they began to annoy me. If you’re going to stay, please get off your frigging cell phones and watch the match! I lost six games in a row to fall behind 6-2 5-7 0-3. At 1-4 in the third I knew I was toast. Yet another match where I’ve tried my absolute hardest but fallen just short because of, I don’t know, something I did in a past life maybe. I decided I would go down fighting and would run down every ball, and boy did I have to run down a lot of balls. The games got longer, the rallies got longer, and he had me seemingly on the end of a string. I surprised myself with my ability to dig in. An hour after my first match point, I conjured up another two as he served at 4-5. More impossible serves. Match point number four. I hardly got my racket onto this one. Number five. Another first serve, but unlike all the others it was half-way up the service box. If I’m ever going to win this, I thought, it’ll have to be now. In poker parlance I pushed all in. The longest exchange of the match ensued. When my opponent’s final shot of that 40-plus-stroke rally sailed long I lay on the court, totally spent.
After that match, which finished shortly after 10:30, I hardly slept a wink. At work yesterday (when I eventually got there) I needed several cups of coffee just to keep my eyes open, so when I got a phone call from someone asking me to play again last night, I was horrified. After some deliberation I gave in and agreed to play. We had a close win in the doubles, then everything kicked off again in the singles. I started appallingly – I couldn’t hit a barn door in the first set, nor could I keep away from his killer forehand – but I finished up a 1-6 6-3 7-6 winner, the final tie-break score being 7-4. I was fortunate – I was only two points from defeat in the 12th game of the deciding set and was handed a couple of crucial free points in the tie-break.
Just prior to last night’s tennis I met up with my counsellor – up till now I’ve been (incorrectly?) calling her a psychologist. We had an interesting discussion but she certainly struck a raw nerve as we moved on to the topic of my identity, or lack of it. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life, and will discuss it in a later post, but for now I’m just going to lie on the sofa and do nothing. After all that tennis I’m utterly whacked.
Such was the case on Monday. We began with the doubles which we lost 6-4 6-2. We didn’t play badly but were simply outclassed. I was a clear underdog for my singles; I knew I would need to be at the top of my game to stand a chance. To my surprise I won the first set 6-2 – in that set I was at the top of my game while my opponent made uncharacteristic errors. Winning that set was a bit scary; despite the decisive score I was at best only a slight favourite for the match. In the second set his mistakes dried up and I was soon behind, 2-4 15-40. I dug my way out of that hole and after an hour of play brought up a match point. I’ve had considerable trouble closing out matches, but this time I was determined to put him away. Only I never got the chance. I returned his booming first serve but he powered away the volley. From that point I got more and more frustrated. To their credit two of my team-mates stayed to watch the end of my match, but even they began to annoy me. If you’re going to stay, please get off your frigging cell phones and watch the match! I lost six games in a row to fall behind 6-2 5-7 0-3. At 1-4 in the third I knew I was toast. Yet another match where I’ve tried my absolute hardest but fallen just short because of, I don’t know, something I did in a past life maybe. I decided I would go down fighting and would run down every ball, and boy did I have to run down a lot of balls. The games got longer, the rallies got longer, and he had me seemingly on the end of a string. I surprised myself with my ability to dig in. An hour after my first match point, I conjured up another two as he served at 4-5. More impossible serves. Match point number four. I hardly got my racket onto this one. Number five. Another first serve, but unlike all the others it was half-way up the service box. If I’m ever going to win this, I thought, it’ll have to be now. In poker parlance I pushed all in. The longest exchange of the match ensued. When my opponent’s final shot of that 40-plus-stroke rally sailed long I lay on the court, totally spent.
After that match, which finished shortly after 10:30, I hardly slept a wink. At work yesterday (when I eventually got there) I needed several cups of coffee just to keep my eyes open, so when I got a phone call from someone asking me to play again last night, I was horrified. After some deliberation I gave in and agreed to play. We had a close win in the doubles, then everything kicked off again in the singles. I started appallingly – I couldn’t hit a barn door in the first set, nor could I keep away from his killer forehand – but I finished up a 1-6 6-3 7-6 winner, the final tie-break score being 7-4. I was fortunate – I was only two points from defeat in the 12th game of the deciding set and was handed a couple of crucial free points in the tie-break.
Just prior to last night’s tennis I met up with my counsellor – up till now I’ve been (incorrectly?) calling her a psychologist. We had an interesting discussion but she certainly struck a raw nerve as we moved on to the topic of my identity, or lack of it. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life, and will discuss it in a later post, but for now I’m just going to lie on the sofa and do nothing. After all that tennis I’m utterly whacked.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Random ramblings
For some reason last week at work was a more tolerable one than usual. Maybe it's because my desk is now just 200 metres from the loo instead of 300, or perhaps it's because I now have a fellow pom in my team, even if he does use phrases like "unravelling a can of worms" and "light at the end of the rainbow" in meetings. However, one better-than-average week doesn't change the fact that I need to get out of there, and to that end I've applied for a contracting role, working in procurement. You needed to be good with Excel, in particular Pivot Tables and VLOOKUPs. While I wouldn't say I was an expert I think I'd be plenty good enough, and there would be real advantages for me if I wasn't attached to any one company.
On Thursday I went to a mental health awareness concert at the King's Arms in Newton with three other blokes from our group. A real eclectic mix, you might say. I loved the venue and it seems they have well known bands there on a regular basis, so I should keep my eyes open. One of the less well known bands I saw was called Bipolar Bass. Personally I think The Bipolar Bears would have made for a better name.
I had an interesting session with the psychologist on Tuesday. We discussed my self-inflicted injury during last weekend's tennis match. Occasionally I just lose it. Fortunately (so far at least) I've only ever lost it with myself, but I hope in future I can think my way out of reacting in that way. I'm confident I can make the change, but because everything happens in a split second it won't be easy. Later that evening I played pool with the men's group; this made a nice change from our usual meetings even if I am utterly crap at pool.
Many of my colleagues had their exams this week. Some others, those outside our team, asked me which exam I was doing. Finding an explanation for why I wasn't doing one (or more) this time wasn't easy, but a lot better than going through the motions of sitting an exam.
Last night I tried playing two freerolls simultaneously. Despite the odd misclick or panic-induced misjudgement the experience was largely successful. I finished 161st in the single draw, just inside the top 5%, while in the badugi I qualified in 48th place, surviving an all-in with a jack.
Rugby sevens and golf will both be included in the 2016 Olympics, which we learnt just this week will be held in Rio de Janeiro. Rugby sevens will be a great addition to the Games (and could well increase the Kiwi medal tally), but golf? What were they thinking? Golf already has its four majors every year, so at best an Olympic gold medal will become the fifth most cherished prize in the sport, some way down the pecking order from your Claret Jug and Green Jacket. Surely an Olympic gold medal should represent the pinnacle of a sport, the number one event in the calendar. Not the number five. For that reason alone, neither golf nor tennis should be there.
To continue the sporting "what the …?" theme, in less than seven hours from now New Zealand are playing their most important football match since 1982, but you wouldn't know it. The All Whites are about to take on Bahrain in the first leg of their World Cup qualifying play-off, but the sports headlines are dominated by rugby, cricket, league, motorsport, rugby, netball and rugby. I just don't get it.
Tomorrow I've got more interclub tennis. Who knows, we might even win a match point.
On Thursday I went to a mental health awareness concert at the King's Arms in Newton with three other blokes from our group. A real eclectic mix, you might say. I loved the venue and it seems they have well known bands there on a regular basis, so I should keep my eyes open. One of the less well known bands I saw was called Bipolar Bass. Personally I think The Bipolar Bears would have made for a better name.
I had an interesting session with the psychologist on Tuesday. We discussed my self-inflicted injury during last weekend's tennis match. Occasionally I just lose it. Fortunately (so far at least) I've only ever lost it with myself, but I hope in future I can think my way out of reacting in that way. I'm confident I can make the change, but because everything happens in a split second it won't be easy. Later that evening I played pool with the men's group; this made a nice change from our usual meetings even if I am utterly crap at pool.
Many of my colleagues had their exams this week. Some others, those outside our team, asked me which exam I was doing. Finding an explanation for why I wasn't doing one (or more) this time wasn't easy, but a lot better than going through the motions of sitting an exam.
Last night I tried playing two freerolls simultaneously. Despite the odd misclick or panic-induced misjudgement the experience was largely successful. I finished 161st in the single draw, just inside the top 5%, while in the badugi I qualified in 48th place, surviving an all-in with a jack.
Rugby sevens and golf will both be included in the 2016 Olympics, which we learnt just this week will be held in Rio de Janeiro. Rugby sevens will be a great addition to the Games (and could well increase the Kiwi medal tally), but golf? What were they thinking? Golf already has its four majors every year, so at best an Olympic gold medal will become the fifth most cherished prize in the sport, some way down the pecking order from your Claret Jug and Green Jacket. Surely an Olympic gold medal should represent the pinnacle of a sport, the number one event in the calendar. Not the number five. For that reason alone, neither golf nor tennis should be there.
To continue the sporting "what the …?" theme, in less than seven hours from now New Zealand are playing their most important football match since 1982, but you wouldn't know it. The All Whites are about to take on Bahrain in the first leg of their World Cup qualifying play-off, but the sports headlines are dominated by rugby, cricket, league, motorsport, rugby, netball and rugby. I just don't get it.
Tomorrow I've got more interclub tennis. Who knows, we might even win a match point.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Bazza's Boycott Bombshell
I've lost emotional attachment to a lot of things lately, including tennis. During last night's doubles match I was really just going through the motions. I watched people on adjacent courts (and mine) throw their rackets, give their partners high-fives and make authoritative pointed-finger "OUT!" signals, while I really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. We lost our match 6-4 6-4, a score that flattered us slightly. My apathy continued into the singles, though that changed somewhat as the contest wore on. It turned out to be my longest-ever singles match, certainly by number of games and perhaps also in terms of time (I have however played longer doubles matches, most of them involving Bazza - for the latest news about him, stay tuned). Unfortunately I lost, 7-6 4-6 7-5, having been just two points from victory at 5-3 in the decider. Unusually we had a few spectators towards the end of the match, which came just shy of 10.30. My opponent employed topspin to good effect, had a surprisingly strong backhand and was generally a much better all-round player than me, so while on one hand I was disappointed that I couldn't finish the job, I was also pleased I could compete with him for so long.
Bazza has pulled out of playing tennis. I won't go into the reasons in detail - suffice to say that as he played in last season's winning team, he thinks he should be playing in a higher grade this season than the one he's been assigned to, so he's decided to boycott. The competition organisers have made some strange rule changes this season, and to be honest Bazza is probably in the right. The problem here is that in the absence of a job or a family or any of those things that keep people occupied, and as a general consequence of his condition, Bazza has become obsessed with tennis. Not just the game of tennis, but points, grades and league tables. For the last four seasons he's been ringing me up almost daily to ask about results of matches he hasn't even played in. He'll never bother with pleasantries like "how was work?" or "hasn't it been a lovely day?" - he'll always get straight to the point, or rather, the points. So for him, interclub tennis grading is Very Serious Business. On Sunday I phoned him and tried to reason with him. That's never an easy task and he hung up on me. Twice. I'll pop round and see him tomorrow and try to at least arrange a game of singles with him. My biggest fear, if he quits the game completely, is for his health. Instead of two obsessions he'll be down to just one: food.
On Saturday I spent ten hours making puzzles. For once, because someone was paying me, this no longer seemed a frivolous activity. Instead it was a very enjoyable one. I'm excited by the prospect that this could lead to something bigger.
I had a very productive session with my psychologist today. That's despite making my job-search frustrations very obvious. Realistically I now have ten weeks to move, but still no idea how I'll do that.
Bazza has pulled out of playing tennis. I won't go into the reasons in detail - suffice to say that as he played in last season's winning team, he thinks he should be playing in a higher grade this season than the one he's been assigned to, so he's decided to boycott. The competition organisers have made some strange rule changes this season, and to be honest Bazza is probably in the right. The problem here is that in the absence of a job or a family or any of those things that keep people occupied, and as a general consequence of his condition, Bazza has become obsessed with tennis. Not just the game of tennis, but points, grades and league tables. For the last four seasons he's been ringing me up almost daily to ask about results of matches he hasn't even played in. He'll never bother with pleasantries like "how was work?" or "hasn't it been a lovely day?" - he'll always get straight to the point, or rather, the points. So for him, interclub tennis grading is Very Serious Business. On Sunday I phoned him and tried to reason with him. That's never an easy task and he hung up on me. Twice. I'll pop round and see him tomorrow and try to at least arrange a game of singles with him. My biggest fear, if he quits the game completely, is for his health. Instead of two obsessions he'll be down to just one: food.
On Saturday I spent ten hours making puzzles. For once, because someone was paying me, this no longer seemed a frivolous activity. Instead it was a very enjoyable one. I'm excited by the prospect that this could lead to something bigger.
I had a very productive session with my psychologist today. That's despite making my job-search frustrations very obvious. Realistically I now have ten weeks to move, but still no idea how I'll do that.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Short-term pain for long-term gain
I saw the psychologist today. I've gone downhill again since the weekend, and seeing her only made things worse. On the way home from my appointment I drove faster that normal, honking the horn in frustration, not particularly caring if I hit something. My laptop has been playing up so when I got home I took it to Wharf IT who stay open till seven or sometimes later. My chat with the very enterprising owner of Wharf IT (and three other shops on the wharf) was probably the highlight of my day. It's always interesting to see how others earn a living; she did so by keeping her fingers in as many pies as possible. It turned out I had 33 viruses, which have now been eradicated, but more seriously I might have a dodgy motherboard - if that's the case I can kiss goodbye to this four-year-old laptop.
Every day at work I plumb new depths of disengagement that I didn't know existed. But I still can't motivate myself to look for a new job. I talked at length about this with the psychologist. To my mind there are three reasons why I can't get my A into G:
1. Planning anything or thinking about the future only makes me feel worse.
2. Because I don't know anybody, my job prospects are reduced by 70%. The only channels available to me are newspapers and websites like Seek - any jobs that I could possibly apply for on that site will get about 582 applicants so I'd be wasting my time applying, and even if I did get the job it would likely be just as depressing as my current one.
3. I feel I should be grateful to have any sort of job right now, even a depressing one.
Much of my reasoning is irrational. For the sake of my long-term mental health, I really must look for a new job. The process might be painful, but it's a case of short-term pain for long-term gain.
Every day at work I plumb new depths of disengagement that I didn't know existed. But I still can't motivate myself to look for a new job. I talked at length about this with the psychologist. To my mind there are three reasons why I can't get my A into G:
1. Planning anything or thinking about the future only makes me feel worse.
2. Because I don't know anybody, my job prospects are reduced by 70%. The only channels available to me are newspapers and websites like Seek - any jobs that I could possibly apply for on that site will get about 582 applicants so I'd be wasting my time applying, and even if I did get the job it would likely be just as depressing as my current one.
3. I feel I should be grateful to have any sort of job right now, even a depressing one.
Much of my reasoning is irrational. For the sake of my long-term mental health, I really must look for a new job. The process might be painful, but it's a case of short-term pain for long-term gain.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Impetus
On Tuesday I saw my psychologist for the first time in four weeks. She seemed to do plenty of catastrophising, if that's a real word, about my work situation. My work is making my depression worse; my depression is adversely affecting my performance at work. I hope to have moved from my current job by the end of November but have so far made little progress towards that goal, mostly because I don't know where to start, and because I find the whole idea of having to send off CVs and do interviews quite daunting. But there is a real sense of urgency now. If I stay where I am I'll still be depressed, and if I'm still there in the new year I'll have to sit exams again; that doesn't bear thinking about.
Back in the UK, even though the market was much healthier than the one we face today, it took me ages to find my first "real" job. And when I take into account that I only got the job thanks to a fluke meeting with a friend of one of Dad's sort-of-friends, my current situation appears hopeless. If I get another job in a corporate environment like the one I'm now in, I can't see what that will achieve. So where do I go? In yesterday's paper I couldn't find any jobs I'd be able to do, let alone jobs I'd be able to do and would want to do.
The good news is that this week at work has been sufficiently crap to give me the impetus to look for a new job. Today was easily the worst day. At one point I scrawled "I GIVE UP" in three-inch-high letters in my notepad; later I had another of my sessions in the toilet; then at 5pm I found out that my whole day spent arsing around with spreadsheets and computer programs had been a complete waste of time because I'd got it all wrong. My next step is to email a few of those job agencies - I'm not sure how I can word my emails to avoid sounding desperate.
The woman from that flat didn't get back to me, so I don't know when, or if, this drink (I don't like to use the word date here) will happen.
Back in the UK, even though the market was much healthier than the one we face today, it took me ages to find my first "real" job. And when I take into account that I only got the job thanks to a fluke meeting with a friend of one of Dad's sort-of-friends, my current situation appears hopeless. If I get another job in a corporate environment like the one I'm now in, I can't see what that will achieve. So where do I go? In yesterday's paper I couldn't find any jobs I'd be able to do, let alone jobs I'd be able to do and would want to do.
The good news is that this week at work has been sufficiently crap to give me the impetus to look for a new job. Today was easily the worst day. At one point I scrawled "I GIVE UP" in three-inch-high letters in my notepad; later I had another of my sessions in the toilet; then at 5pm I found out that my whole day spent arsing around with spreadsheets and computer programs had been a complete waste of time because I'd got it all wrong. My next step is to email a few of those job agencies - I'm not sure how I can word my emails to avoid sounding desperate.
The woman from that flat didn't get back to me, so I don't know when, or if, this drink (I don't like to use the word date here) will happen.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Where did it all go wrong?
Talking about my lonely, socially inept childhood and adolescence with the psychologist wasn't fun (it's something I've always just glossed over) but I felt it was necessary. For the next day and a half I felt terrible; on Wednesday my depression affected my performance at work more than on any day since March. During my lunch break on Thursday I saw Andy, and just having someone to talk to made me feel much better. I mentioned to him that I thought I had a mild form of autism; he said I could use that to my advantage by helping people with more severe autism because I'd understand their condition. That's not a bad suggestion when I think about it.
I was fast out of the blocks, academically speaking. To help improve my vocabulary, Mum used a "word tin", which was a matchbox full of words written on small strips of card. The plan was that I'd get a few new words each day, but when I could memorise the whole box in one go, those plans went out the window. I'd label everything in the kitchen. "How do you spell ceiling, Mummy" I'd ask, standing on a chair on the kitchen table. She'd tell me and I'd never forget it. I was fascinated by the "grains of rice on a chessboard" problem and could quickly rattle off powers of two up to probably 131,072.
By the time I started school, my brain age was double my actual age (funnily enough it still is - when I'm trying to learn new things at work I'm like a 60-year-old). I had no idea how to make friends with other kids but I didn't care. I had a loving family and thankfully still do. Mum was a part-time teacher, Dad worked at home, I got on (mostly!) with my brother, and I regularly saw my grandparents. In '86 we went to New Zealand for a long holiday, spending endless summer days on the beach at Caroline Bay while Paul Simon's You Can Call Me Al played on the radio - that song always brings back fond memories for me.
I did eventually make some friends, but three changes of school (including a term at a provincial school in New Zealand, which was an experience) didn't help. At the age of thirteen, I became deeply aware of what others thought of me. I suddenly found myself with no friends and no confidence, and things started to go a bit pear-shaped for me.
On Thursday evening I spoke to Mum and Dad on the phone - apparently things have kicked off again in the UK between my aunt and my 87-year-old grandmother. My aunt has a serious drink problem and suffers from severe depression, but at the same time is self-obsessed and extremely manipulative. She's unfortunately the only family my gran has over there, and she has the capacity to make the last few years of my gran's life an absolute misery. Dad will be making a trip to the UK fairly soon, and was trying to persuade my gran to come back to New Zealand with him. It's all so sad that it's got to this point.
I was playing poker (a deuce-to-seven freeroll) while I was having this conversation. I'm hopeless at multi-tasking, so it's no surprise I lost over half my stack (when I think about it, being on the phone probably made no difference). It was a funny tournament for me, though the ending wasn't so funny because I finished 61st, just five places outside the qualifying spots. I lost two huge pots with eights; I need to learn to fold eights occasionally, just like I can fold strong badugis. I kept bouncing back but towards the end I simply missed all my draws.
I went to bed far too late after that tournament, and I had to get up even earlier than usual because it was a special day at work. Once a month the company raises money for kids' charities (which is laudable, but I do wonder how much they really care about kids and how much is just a PR stunt). Somehow I made it to work on time, and though I'm out of my element on special days like that, it could have been a whole lot worse. I even bought a CD of OMC's How Bizarre for 50 cents from a mock garage sale.
Brendan was very helpful today when we looked at an open home in Browns Bay; he knows a lot more about real estate than I do. To be honest though, I'm not all that motivated. I'll still go to the auction next weekend (why is it that every house I look at is sold by auction?) though I doubt I'll be buying.
I'll be taking Monday off from work to sort my life out. I'll be meeting up with Andy for a coffee in the morning; that's something to look forward to.
I was fast out of the blocks, academically speaking. To help improve my vocabulary, Mum used a "word tin", which was a matchbox full of words written on small strips of card. The plan was that I'd get a few new words each day, but when I could memorise the whole box in one go, those plans went out the window. I'd label everything in the kitchen. "How do you spell ceiling, Mummy" I'd ask, standing on a chair on the kitchen table. She'd tell me and I'd never forget it. I was fascinated by the "grains of rice on a chessboard" problem and could quickly rattle off powers of two up to probably 131,072.
By the time I started school, my brain age was double my actual age (funnily enough it still is - when I'm trying to learn new things at work I'm like a 60-year-old). I had no idea how to make friends with other kids but I didn't care. I had a loving family and thankfully still do. Mum was a part-time teacher, Dad worked at home, I got on (mostly!) with my brother, and I regularly saw my grandparents. In '86 we went to New Zealand for a long holiday, spending endless summer days on the beach at Caroline Bay while Paul Simon's You Can Call Me Al played on the radio - that song always brings back fond memories for me.
I did eventually make some friends, but three changes of school (including a term at a provincial school in New Zealand, which was an experience) didn't help. At the age of thirteen, I became deeply aware of what others thought of me. I suddenly found myself with no friends and no confidence, and things started to go a bit pear-shaped for me.
On Thursday evening I spoke to Mum and Dad on the phone - apparently things have kicked off again in the UK between my aunt and my 87-year-old grandmother. My aunt has a serious drink problem and suffers from severe depression, but at the same time is self-obsessed and extremely manipulative. She's unfortunately the only family my gran has over there, and she has the capacity to make the last few years of my gran's life an absolute misery. Dad will be making a trip to the UK fairly soon, and was trying to persuade my gran to come back to New Zealand with him. It's all so sad that it's got to this point.
I was playing poker (a deuce-to-seven freeroll) while I was having this conversation. I'm hopeless at multi-tasking, so it's no surprise I lost over half my stack (when I think about it, being on the phone probably made no difference). It was a funny tournament for me, though the ending wasn't so funny because I finished 61st, just five places outside the qualifying spots. I lost two huge pots with eights; I need to learn to fold eights occasionally, just like I can fold strong badugis. I kept bouncing back but towards the end I simply missed all my draws.
I went to bed far too late after that tournament, and I had to get up even earlier than usual because it was a special day at work. Once a month the company raises money for kids' charities (which is laudable, but I do wonder how much they really care about kids and how much is just a PR stunt). Somehow I made it to work on time, and though I'm out of my element on special days like that, it could have been a whole lot worse. I even bought a CD of OMC's How Bizarre for 50 cents from a mock garage sale.
Brendan was very helpful today when we looked at an open home in Browns Bay; he knows a lot more about real estate than I do. To be honest though, I'm not all that motivated. I'll still go to the auction next weekend (why is it that every house I look at is sold by auction?) though I doubt I'll be buying.
I'll be taking Monday off from work to sort my life out. I'll be meeting up with Andy for a coffee in the morning; that's something to look forward to.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Battle of 16-14
I didn't see any of the men's final. My guess is that it was a very good match, but nowhere near as good as a 30-game fifth set might suggest, and not a patch on last year's final. Of course I'm just speculating here. Last year's final was a real clash of the titans with one mesmerising baseline rally after another, and I'd be surprised if this year's match captivated the audience in quite the same way.
Some facts and figures I picked up from the final:
Some facts and figures I picked up from the final:
- Federer served fifty aces in that match, which is more than I've managed in my entire life.
- Roddick led 6-2 in the second-set tie-break but blew all four set points. If you're reading this blog Andy Roddick, you can console yourself that I outdid you in this regard last season.
- Federer won more sets (obviously), fewer games, but more points than Roddick.
- Last year's final had 62 games compared to this year's 77, but was half an hour longer (and that doesn't include the rain delays).
- Federer has played six tie-breaks in the last three Wimbledon finals and has won all of them.
It's about time the women started playing best-of-five in the Grand Slams too. Not from round one like Bazza suggested when I spoke to him last night, but certainly in the final and perhaps also the semi-finals. And if you (like Lleyton Hewitt) think women wouldn't last five sets, take a look at this article from 1990 about a match between Seles and Sabatini. Or maybe some women's US Open final results from more than a century ago. Or, for a bit of a laugh, this crazy match where a single point lasted almost half an hour!
Today I was invited to a Farrah Fawcett party which is happening on Saturday. Unfortunately there's just no way I could accept the invitation, which lost me at the words "dress up". If it had been a Michael Jackson party instead, I probably would have gone.
After work today I saw my psychologist. For the first time ever I spilled the beans about my messed-up adolescence (it was a totally different kind of messed-up to the one we all hear about, but it was messed-up all the same). I've been so lonely for so long, it's no wonder I've had depression. In fact I should be grateful things haven't been worse.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
What are the odds?
I took a bit of a dive last week. Andy put me in touch with a psychologist in Albany and I had my first meeting with her on Tuesday. This came on the back of a couple of depressing days at work, and even though I thought she was good, I frankly didn't want to know. I'll be meeting up with her again this week.
On Wednesday things got worse. I had a marathon phone call with Julie that night (an hour and three-quarters actually, so people almost have run marathons in the time it took us to finally hang up). Apparently I was a rude inconsiderate prick the time we went to those open homes. Now I don't think I am a rude inconsiderate prick, but I do think I'm socially clueless, and according to her I'm even less socially adept than I thought. My antenna doesn't always pick up the right frequency, and I doubt living by myself for the last two years has helped. I do my best, but if Julie expects socially normal behaviour from me 100% of the time she'll be disappointed. Hell, hanging around with a 63-year-old woman probably isn't normal social behaviour in the first place. I felt sick after that phone call though. I hated myself for having upset her, and realised not only that I'm unlikely to make friends but also that I'll alienate any I do make.
I saw Andy on Thursday. He instantly made me feel a lot better. People's salaries really are arse-about-face, aren't they? He makes a significant positive impact on someone's life and gets paid $x; my bum makes a significant positive impact on a chair all day and I get something close to $2x. OK, I've had to pass a few exams along the way, with all the angst involved in those, but wouldn't it be really cool, just once, to feel I was making a difference?
That evening I went to see the Scottish comedian Danny Bhoy with a few people from work. I wasn’t in the mood for comedy at all. I got home from work and thought, shit, I’ve got to go out and meet people in town and what if I miss them and then we’ll have to go to the bloody pub and I’ll be expected to talk and I’m so bad at that and I’ll just sit there and not say anything and feel stupid. The ferry leaves in half an hour and I haven’t got any clean clothes that are even vaguely acceptable to go out in and I look in the mirror and I’ve aged five years since the last time I looked and I wouldn’t buy a second-hand car from that man and my flat is a complete mess and I scream. My landlords upstairs must have wondered what the hell was going on in the basement but screaming relieved the tension a bit. I got into town and met up with two of my colleagues and had a couple of drinks with them before the show; I was extremely lucky because if I had to pick two work people to have a drink with, it would have been those two. And Danny Bhoy was amazing. I was in stitches the whole way through. Returning to the subject of overpaid and underpaid professions, well comedians earn every penny. Being able to stand there in front of thousands of people takes some serious cojones for a start. And Danny could make just about anything seem funny: Australian motel rooms, flatting in London, what the woman in the front row did for a living, and so on. He would go off on some crazy tangent but would always somehow get back to the original point. He could also take the mick out of himself; comedians who can do that go up in my estimation. I really wish I’d taken full advantage of the Auckland Comedy Festival – it brought a real vibrancy to the city which is so often missing – but it’s always the same story for me: there’s hardly ever anyone to go with and I feel silly going on my own. I now realise that comedy is a great drug for dealing with depression, even if the effects wear off very quickly.
Which they did. Friday was casual day and two fairly eminent members of the department were leaving, so we had lunch to “celebrate”. The head of one of our teams had all kinds of vitally important strategy meetings so wasn’t participating in casual Friday and was only at the lunch briefly. Plenty long enough for me to spill wine all over his trousers however. The odds that my glass would topple at precisely the required 45-degree angle were pretty slim, but it had been that kind of week. It wasn’t a lot of wine really, and at least the glass didn’t break.
Last week was an unusually sociable one for me: on Saturday I went to the rugby match between the Blues and the Crusaders at Eden Park, again with work people. I got caught up in a Stop the War in Sri Lanka protest and then, for the first time ever in Auckland, got on a train. Based on my limited knowledge of trains in the UK and France, I found the whole Auckland train experience a surprisingly civilised one. Crusaders fans are a vociferous bunch – about half the crowd seemed to be decked in the red and black of Canterbury. My parents live deep in Crusader country – red-and-black letterboxes are commonplace down there – so I suppose I was glad when the Crusaders kicked a late drop-goal to eke out the match 15-13 and keep their season alive.
Yesterday I went to Takapuna market with Julie. It’s a lively market and I should go there more often, particularly as there are now real bargains on offer. Among other vegetables I bought some chokos – until Julie told me yesterday, I’d always wondered what they were. I had another crack at that badugi tournament, and this time I lasted only ten minutes. I caught a 543A badugi, the fourth-best hand, only to be trumped by 432A, the top banana. My opponent took two cards on the last draw, so his/her odds of outdrawing me were around a hundred to one. I felt I was on a pretty good wicket there; as far as I knew, he/she might not even have known the rules of the game. One player on our table kept showing down hands like trip sixes and KK66, and must have wondered why he didn’t last very long. All my chips ended up in the pot, and that was that. Poker teaches you that in life there is always a best decision based on the information available at the time, and bad things can happen that you simply can’t legislate for; when one of these bad outcomes does eventuate, that doesn’t suddenly mean that you made a poor decision. When I’m depressed, however, my decision-making process goes out the window and I end up not making decisions at all. (As an aside, I was also dealt four aces in one badugi hand at odds of over 270,000 to one. In hindsight that would have made a good hand to bluff with.)
I've just got home from a hit of tennis. Today is pay day and yes, money really is still going into my account. About half of it will go straight into my savings. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.
On Wednesday things got worse. I had a marathon phone call with Julie that night (an hour and three-quarters actually, so people almost have run marathons in the time it took us to finally hang up). Apparently I was a rude inconsiderate prick the time we went to those open homes. Now I don't think I am a rude inconsiderate prick, but I do think I'm socially clueless, and according to her I'm even less socially adept than I thought. My antenna doesn't always pick up the right frequency, and I doubt living by myself for the last two years has helped. I do my best, but if Julie expects socially normal behaviour from me 100% of the time she'll be disappointed. Hell, hanging around with a 63-year-old woman probably isn't normal social behaviour in the first place. I felt sick after that phone call though. I hated myself for having upset her, and realised not only that I'm unlikely to make friends but also that I'll alienate any I do make.
I saw Andy on Thursday. He instantly made me feel a lot better. People's salaries really are arse-about-face, aren't they? He makes a significant positive impact on someone's life and gets paid $x; my bum makes a significant positive impact on a chair all day and I get something close to $2x. OK, I've had to pass a few exams along the way, with all the angst involved in those, but wouldn't it be really cool, just once, to feel I was making a difference?
That evening I went to see the Scottish comedian Danny Bhoy with a few people from work. I wasn’t in the mood for comedy at all. I got home from work and thought, shit, I’ve got to go out and meet people in town and what if I miss them and then we’ll have to go to the bloody pub and I’ll be expected to talk and I’m so bad at that and I’ll just sit there and not say anything and feel stupid. The ferry leaves in half an hour and I haven’t got any clean clothes that are even vaguely acceptable to go out in and I look in the mirror and I’ve aged five years since the last time I looked and I wouldn’t buy a second-hand car from that man and my flat is a complete mess and I scream. My landlords upstairs must have wondered what the hell was going on in the basement but screaming relieved the tension a bit. I got into town and met up with two of my colleagues and had a couple of drinks with them before the show; I was extremely lucky because if I had to pick two work people to have a drink with, it would have been those two. And Danny Bhoy was amazing. I was in stitches the whole way through. Returning to the subject of overpaid and underpaid professions, well comedians earn every penny. Being able to stand there in front of thousands of people takes some serious cojones for a start. And Danny could make just about anything seem funny: Australian motel rooms, flatting in London, what the woman in the front row did for a living, and so on. He would go off on some crazy tangent but would always somehow get back to the original point. He could also take the mick out of himself; comedians who can do that go up in my estimation. I really wish I’d taken full advantage of the Auckland Comedy Festival – it brought a real vibrancy to the city which is so often missing – but it’s always the same story for me: there’s hardly ever anyone to go with and I feel silly going on my own. I now realise that comedy is a great drug for dealing with depression, even if the effects wear off very quickly.
Which they did. Friday was casual day and two fairly eminent members of the department were leaving, so we had lunch to “celebrate”. The head of one of our teams had all kinds of vitally important strategy meetings so wasn’t participating in casual Friday and was only at the lunch briefly. Plenty long enough for me to spill wine all over his trousers however. The odds that my glass would topple at precisely the required 45-degree angle were pretty slim, but it had been that kind of week. It wasn’t a lot of wine really, and at least the glass didn’t break.
Last week was an unusually sociable one for me: on Saturday I went to the rugby match between the Blues and the Crusaders at Eden Park, again with work people. I got caught up in a Stop the War in Sri Lanka protest and then, for the first time ever in Auckland, got on a train. Based on my limited knowledge of trains in the UK and France, I found the whole Auckland train experience a surprisingly civilised one. Crusaders fans are a vociferous bunch – about half the crowd seemed to be decked in the red and black of Canterbury. My parents live deep in Crusader country – red-and-black letterboxes are commonplace down there – so I suppose I was glad when the Crusaders kicked a late drop-goal to eke out the match 15-13 and keep their season alive.
Yesterday I went to Takapuna market with Julie. It’s a lively market and I should go there more often, particularly as there are now real bargains on offer. Among other vegetables I bought some chokos – until Julie told me yesterday, I’d always wondered what they were. I had another crack at that badugi tournament, and this time I lasted only ten minutes. I caught a 543A badugi, the fourth-best hand, only to be trumped by 432A, the top banana. My opponent took two cards on the last draw, so his/her odds of outdrawing me were around a hundred to one. I felt I was on a pretty good wicket there; as far as I knew, he/she might not even have known the rules of the game. One player on our table kept showing down hands like trip sixes and KK66, and must have wondered why he didn’t last very long. All my chips ended up in the pot, and that was that. Poker teaches you that in life there is always a best decision based on the information available at the time, and bad things can happen that you simply can’t legislate for; when one of these bad outcomes does eventuate, that doesn’t suddenly mean that you made a poor decision. When I’m depressed, however, my decision-making process goes out the window and I end up not making decisions at all. (As an aside, I was also dealt four aces in one badugi hand at odds of over 270,000 to one. In hindsight that would have made a good hand to bluff with.)
I've just got home from a hit of tennis. Today is pay day and yes, money really is still going into my account. About half of it will go straight into my savings. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.
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