OK, so I didn't stay off Twitter!!

I was absolutely determined not to go back on twitter, after all the agonising about how it had turned me into someone I didn't like or even recognise. I realised that like any utility it is MY tool, I am not a slave to twitter. I would say that I was addicted, I even had strong psychological cravings for the excitement, the banter, the people. The problem and also the joyful hook is that in everyday life we have interpersonal relationships with anyone we come into contact with, be it family, friends, work collegues, clients or just a fellow traveller on the train. We can 'read' those situations, given that 90% of communication is non-verbal, ie; someone's facial expression the tone of their voice, their hand gestures or posture, allow us to appropriately respond within any given context. Someone I'm travelling next to on the train for example would not expect me to warmly embrace them or describe the underwear I have on, well they may actually like it were they an hetrosexual male, but given the context of the situation it may well scare the crap out of them (remember Fatal Attraction???). In a different situation, maybe with my husband or a close friend those actions would not be unusual 'for me'. You may have a less intimate way of going with your friends. My point is without the NON-VERBAL clues, we automatically infer 'traits' to the other person we are communicating with online. We do this based on our past experiances, on our secret longings, or unconscious desires. We attribute them with personality traits they may or may not have, traits that we strongly like, or strongly dislike. Where the mind has gaps of information it tends to fill from our own imagination. This is why quite often a movie may be a big dissappointment to someone who has loved the book, ie;the director's imagination was too different or fell short of what the viewers imagination had already attributed to the charecters, when reading and enjoying the written word. As you read this you may well believe that you have a fair idea of what I am like 'in real life', but unless you know me personally, your ideas are based mostly on your own imaginings of what I am like, and those will be based on whether what I have written has triggered a like or dislike response. If you were to meet me 'in real life' you may be very dissappointed or suprisingly pleased. This is the psychological phenomena I experianced  when I was twittering away communicating with a host of people I don't really know, but believed that truely we shared a bond, a kinship, between us. Smoke and Mirrors! Of course the reverse is also true, in that some twitter friendships I enjoyed grew into outside of twitter friendships, and I still regulary communicate with some previous twitter pals. We may even meet at some stage, but outside of the frenetic, competitive world of twitter, there is time, to develope those relationships, which may or maynot grow into real life friendships. Who knows. So why did I go back to twitter? Something that suprised me is that as well as interacting with other tweeters I gained access to an emmense store of knowledge on twitter, I missed the regular news updates that are so much superiour to the telly news! I missed being part of a community that supports human rights, and opposes oppression, and makes me smile with silly quotes and jokes. I am a seasoned tweeter now, I am not in it to 'feed my ego' ( I have my blog for that! :), seriously only kidding! I will not go chasing after followers, or feel I have to be entertaining to justify their follow. I will not break my neck to be at my laptop for every friday #FF night!!! I may not #FF recommend anyone again. In short I ,will be a sensible twitter user, content to bottom feed, lurking and chatting to a few, other, small fry like me at the bottom of the pool,  I will leave the shallows for the colourful, pretty, amusing folk, with their vast shoal of followers, the ones we all aspire to be  like, I am content just to be me.

Faltering Steps to recovery: self confessed twitterholic

Ok, so its been a week now, 7 days since I closed my twitter account and instantaneously lost contact with all the tweeps I knew and loved, and so far I'm still alive....I have been trying really hard to get along with facebook but to be honest I'm just not feeling the love. I have withdrawal symptoms, as bad as any I have suffered from nicotine withdrawal. I think a lot about the twitter pals I tweeted with regularly, well I did tweet every day practically for the past 6 months with these people, and some, a few favourite tweeps. I have linked up with on facebook. One very special twitter pal and I have become penfriends! A shaft of light in the darkness! Its friday tomorrow, Follow Friday and for the second time in 6 months I will not be taking part. When you consider that I tortured Darren in our trip to Amsterdam to make sure that I accessed an internet cafe to ensure I posted my FF recommendations, you may understand, that this is not something I am finding easy. Work collegues have noticed that I am not quite myself, and when I explain that I'm missing twitter some have responded with either blank stares, or retort with "well it's probably for the best, you did take it all sooooooo seriously." Yes, thanks for that, as if I don't know I took it all too seriously, wouldn't I still be on, twittering away if I had just treated it as a laugh? Funny though, it started out just being a bit of a laugh, before 'personal dynamics' came into the equation. I have tried to be addicted to housework (big fail!) or focus more on my work and family, but alone, driving on the long trek home, in the dark, and lately the rain, my mind wanders to my tweeps, I worry a bit that something terrible may have happened to someone I care about and I don't know because of my self-imposed exile. The 'what if'....scenarios enter my head, and by the time I'm home I am washed out with worrying. So, in truth I have cheated, I have peeked in from time to time via Darren's account and searched some of my previous friends accounts, just to make sure they are still tweeting, still there. Lurking behind the curtains, finding comfort in familure words, faces. Yes I know I'm sad, I know I sound nuts, so it is with addiction. My name is Debbie, and I am a recovering twitterholic.

Twitter : Im out of the race

6 months ago I joined twitter, as many new converts do, I followed famous twits, Stephen Fry, Ashton Kutcher, Neil Gaiman , Alyssa Milano.  I didn't expect dialogue, with these people and of course, there was none. I was way too far behind the leaders. The formula 1 of the twitter race. I used twitter almost as a visible stream of consciousness, and along the way, I gained followers. I inturn followed these twits and so it went on. Relationships started to develop with these people, I discovered that, tweeting with ordinary tweeps, even if they didn't reveal their true identities was so much more rewarding than trailing behind the Twitter elite. I looked for people to tweet with that were involved in topics I care about. Nursing, especially mental health nursing, homelessness, human rights, and comedic writers. I stumbled upon a few fellow tweeters that I strongly identified with, and for a while was a member of our own elite gang. A member of a twitter subgroup. It was heady, exciting, and so, so addictive. Our leader, although he may not have recognised it, @willmarch was so irreverant, terribly funny (at times caustically so) and I thought so brave. Even behind the facade of a fake name and funny little animal avatar I kind of hero worshipped him and felt so privilaged when he seemed to find me entertaining also. I followed people he followed, and found such a diverse range of characters, who charmed and enthralled me. @AskJincCat, @destiny2711, @KatieMcCullough. I also found through a common interest in human rights, many courageous people tweeting to raise awareness of the terrible human rights abuse, torture and murder of Iranian election protesters. Good people all. @tonytrainor ,a fantastic reporter, became a twitter friend also. Some tweeters like Tony, the Iranian protesters group , Melvin, @traveldudes the well travelled, approachable guru of all thing travel related and and the irrepressible Katie McCullough, also, a lovely writer @natalieallan have become friends on my facebook network also. I stopped following the famous and also, eventually the not quite but aiming to be famous tweeps who would sometimes reply back. I spent every available on twitter and to be honest, not so available spare minutes (my house became a total shambles!). I say twitter is a race and the immediacy of the interaction can be frantic, and competitive. To have more followers than you follow became not so  much a goal, as a drive. I closed my account with 194 tweeps I followed, and 406 followers, and even though I'm a recovering twittaholic I still feel a measure of satisfaction at that level of success. (how sad am I? Early days yet, have some pity!) All human relationships can be complicated, even in the virtual world, and I have a very dodgy suspension of disbelief button (ask my husband or kids and they will tell you tis so very true) and so I wear my heart on my sleeve a lot, get over involved, believe in a level of shared imtimacy that is in my head rather than 'out there'. Three 'events' conspired to convince me to close my account earlier this week: my ex-husband expressed an interest in joining twitter, I have not shared a marriage for over 10 years with the man and so was repelled at the thought of him 'snooping' on my tweets, I got hacked in my DM (direct message) box and felt violated, and last but not least, I unforgivably offended Will March on Thursday evening, 12th November. He tweeted that he was closing his account. I had  been trying so hard to be 'entertaining' (look at me, I'm controversial and amusing), that I was actully cruel and insensitive. He got out of his 'twitter racecar' and quietly walked away. I was watching him in my rear view mirror, shouting, don't go I'm sorry, then I crashed and burned. End of. I moved to comparative safety of facebook, it is not as exhilerating or competitive (even the games are more friendly than cut-throat) more of a ramble down a country lane, with plenty of stops to look at the pictures than the furiously fast pace of the twitter highway, but, for now, I need to get out of the race and smell the roses. Also my dear, much put upon husband says he is glad to have me all to himself again :)

Growing up in Belfast, amid bombs and testosterone: Chapter 1

I came here from Canada. If Canada was bright daylight and distinct seasons, Belfast was all drizzle and dangerous foggy nights. Canada was clean and healthy childhood innocence, Belfast was dark with an electric current of breathless anticipation. Teens for me lasted between the ages of 12 and 16 years. At 16 I ran off to get married. At 16 I became a mother for the first time.
I was restless, I was skinny, I had no breasts to speak of despite all the rubbing I did to promote growth. Someone in school told me Barbara McGee had big ones because they were hand grown,(SHE had a boyfriend) so I tried to coax some growth into my little fried eggs by regular massage. It must not have worked unless someone else did the coaxing. I always felt like life was something that happened to other people. It was there all right I was just not part of it. I mitched school, I started smoking. I hated school. Glencairn Secondary School for Girls was the Belfast version of St. Trinnians but without the slapstick homour. I hated being called snob from snobhill because we lived in a 'bought' house so I determined to be best at being bad. I was the best mitcher, the best smoker, the best at throwing my life away as fast as I could.
In first year I was voted by the class to compete in Miss Glencairn, by second year I was so out of it I don't remember much of what little time I spent there. Ballygomartin Presbyterian Church disco held a youth club come disco, where I and my little band of awkward youth spent every Saturday night. I can't remember who first introduced me to solvents, but one of my cronies, approached me in the toilets with a balled up tissue and dared me to sniff the contents. Lady Esquire, leather cleaner to the bootclad, sensible population, nectar of intense intoxication to each of us huddled in the cubicle.It became our drug of choice. It was cheap, it was easily accessible from the local Woolworths, it smelled nice. At first inhalation Beetoven's Fifth boomed in my ears, my brain, my surroundings. I swayed out of the loo, into the disco. Spirit in the Sky, "when I die and they lay me to rest gonna go to the place that's the best....." I was no longer a malcontent skinny schoolgirl, I was air. I was water, I was a living embodiement of the faltering lyrics. I was hooked