Episode 3 – Lucky number three? No such luck

So today was awesome. Is your sarcasm detector whirring irritatingly? I’m tired now. I’ve had a day of mini-highs and lows and an hour and a half with a psychiatrist is more draining than watching Downton Abbey with a hangover.
The cold sweats weren’t as bad last night. Well they were but I’ve discovered that fleecy PJs absorb a lot of the weirdly smelling sweat (I smell like I’ve been swimming in the Dead Sea every morning). I only had to get up once and slept till just before my alarm went off. But then I couldn’t stir myself and my uneasiness was interrupted only by My Lady, the Queen’s Mother’s “gentle” coaxing. My Lady, the Queen’s Mother has a tone for every situation. She’s so transparent. Her “gentle” “Dotty, love, time to get up” ; “Dotty, honey, here’s a cup of tea”; “Dotty, your breakfast is on the table” are increasingly marked by the rasps of frustration. Eventually, I got up. An hour and 20 minutes after my alarm went off. This is a feature of my mornings. It takes me many attempts to actually get up.
I finally stumbled out of bed but I didn’t pour myself a cup of ambition: I had a short, cold shower, in preparation for the impending water charges. And put some clothes on. It’s always a good idea not to go see a psychiatrist in your salt encrusted mismatched PJS. Although maybe if I had she would have taken me more seriously.
I couldn’t eat the breakfast which was laid out for me on the kitchen table; all continental and nutritious. Poor My Lady, the Queen’s Mother. She must be worn out with me. John Knox had arrived. My parents split up just 3 weeks before my 21st birthday. That was a fun coming-of-age party. I wish John Knox could have done it sooner, when I was young enough not to be expected to take sides and pick up the pieces. ElsaDaughter was almost two and at that point I thought I knew everything about happy families. LOL. (For the record, I don’t LOL, only ironically.)
So John Knox is there in the kitchen where he broke My Lady, the Queen’s Mother’s heart and they’re not impressed that I’m not eating so My Lady, the Queen’s Mother packs a croissant and yoghurt (no Brennan’s bread for us) in an IKEA sandwich bag – Jesus she loves that place. And off we go.
Ugh, the burning. The prickly burning. The nausea. I think I’m going to throw up in John Knox’s new car. It’s a convertible by which I’m slightly mortified. It’s not super showy, or red, thank god but he’s in his fifties and he’s bought a convertible. Anyone else hear screams of “MID LIFE CRISIS”? So we get in the car and I know he’s in a fussy arse mood. He’s not feeling great having been in hospital recently. To be honest, he’s lucky to be here. I should be more gracious and tolerant. But fuck it, I hate how he drives. And he listens to RTÉ Radio One. Let me tell you, if you’ve never been depressed and want to give it a go listen to RTÉ Radio One. Jesus Christ Almighty. Do they train them to drone in Montrose? Oh my god, if anything is going to tip me over the audible edge it’s Seán O’ Rourke. The last time I had a major meltdown (like epic major – there’ve plenty of average sized meltdowns in between) I went through a phase of not being able to leave my bedroom and all I could listen to was Lyric FM because their songs didn’t have lyrics. Lyricless Lyric. That just struck me. Now I can’t listen to RTÉ radio at all. It was in my lovely house which is now in the possession of a certain “Hey Hey it’s the Boom Years” eager to overlend bank and it was a big bedroom with a bay window. My current bedroom in my rented flat above a flower shop could fit in that bay. But my new bedroom has a tumble dryer. “Swit swoo!, I hear you say. Our kitchen is the size of an Aga and our bathroom hosts the medicine cabinet so obviously there’s no space in there. My bedroom is actually like Dot Cotton’s launderette but with emerald green walls and old Vogue magazine covers on the walls. So I guess that’s one step up from Dot’s. “Dotty’s”, that’s my bedroom launderette. Isn’t dotty a lovely word for loony? Dotty suggests cheerful polka dot swing skirts to me. Borderline Personality Disorder doesn’t sound even remotely glamorous. You can’t jive wearing BPD.
So that was the result of my hour and half long conversation with the psychiatric : BPD. Another fucking initialised euphemism for doolally. She could have just said “Well Dotty, deary, you’re a bit of a fruit cake, off you go now and look for your marbles.” Talk about Keep Calm and Carry On.
There’s a box of Lindt staring at me. I didn’t buy them. They were a present for My lady, the Queen’s Mother. God I want to open them. But if I do…? Will there be guilt and sideways mirror tummy disgust tomorrow? I had planned to go for a run. Then a walk with the dogs. Then a home workout. I ended up spending a few hours dreaming up passwords for digital media sites. God you need to be creative. Mine are so nerdy it’s embarrassing.
I’m coming back to this after watching Vikings with my uncle (he’s the image of Tom Selleck, so let’s name that). God, he’s great. I also highlighted ElsaDaughter’s hair; spoke to my best friend of all time (Posh Spice, Jeez I love that woman); had bran flakes with sultanas and almonds and three Lindt chocolates. Life is getting in the way of my misery blog. Yay! That means I’m alive. For a whole two hours I was real.
My Nana just got in from bingo – she goes five nights a week. She’s ninety-two. Puts. Me. To. Shame.
Me and my tangents. I’m trying to get back to the psychiatrist appointment. I can’t because I feel guilty. So maybe it’s that won’t. She asked me,“ Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?” I felt like I was back in my old retail job (in a classy lingerie shop, I’d bet you didn’t expect a teacher to sell knickers): there was no office so I’d try to get the website and online shop updated; orders sent out; deliveries unpacked and put into the system; clean and make orders; merchandise the windows and size up boobs all on the shop floor by myself and my boss would come in and ask why I hadn’t got round to filling in the invoice sheet. Mmm, let’s see now. Well Dr. Psychiatrist Lady, I haven’t had the time to be honest, but I’ll get round to it as soon as I can if that suits you. Silly me, always letting people down with my poor time management and failure to follow up.
Speaking of my failure to follow up… My Lady, the Queen’s Mother gave me my night time pill a half hour ago and I can’t keep my eyes open. I can’t write anymore. For the first time in three days I don’t want to write about today. I feel like a fraud. That was the last thing I said to the psych.
Off to the Dead Sea. Maybe I could bottle it and make a salt scrub. No worse than selling Lansdowne road turf in a petri dish.

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