Oh dear. Four fourteen on Monday morning and it’s not all good baby. It took ages to get to sleep and now I’m awake, clearly, unless sleep blogging is a symptom of whatever condition the next psychiatric professional decides I have.
Right now, I feel sick, hungry, shivery and sweaty all at once. My jaws hurt from gritting my teeth. My eyes feel like there’s gravel crunching under my eyelids everytime I blink and the burning is back.
What to do? Distraction? But what? If I get up the dogs will give me away and I’d prefer not to wake up my long suffering family or the neighbours two blocks away. Those four leggeds sure do a Pharrell on it for whoever gets up first: no roof on the room of a puppy first thing in the morning.
Dogs seem to have no concept of time, or at least our dogs don’t. Maybe we were supposed to teach them how to read clocks in between poop runs. It doesn’t matter if you’re gone five minutes or five weeks, they lose all reason when you come back which is either delightful or supremely and irritatingly awkward if you’ve just done the weekly grocery shop and you’re doing the typical thing of taking ALL the bags in from the car at once.
I’ve tried to stop doing shit like that. Or at least I had before I was admitted to the Hospital of Home, here I don’t need to do much in the way of the quotidian, but prior to Wacky Week (just before you joined me for Season One, Episode One) I was making a deliberate effort to take one thing at a time before moving onto the next in order to slow the fuck down and give myself a chance to breathe.
I’m resisting the urge to hold my breath till I pass out which can bring great calmness after the maniacal leg twitching stops. I don’t know if that’s a thing – suffocating yourself – but I tried it many times. Odd that your body fights to the death (couldn’t resist) to stay alive when your consciousness will try anything to escape it.
How am I going to cope when I have to go back to school and college and mothering? How am I going to cope when I have to go back into myself and out into my life? The thought of it fills me with so deep a dread that I feel like I’ll puke. Apparently Shakespeare was the first one to use the word “puke”, among many others. I remember that from a Fiona Shaw documentary about his language (I think) that I’ve never been able to find online. There’s another documentary series I’ve looked for online which has proved equally elusive about a house in Bristol that was remodelled to reflect every era it had witnessed since its construction in the Georgian era. I watched it while I was off “sick” from work during the last Great Depression.
I don’t see how I will manage. I’m giving myself till after the mid term but even that seems like the Countdown Clock is looming disproportionately over my head while I frantically try to figure out a formula for getting through each day in one intact piece. How? Is it too soon to even think about it? Am I getting any better or have I just been sufficiently disengaged from the transmissions between my troubled nerve endings over the last few days? Right now I can’t even get my head around getting up in a couple of hours to get (I’m conscious that I’ve lazily overused the verb ‘to get’ in this sentence) ElsaDaughter to school and go to Posh Spice’s never mind dogs, daughter, school, college, life – all waiting for me like an intimidating interview board with tapping fingers on a bare blank desk in the big busy lonely city.
Don’t think about it. Wait and see. Think about something else.
Fuck. It. Dotty, you bitch. You couldn’t just piss off and leave me alone?