My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth. My teeth hurt and the only relief I get is to bite down harder on my molars. Like when you have a bruise and you get relief from pressing down on it hard. I’ve had teeth grinding (is teeth grinding a thing?) tendencies in my sleep in the past but now I seem to be too busy sweating off my body weight at night time to grind. Or maybe I am grinding in the night (Blue would be proud) but I don’t know it. Now, I seem to be grinding my teeth together during the day and skewing my jaw.
Anna (remember the baby girl puppy?) is in the living room and she’s not meant to be. Sven is back on my bed. He’s been with me all day, faithfully by my catatonic side. He then took me out for a run to the beach in the rain. He’s a great date. I’m amazed that he is so good off his lead. I’m so proud of him: it’s like i’m telling people that my son jumps into the trunk of the car, never jumps up on people (he does, however, do that alot when visitors come into the house), doesn’t fight with other dogs and jumps back into the boot when we’re done. What a good son – if only all little boys were that obedient. Luckily I have a daughter.
The weather today was stormy. It was wet and windy: an easterly wind – wouldn’t that mean the wind was blowing East? – I never liked Geography. I did it for Junior Cert but I thought it was incredibly boring. “What’s one feature of glacial erosion?”, asked our Geography teacher, Wedgie, (yes, good convent girls gave their teachers nicknames too – you’re not the first generation to be edgy) and one particularly disengaged student (not me) replied, “Ring forts” (even I wasn’t that switched off). Today I felt that the Irish Sea was chasing me along the coast, pushing me back inland towards my family and my life. It didn’t want me. not that I was giving myself to it but standing for a minute or two,facing the sea and being blasted in the sweaty face by the depths of the angry ocean, it was (sick bucket please) awakening. Temporarily, the fog was lifted as if the fury of the sea absorbed my mist and subsumed it into its own.
I didn’t run far. Not far at all. About two kilometres. Which is crap seeing as this time last year I was training for a marathon. Another reason for guilt to gnaw at my “Should Be” nerves. Three years ago I was in the shape of my life. I was slimly athletic and a perfect size eight. Now, I am so squidgy, like one of those stuffed knitted dolls with googly eyes and bonnets that old women make. I had gone up to a size twelve, I’m back down to a ten but it’s the loss of fitness I mourn. the power that comes from knowing what your body is truly capable of is, well, empowering. When your body can run twenty, thirty, forty kilometres in one stretch you can’t help but feel strong internally. If I ran in the morning I would be able to think to myself, like a kind of mantra, that if I could run that distance in that time I could face anything else during the day with ease, and considerably less knee clicking. But now I’m struggling with a mile. I was running five ks in the States in the summer (in extreme heat for a freckly Irish cailin), not fast but still I was running. Now I’m unfit and when I’m unfit I feel fat and when I feel fat I don’t eat and when I don’t eat I get high and when I finally eat I feel gulity and when I feel gulity I get down and when I get down the burning starts and when the burning starts I get crazy and when I get crazy I drive people away and when I drive people away I feel alone and when I feel alone I go to bed and when I go to bed I don’t run and when I don’t run I get unfit. Vicious circle much?
My head really hurts now and of course I have no idea where there are any painkillers.
I had arranged to meet the Year One head of my postgrad course today and I cancelled. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t talk. I certainly couldn’t try to convince her I was sick and I needed time. Although if she’d have taken one look at me – dead eyes, clenched jaw, sea spray coloured face she’d probably have guessed. And if she’d got a whiff of my post nocturnal saltiness she’d have thought I was doing an Ophelia on it and trying to drown myself. Although I think that was a river so that would be freshwater right? Sorry Wedgie, should’ve listened. Ring forts.
I’m so tired. Surprise, surprise.
I was meant to visit the New Yorker today, an exotic friend of mine who I haven’t seen since she gave birth to a bonnie Irish-American baby. I’m a bad friend. I was looking forward to playing with the baby, they’re cute at that age, finding their feet and shit, and snuggling up in her lovely home for the day. Why do Americans always have houses that are finished better than ours? Like skirting boards and door knobs and light fixtures are always smooth and seamless in their houses. aAd they have laundry rooms and pantries. We have a clothes horse and a press. Doesn’t sound as domestically blissful at all. But I flaked, and I hate flakers.
I’m so tired.
I could easily curl up again now and nod off into another frantic doze but I’ll try stay up for the second instalment of The Apprentice to watch young pencil skirted women and slimline besuit/skinny betied men make tits of themselves. Why make “tits” of themselves? Tits are useful and productive – make knobs of themselves, that’s the body part that does the most damage.
The picture above is one of my own for a a change. Id din’t think I’d find something as salty and stormy as me as close to home. All about the metaphors.
I talked briefly to Quarter Pounder today. He says he’s glad I’m doing well. I wanted him to know about the diagnosis so he knows what to look out for in the ghosts of girlfriends future. And so he’d know whatever he is angry with me for hasn’t always been of my own fully conscious doing. It’s funny that I thought he was the problem for so long when in fact our relationship was just a symptom of it. I hope he has a better life than what he’s had over the years I’ve known him, when he was with me anyway, I can’t say how much fun he had when I wasn’t around, which was alot. That was one positive thing that happened to day. Quarter Pounder isn’t an issue for me anymore.
I also told Sir David Attenborough to fuck off. I guess I need to say sorry about that.
I’m really hot now. Like a hot sweat and clammy skin. My head is molten.
Some of my students sent me a card. I laughed and I cried. I love those kids. I miss them. They make me think I can do this. I can go back and I can be Miss and not Mess again. Why do teenagers get such a bad rep? The majority I know are good people emerging from cute kid shells.
ElsaDaughter just dressed up as My Lady, the Queen’s Mother. It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. She has about twelve watches on and she can’t find her glasses.
It’s good to laugh. it’s good to run. It’s good to love. It’s good to let it go. Thanks for the love and the laughs today kids.
Addendum: I didn’t do anything to hurt myself today. Tempted, but didn’t act. Posh Spice just reminded me I should clarify!