Madigan at full back: will the space let him run riot or will he struggle in the air? Matt O’ Connor, injuries aside, makes some erratic team selections. Not much consistency. Says yer wan here, all over the shop.
ElsaDaughter got to school yesterday, late, but got there. After the ineffective sleeping tablet I was exhausted. When I dropped her off I went back to our own little Ice Palace. It’s so unlived in at the moment that the walls are emitting loneliness. It’s an old flat: original floorboards, high ceilings, picture rails and I’m sure it’s housed worse tenants than us (we did a tight budget renovation on it last summer. I remember standing on the living room window sill and holding on to the old metal – I can’t afford new windows – handle trying to stretch my five foot three body to reach the last corner of picture rail with my dripping paint brush while Quarter Pounder sat in the middle of the piled furniture picture frames and trinkets playing on his phone or Game Boy or some other device that pleased him more than I did. This is the shit I need to remember about that relationship). The wood-chipped papered walls (I remember we had that all over this family house in the eighties) are longingly reluctant to welcome us back. I turned the heat on, baked, tumble dried and treated the place to a stash of IKEA candles but it still wouldn’t open its original panelled, brass knobbed doors to me and I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s homelife: playing a quick, half hearted game of house in a stranger’s rooms, on my own, as only children are used to doing.
Can buildings have spirits or souls? If they can, our building is in a right architectural snot with me.
So there I am, trying to remould myself into a domestic goddess and I realise I’ve no bun cases. I’ve already been to Express Branch of Huge but Failing Grocery Retailer across the street and I can’t face another venture out into the land of possible “How are you? Where have you been?” conversations with kindly neighbours. So I start to burn and my skin prickles. Contestants on GBBO can’t believe they cry over cake and yet here I was crying over cake containers, not even the actual mixture.
I hadn’t eaten and the kitchen was hot and I’d found Quarter Pounder’s keys so maybe it wasn’t all about bun cases. ElsaDaughter and I had also had an argument of sorts and that never helps Dotty’s mood.
Anyway, I didn’t answer my phone when a friend I was meant to meet called, I couldn’t face anyone. I stood there in the kitchen burning up and cursing scalding tears. For fuck’s sake. Bun cases.
I tried to get an appointment with my GP but I couldn’t get one till Monday. Not that she was going to solve my yesterday crisis but I wanted to feel like I was involved in my treatment process to exert some control over it. I haven’t heard from the Psychology team at the hospital yet and this fills me with dread worse than when your iPhone battery is at 4% and the storm cuts the power off, like last night. I’m concerned that the sleeping tablet prescription has run out (she only prescribed them for ten days in case I necked them or became a prescription drug dependée I guess). I don’t know why I’m concerned because they don’t fucking work anyway. I slept better last night with none although I have to endure sleeplessness for a couple of nights in order for a only-wake-up-three-times-instead-of-laying-paralysed-with-irrational-frustrations night occurs.
I’m also worried that I can’t do this for much longer on my own. I am trying desperately to be ok, to get through the hours, never mind days, but it’s not getting easier, despite the hair washing and occasional make up wearing. I’m not getting better. I don’t want to let people down by banging on about how I’m not getting better and griping about how they don’t understand but I need the professional Depression Avengers to swoop in. The meds haven’t kicked in and they’re only part of the solution anyway but there are so many blade longings and stick-your-toothbrush-down-your-throat fantasies I can withstand. At the moment I’m here because of guilt and an effort not to be a selfish, self aggrandising cow but give me another few days of martyring myself to the Selflessness Cause and I’ll be reaching for that scissors quicker than you can say “Disinfect it first!”
The day did pick up. New Boy came round after numerous texts and confusions. I’m sure he’ll wake up and smell the crazy lady soon enough. He’s too good to be true. Watch me fuck this one up.
The drive home was tough. My head and teeth and jaws hurt so much from the teeth clenching. It made me extra miserable last night. I felt like my voice was caught in a rabbit trap of self imposed cranium torture. I tried to be upbeat for ElsaDaughter but I lost it with her eventually and went straight to the refuge of a quiet bedroom when I got in.
I had planned a whole day of rugby but they don’t have Sky/BT Sports here so I asked Quarter Pounder for a link (there is nothing he can’t google, quite the CV bullet point) last night to watch the Bledisloe Cup at ten this morning online (with the new scary wiffy machine) so I could at least not have to drive till twelve and be back at my own TV in time for Munster v Sale. But oh no, no link forthcoming.
Maybe I’m not the only one who needs to get over themselves.
I need to see my friends. I need a link back to myself. Never mind a link for a rugby match.
I am torn between the high I’m experiencing for not eating much and the acknowledgment that I’m experiencing a high from not eating much. A couple of times yesterday I was light headed and subsequently proud. My clothes are looser but of course I want to lose more. It’s not enough and once you start shrinking the holy grail of skinnier becomes printed on your lips so that very little on the food pyramid is worth it. I know I need to eat properly but losing weight is shedding the toxic fat deposits in my cells. It’s control. And I am in desperate need of that. I don’t want to write about it because I don’t want everyone to start fussing and stuffing food into me. I don’t want them to take away from me the one bit of control I have, not until I’ve lost a bit more anyway.
So hopefully I’ll make it out of bed today. The thoughts of big men in shorts can be a great motivator.