The playground was empty:
The kids were at school.
Those were off sick
Were not such a fool
As to go out enjoying themselves when they’re meant to be ill and yet here I was running the bejaysus out of my tree trunks on a Monday afternoon when I should have been gearing up for double sixth year French.
It’s now Tuesday, fast forward a bit more than twenty four hours. “Fast forward” always make me think of VHS. I remember when local video stores started selling off Betamax (or is that the bike? I had a blue one,I was never a girly girl. I also liked dinkies, the little cars. My Lady used to make little paper people to sit in them, I liked the ones that had doors that opened. They didsomething). That’s how old I am. I remember the really old videos but I can’t remember what they were called. My grandad called them “discos”. But then he once called me Betsy, my nana wasn’t impressed – we don’t know anyone called Betsy.
Anyway, it’s Tuesday. Terrible Tuesday. Too obvious for effective alliteration, I know.
AnnaPuppy is climbing on me. Now she has just found the most uncomfortable spot to snooze. She’s going to slip. She’s going to snot herself. I should move her. But it’s too funny. Wait, she’s moved. She has to be close to me – well I won’t flatter myself – she has to be close to any human with access to food, when she sits down which is lovely but annoying as, unlike Sven, who likes to sit beside you, unobtrusively, maybe a paw on your lap, AnnaPuppy likes her head on your shoulder snoring damply into your ear or like now, have her bum in your face. Nice. But I don’t move her, or Sven, off the sofa. Crazy Dog Lady.
Yesterday was so positive. Well fairly. I got to Pieta an hour early (remind me to write about autocorrect – why would “early” come up as “Walt”? ) having mistaken the time so I went for a run in the park across the street. Three and half miles. My time was so geriatric (is that ageist?) that I won’t tell you what is was. But I ran. And I had walked the dogs a couple of miles earlier on the beach where a softly spoken gent with binoculars, a golden retriever and a wax jacket (on him, not the dog, although it is South Dublin where dogs are well dressed as their owners) asked me did he mind him pointing out that this particular beach is a protected area for birds. I didn’t mind at all and I hadn’t known that, I thought it was only the hilly, grassy bit under the towers at Sandymount that was the Birdieland. I don’t know if he was an undercover (not very) member of the AutumnWatch police or what but his passive aggressive stance and his meek little tweety voice pissed me off and I fucking hate birds, all flitty and diseased and smug, flying away. I don’t know if he was trying to suggest that my dogs shouldn’t be on the beach unleashed (his goldie was on a lead, poor fella was dying for a big run) but he can go fly a kite up with his wee winged pals. Irked, I was.
ElsaDaughter cooked dinner. I got to sleep about two. A semi positive nothing day. Although I heard some fucked up shit come out of my mouth in Pieta. I have to go again tomorrow. I hate it. I hate hearing it. I would hate to hear another person say it about themselves, or me, or anyone else. And yet, the words come and the tears come and the shame comes.
Today however. Today was a big pile of shite.
I couldn’t get up. I had really bad knots and cramps and I felt like aforementioned pile of crap. And I had to go to the bloody psychiatrist at nine forty five. I was so tempted to cancel. So close to staying in bed. But I went, I was late, so was she. Then I got a telling off. She said I didn’t want to get better. I was scared of getting better. I should have phoned them myself last week for the report for work or social welfare instead of getting My Lady to do it. Also, I should have known who exactly needed this report instead of leaving everything to my mother. She asked me if I had considered that my food issues could be giving ElsaDaughter similar problems and perhaps I should think about that the next time I starved myself. She told me I need to go back to work after Christmas and I’m probably fit to be there now and that I should go in and not take on everyone else’s problems and not do any extra work or take any home. Right, I’ll do that. That’s how teaching works. She also exclaimed that she couldn’t fathom why I lived in Dublin, worked an hour away and commuted and why would I not just move home or at least move half way? I tried to explain to her that ElsaDaughter’s life and school and friends and future are here and if I’m to have a future, it won’t be in my home town. But she couldn’t understand it, it made no sense. I’m afraid of the stresses of my life, apparently. I should be facing them. IVE BEEN TRYING TO FUCKING FACE THEM ON MY OWN FOR YEARS! I wanted to shout at her but I gave up and I nodded and smiled and agreed so that I could get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. Let me go, with my shame and my guilt and I’ll stop wasting your time.
So I came home, disgusted with myself for being such a lazy bitch, sponging off everyone and expecting others to sort out the mess I’ve made of my sorry life and I slept, hidden under pillows so that my face and my being couldn’t offend anyone else today and I didn’t get up till four.
I haven’t showered (gross), I haven’t cleared up after dinner (I made dinner, aren’t I something?), I haven’t done anything I was meant to do and all I can think is please let me go back to bed so that I can disappear.
The picture is not my bed. But if it were, I’d never get up.