I’m not as scared as I was of relapsing. I’ve had a good week, looking back. A few weeks ago I would have been terrified of falling off the stability wagon. But I think I’ll stay like this for the foreseeable future as long as I keep the door to family and friends open and practise what I preach. So if I start slipping can someone slap me around the head with a print out of my last Interlude?
Today was lovely. Nice breakfast; plenty of time (I’m the second worst time keeper I’ve ever met – this stresses me out so much. I just can’t help it. I always end up in a sweaty tizzy having to send the “I’m so sorry I’m running late…” text); watched Leinster get beaten by Harlequins (yeah, outplayed) and hung out with Monet (so glad he’s my buddy); then ElsaDaughter and I had a drive around our posh postcode to look at and rate Christmas trees and decorations. Now we’re in our PJs watching the Strictly results show and eating leftover baked spuds.
Conor O’ Shea – am I the only one who fancies him? That voice. He’s so… mature. A mature man. I’d bet he knows what to do with a woman. And how to walk two dogs.
Pixie is gone. There was something grating about her. Something a bit too perfect and smiley. Or is that my insecure jealousy? Am I a begrudger?
I swear to god, if I have to get AnnaPuppy’s snout (do dogs have snouts or is that just pigs?) out of the bin one more time… Both four leggeds have been on lock down today for different reasons: peeing in the hall, snapping, eating Christmas decorations, jumping, eating chopsticks… My Lady asked me if I thought AnnaPuppy might have ADHD… I’ll put her on the list for assessment with the clinical psychologist mammy…
Why am I not stressing? Now that I think of it I’m stressing because I’m not stressing… Please don’t drop another bombshell on me for a week or so. Whatever celestial department has responsibility for dropping the “You Are Fucking Joking Me” canisters of palpitation-inducing stress gas, can you please just piss off till after Christmas when I’ve had a few good weeks of psychological bench pressing? Then I’ll be cerebrally bulked up and ready to face you. Another few weeks of Venlafaxine and I’ll be sorting out my divorce.
ElsaDaughter is playing with my hair. Parenthood perks.
I’m tempted to list what I need to do tomorrow but I won’t. Because it’s not tomorrow. Yet.
The moon is almost fully discus (can discus be used as an adjective?). I feel moon-like today. Bright but also very round because I’ve got my period and I’m somewhat spherical in the uterine vicinity.
I miss my Nana tonight. She’s in better form than she’s been in ages. She’s so huggy and repetitive in her “I love you”s. She wasn’t always a bundle of cuddles. She and her temper have mellowed with age. I still wouldn’t mess with her. But maybe there’s hope for Dotty if this shit’s genetic. Tempers run high and run through the women in this family: My Lady was well, fiery. She too has calmed down, considerably. (You couldn’t look crooked at her in her thirties. Is that a real Irish thing: to look crooked at someone?) But then the circumstances of her marriage didn’t help her mood and she’s so musically gifted I wonder was she trapped in frustrating domesticity. She seems so much bigger than what life handed her. But now, I think she’s living freely. And I’m glad she can come to visit us to revisit a city and a lifestyle she thinks would have suited her. Someday, one day, I’ll be able to pay her back for all the love, dinners and dosh. She’s a vibrant woman: it’s like watching her come into her own. I’m glad she and my dad split up. Is that a terrible thing to say? I think the relationship stifled her and the break up nearly killed her but now she’s emerged from the whole sorry mess with a pep in her step… even though she put her back out this morning.
Anyway, I have a bit of a cold. And a percussion band in my belly, so, to bed.