Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m sorry ok? I know it’s been ages but you needn’t get your knickers in a twist people. I’m fine and I’ve no intention of giving up my blog. Who else would listen to me whinge about insignifance then?
I’m fucked off. Eight straight really good days last week only to be blasted apart by some sort of what I can only assume is of the ubiquitous “viral” kind of infection on Sunday. I trained in the gym five days last week, I felt amazing. Loads of energy. Under control. Verging on optimistic.
Then I couldn’t get out of bed on Sunday. Oddly not because of my mental state but because of the physical aches and pains. I finally made it out of bed at five pm and after biting the heads off everyone at home, somehow made it back to the city in a dizzy fog of viral self pity.
Woe is me.
I fucking hate being sick and especially when it gets in the way of one of my up stints. When I’m feeling good like I was last week, I’m invincible. Now I’m full of snot and catarrh under a veil of ghostly skin and punchbag eyes.
On Monday, I felt slightly better and made it to the gym only to induce a god damn migraine from dehydration and pushing myself too hard.
Awesome work there Dotty.
I started at my day hospital programme on Monday. I can’t even recall if I mentioned it before. The psychiatrist came up with the plan at my last visit (which reminds me, I need to check when is my next appointment with her). This programme is five mornings per week for six weeks and I guess it’s either for people who’ve just come out of sleep-in hospital or a last resort for people like me who are teetering on the threshold of being sectioned. Some days I wish they would just fucking section me. But don’t mind me, I’m sick: like, actually sick, not just sick in the head, and I feel awful negative when I’m sick and can’t be a busy body “getting things done”.
Where was I? The Actifed is making me dopey.
The day hospital. I missed today. I can barely move my head. You know when you feel like your skull is a cistern and it needs to be flushed and emptied? There is so much fluid swirling around between my brain (which feels swollen) and my skull that I can hear it swishing when I turn my head. “Drain me”, my brain gurgles through the salty water, “I’m drowning…” Ugh. I’m so melodramatic, aren’t I?
So yeah. Play school for Crazy People. That’s what we’re calling day hospital. Yesterday, for one of our sessions we did creativity. I did some knitting. Others made candles and sketched and made cards. Hence the “Playschool” title. Of course, I ended up casting on for a few other wannabe knitters (who wouldn’t wannabe a knitter?) even though My Lady scoffs at the childish looping I call casting on and I am the world’s holiest knitter. I always seem to assume the role of mother hen in groups like this. The day before, there was a big deal about who would light the candle for reflection time and of course I jumped up and snapped, “Oh for god’s sake, it’s not a big deal, I’ll do it”. Is this a mammy thing or a me thing?
Everyone in there is super smart. Which also makes me wonder about intelligence and madness and sometimes I wish I were thick and then I wouldn’t realise I’m mad. Or something.
I think it will be helpful. On the first day, during discussions about goal setting I realised how fucked up on guilt I am. I’ve had the guilt revelation several hundred times now. It never gets old. My goals are perpetual in that they never end because I assign so many to myself I rarely get anything completed. “I should do this, I have to do that; I really need to finish…”. I’m obsessed with productivity and achievement. And that’s why I hate being sick because NOTHING has been done this week. No letters written; no to do lists checked off; no gym since Monday; no bills paid; no classes established to earn money; no new experiences tried.
I was living for the tax rebate to cover a few months’ rent and maybe book our flights to the States for the summer but in the end I was due only sixteen hundred euro back which paid one month’s rent, the phone bill; some of the money I owe my dad for sorting out last month’s rent for me. We also both need new glasses so that’s them almost covered. Last week I was full of optimistic ideas for earning money and feeling something more than worthless. This week I feel like packing up and moving home to mammy. Or fucking off to live in a forest on my own somewhere and renaming myself Lone Leaf or some other equally metaphorical spiritual name.
Modern life is a damn nuisance. All this shit clogging our lives and minds. Maybe the Lone Leaf gang have it sussed.
I also met someone who freaked me out big time. He’s had an intersting life and a tough time of it with his mental health but his attitude to it, and to mine, was so flippant I started to feel like a big guilty fraud who was making a mountain out of a molehill. At least that’s what I think his point was, he was so cerebral and almost aggressive in his impatience with accepted wisdom and me that it was difficult to tell if he thought I was an attention seeker or if he empathised.
So. All in all, not a super week. If I felt well then I reckon I could beat off the worst of the blues and the self doubt and the general “Give me a fucking break here, I am doing everything I’m supposed to do!” pervading my veins. But I feel like a hot mess in a Petri dish poised to explode into a lethal diffusion of self destructing angst at a cough and a splutter’s notice.