AnnaPuppy is eating my shoe. Well, she’s throwing it around like it’s a fox she’s caught trying to mutilate her beloved, stupid sheep (she’s a collie, remember) that deserves to be hurled and gnashed with her unworn razor teeth. Sven is passed out on the bed beside me; he cocked one eye open, looked at AnnaPuppy with ridiculing contempt and went back to sleep. Or maybe he’s just pretending to sleep so that he can legitimately ignore her attempts to get him to join in on the ShoeAttack. Because he never got up to such silly juvenile antics… They are quite hilarious to watch and observe when they’re not being destructive and wrecking the joint.
I just had my big white bedspread laundered. That sounds posh – it just doesn’t fit in my washing machine so I have to send it across to the laundromat. Which sounds like I get the housekeeper to pack it up and have it carted to a specialist cleaner. In reality, I roll it up and lug it across the street myself, usually in my running gear or half pyjama/half decent comfies trying not to get run over by one of the SUV Mummies who have actual housekeepers to do this shit for them. Anyway, I swore I wouldn’t let the dogs on it. It’s white. And it’s lovely. I think it was a wedding present. You forget sometimes I had/have a husband, don’t you? Me too. The dogs are on it. It’s like having kids: you have all these prejudged rules about no dodies (soothers/pacifiers/dummies – everyone has a different name for them); no sleeping in your bed; no drugs for mama during the birth “Ooh, I have a high pain threshold and I want my baby to come into the world in a calm pool of tepid water with Gregorian chant playing and lavender oil burning over organic beeswax candles”. Shut your face, bitch. Then reality sets in and you’ll shove anything in that child’s mouth to shut it up for twenty seconds; the kid is in your bed because you’re so exhausted and grit eyed that even Dozol won’t solve this sleep deprivation problem and you’re screaming at the midwife to give you the fucking drugs or you’ll hunt her down and stick a melon up her arse.
The dogs are on the white bedspread.
At Playschool this morning we learned about essential oils. Aromatherapy. I’m generally suspicious of any process that involves the word “therapy” unless it has beauty in front of it because at least when I visit my beauty therapist I look a damn sight better than when I haven’t been therapied. Less fuzzy, streamlined, tinted and tanned usually. I emerge less squidgy. Aromatherapy to me seems brimful of squidginess. Is there anything tangibly scientific about it? The handout says there is but I’m not convinced. I like the geranium though. It reminded me of a cut I planted in primary school and brought home to my Miss Marple. She repotted it and it grew in the front hall for years, scenting the stairway and landing.
She’s munching the shoe. Actually the toe of it is gone and she’s fallen asleep on it. Peace. No wonder I don’t want more kids.
I think I might try the oils. The tea tree in a bucket of water to clean the floors. Someone said tea tree isn’t good for dogs. The gallons of bleach I’ve scalded the floors with haven’t killed them yet. Or the shoe leather.
They were (RIP Shoes) six euro pumps from Dunnès Boutique, I doubt they were leather.
When Sven moves in his sleep AnnaPuppy perks up, “Is he awake?! Please be awake! Then we can chase shoe foxes together!”. Then she realises he’s half consciously kicking her out of his sprawl zone and her little muzzly face is deflated.
My Lady made recommendations for a Classical playlist on that well known music streaming app that Taylor Swift and AC/DC have bees in their bonnets about. Beethoven – depressing fucker, wasn’t he?
In our second session today, we talked about life skills. I think I have great life skills. Well I’m still alive aren’t I? There’s a lot of skill involved in keeping this kind of crazy live and kicking.
During our little break, a few of us talked about experiences with psychiatric hospitals. Many of them were hospitalised for weeks, if not months. I wasn’t, as you know. No beds and someone to look after me at home was the first reason. Then I was in such a state of hysterical psychosis that I refused to go with the paramedics, not understanding who they were. Literally trying to smother myself (don’t bother trying, it’s not possible) in front of them and clearly out of my mind but I wouldn’t consent to bring sectioned so see ya, crazy lady! Apparently it’s all down to the signature, you sign and you’re their patient “voluntarily”, nobody can force you in unless you’re a criminal and I hadn’t smashed any laptops at that stage. Probably would’ve been better if I’d been sectioned. For Quarter Pounder anyway. Had a dream about him the other night – not a good one, woke up with the same old sense of knotted dread and I was soon glad I haven’t had contact with him in months.
I get that the laws about sectioning are there to prevent cases like The Secret Scripture but I clearly needed to be somewhere I couldn’t hurt myself. I went on to self harm and cause untold distress to myself and my family after this. I was so close to achieving my ultimate goal. You’d think they’d have a loophole for times like that.
How am I now? I wonder myself. How are you? Seriously, how are you all coping? Does it ever go away? I expect not. Whether it be depression, anxiety, a personality disorder, the aftermath of a trauma, grief – I guess we all live with something there: gnawing, threatening, eroding. Shoring up the defences, strengthening our battlements is all we can really do. Try to keep the candle from burning out. Try to face the triggers and not crumple at their firing squad.
I thought I heard an interviewer on RTÉ Radio 1 this morning get into a knot over something he asked a guest about these accusations against the IRA senior figures in the nineties. Something to do with calling into question a claim made about sexual assault, somebody’s credibility. I may have misheard the whole thing. I hope I did. That’s not the kind of message you want to send out as the national broadcaster, as anybody.
This country and sex, huh? It seems even our “revolutionaries” were entangled in that particular tradition of unspoken subjugation.
I’m going to hit the gym now and continue this productive streak (day three, woo hoo) I’m having and try to forget all about the double dealings, manipulation, coercion, hatred, corruption and deception in the world while watching House of Cards on a fake revolving road surrounded by posing narcissists.