So, today was bright and sunny and warm which makes for an infinitely more pleasant and tolerable Dotty. I often wonder would I be half as fucked up if I just moved somewhere with permanently good weather. Or at least not unusable, near frost-bitten hands; seven hours of watery daylight and enough rain to beat the water charges of the entire country.
I didn’t get up till late but I went for a run. Admittedly, I was a bit narky with ElsaDaughter before I produced my day’s supply of endorphins:
“Have a shower!”
“For Jesus’ sake, open your window!”
“Put a wash on!”
“Walk the dogs!”
To her credit, she didn’t punch me in the face. I would have punched me in the face. Sometimes, I can’t distinguish between parental nagging and mental bitch nagging.
But then I went for a run and I was much nicer. Especially when Saracens lost. That could all change tomorrow after Toulon v Leinster – I may need to run a marathon to get over that rugby result if it goes the way most pundits think it will.
Would I be a proper delight if I lived in Texas with the family? Even thinking about the possibility of getting there again this summer is like that first delicious wave of heat spilling over you like a dry, soothing shower of cricket sounds when you step off the plane and reach your holiday destination. You can smell the heat; the ground staff wear tee shirts and shorts even though you’ve arrived in the middle of the night. No fumbling for jackets; no rooting for umbrellas; no “Jesus Christ, it’s freezing” – just walk off the plane and hear your damp bones thank you for the respite.
Or Boston, with its well defined seasons and harbour and beautiful brownstones (cos, you know, I could afford to live in a brownstone) would suit me better. Or New York: the mini cosmos, swallowing up every nationality and every eccentricity and making them full and glorious and larger than they could be anywhere else.
I’ve taken to having a little break during my runs which, admittedly, aren’t very long runs. I’m back up to three slow miles post-pneumonia although I’m going to the doctor tomorrow about these chest pains and palpitations, I’m pretty sure they’re not panic attack related so I’m guessing they’re something to do with lung recovery? I felt a bit guilty making the appointment especially as I’ve just been issued a medical card and it seems scroungey. I feel well apart from the discomfort of feeling your own heart thump: it feels like it’s swollen and seeing as I’m very definitely not in love I know it’s not an extreme BPD romantic reaction. Anyway, during my wee (as in little, I wasn’t peeing in the bushes in Herbert Park although I’ve peed in many a bush on very long runs) break today I sat on a bench beside a cute guy and couldn’t help but hear him talk about that disgraceful TCD Ball Guide magazine article about which I posted on the Facebook page (which you should go click “like” on if you haven’t already – there’s some good shit on there) and if he should write about it. I was intrigued. I’m pretty good about making small talk with strangers, so ElsaDaughter says anyway, but I wanted to fill him in on where I’d seen the article and what sites had picked it up. On the other hand, stalker much? Listening in to his conversation about birthday lunches and the FA Cup semi final matches (I wanted to point out that he should be watching the Leinster match instead which is on at the same time) he was talking to, I deciphered, his mother. I thought I’d regret it if I didn’t say anything. Of course, this chap could’ve easily googled said article and didn’t need me to tell him about it but it became something I wanted to do, make a brief connection with a new person: offer up my knowledge and my opinion and my voice to a stranger and it felt good. Something as tiny as that can make a big difference to your day and your confidence. Even if he is now on the lookout for a sweaty, freckled, nosey runner every time he has a phone conversation.
Leinster lost. I don’t want to talk about it.
I wasn’t feeling good at all this morning. I was so tired, hot, uncomfortable and groggy. My heart was pumping like the floor of a nightclub when Uptown Funk comes on (well, I’m guessing everyone gets up and goes nuts dancing when Bruno Mars hits the decks, I haven’t been in a club since… when?). Lethargy took over and I didn’t want to leave my bedroom. I wanted to hide away and let the world forget me. It took the last little bit of resolve to turn the day around to get up and get my shit together. Shower, ugh, Get dressed: effort. Walk the dogs: how can I go outside into the world and the light when all I want is darkness? Eat something: puke. Lodge a cheque: the bank is so far away (it’s three hundred metres). Pick up your sick cert: they hate me in the doctor’s surgery! (They’re all very nice there). Get groceries in: by this point I was feeling human. I spent ten euro on fresh flowers for our apartment in Lidl. Then I felt guilty. Ten euro on flowers?! And I’m not working! At that point I started comparing myself to the people featured on Housing Benefit Fraud documentaries. Fuck. Am I just lazy? Am I a leech? Am I a scab? This is the way my mind spirals out of control into black thinking from spending ten euro on four bunches of Lidl flowers: within minutes I’m a scourge on society.
I want so badly to make some sort of difference, to help someone, to do something that will make something better but at the moment I’m just being. I guess for the moment my little bubble of self preservation has to be enough before I can launch my social conscience back into the world of education or activism or advocacy or literature or whatever the hell I’m any use for.
Apparently this ‘big issue thinking’ is a feature of BPDers. Always thinking we can make a difference, or at least that we should try.
The day got better. Particularly when ElsaDaughter told me to go for a run, which by dressing myself in my running gear after my shower, I had been threatening to do all day. Finally, I went and strangely the palpitations eased. Maybe it is an unwitting anxiety thing manifesting itself in a bubbly throbbing heart?
I cooked dinner, I did laundry; I did some Shakespeare with ElsaDaughter; we took the dogs out; I showered again and got dressed again (not running gear this time) for a rendezvous with a gentleman caller of whom nothing more shall be said. How gloriously refreshing it is to be properly single, unencumbered by considerations for another person’s feelings, plans, preferences, laundry or sleep quality. I absolutely love being single. I didn’t give myself a chance to know that about myself. Relationships should be scrapped altogether – no more candles and flowers and overpriced steak dinners and jewellery you’ll never wear and sharing a bed: getting too hot and waking each other up when one of you needs to pee and the other one snores like a hippo with a sinus infection. Just an hour here and there to sort out your physical needs: keep everything topped up and well oiled (like a good car owner does) and then back into your own separate life without any of the emotional residue clouding your view of yourself and your own way of doing things. Having a FWB, or less acronymistically (I have no idea if that’s a word), a fuck buddy, is by far the least stressful adult relationship I’ve ever had. I’d highly recommend it. Just don’t go falling for the buddy, falling in lust is one thing, into the pit of despair of the other “L” word is quite another.
Speaking of love, it was Quarter Pounder’s birthday today. I thought about texting him, for about a second, then I thought, no. Also, I don’t have his number anymore and I’ve forgotten it which was a moment of intense relief when I realised I no longer knew my ex-boyfriend’s phone number off by heart. I could have found a way to send him a message but then he didn’t wish me a happy birthday and we’re nothing but bad memories and broken plans (and laptops) to each other now.
It’s infuriating when you’re in the depths of a heartache and someone tells you time heals all. It won’t heal THIS! And then one day, someone who was pretty much your every waking moment and a part of the very flesh you touched them with is a million miles away in the blur of another you. I know I have mixed feelings of regret, anger, remorse, fear and shame about the volatile years together but those emotions are so muted and misty now that apart from one or two memories, they could have happened to a character in an historical novel.
So, psych appointment went well. Nothing major to report apart from I ran there (and back) and that had to be the day a cute medical student was sitting in on appointments. It’s a small office, it was a warm day and I was stinking. #morto
I do always find those appointments a bit draining. And I dread them. In fact, I slept it out for my original ten am but they kindly rescheduled for eleven. Enough time to dread it some more.
After that I had the GP appointment for the palpitations. She’s given me pills for my tummy in case it’s some sort of refluxy thing after the antibiotics. So my heart and blood pressure and pulse were all grand so A1 Sharon, you’re doing something right. Hopefully I’ll stop feeling like there’s an over pumped rugby ball in my chest cavity being intercepted by Bryan Habana. I said I’m not talking about it.
I got lots done today. Admin; bills; teaching prep; feeding child; walking dogs; washing myself. How far I’ve come.
But then I fell asleep and missed a catch up with an old friend which really needed to happen because we fell out. It was one of those naps where you just cannot wake up no matter how hard you try. I hate having to nap but I just can’t seem to get through a full day without being utterly exhausted, even on my really good days.
I’m allowed to pick up my meds four weeks’ worth at a time now. There’s responsibility for you. No longer poses an immediate threat to herself, go Dotty.
Next on my list is to reintegrate myself socially now that I’m not relying on codeine and sharp implements and puking for company.