Episode 2-87 – I Heard A Fucking Fly Buzz 

I really am wrecked.  

Physically, my body is in that mildly aching state of tiredness felt after a busy day. There are people who’ve had much busier days than me but a three mile run; an hour’s teaching; grocery shopping; cooking; walking dogs; documentary watching and laundry is a busy day for me. And I’m learning not to expect world changing levels of productivity from myself. Well, I’m trying. 

But apart from the physical weariness, my brain function might resemble a will.i.am video. Insomnia. Faithless. Remember that nineties classic? Tearing off tights with my teeth. The only thing I want to tear off right now is the veil of dry grit scouring my eyes. 

Speaking of teeth, I have a dental appointment next week: “Do you eat a lot of sugar?”; “When was your last check up?”; “That wisdom tooth needs to come out.” 

Somebody just went by on a skateboard. Imagine having the energy for a skateboard at two thirty in the morning. 

My inability to get through the day without napping is not directly linked to a good night’s sleep: even if I sleep right through for eight hours, I’ll get to five, maybe six hours, of being up and engaged in moderate activity, by most people’s standards, and absolutely have to lie down and get some mid to late afternoon shut eye. It’s driving me mad. I always feel like crap after napping, for a bit anyway. Is this just because I’m lazy or because there’s still only so much I can do in a day? 

Posh favours a nap too. So did Winston Churchill, but then he was pissed most of the time I think and I don’t drink. 

It feels like there are flies in my brain – dirty, buzzy, annoying bluebottles darting aimlessly, crashing into neurons (they’re bits of the brain,  right?) and each other, doing loopies and other fly-by tricks while heavily armed with anxiety missiles in the guise of witching hour mental preoccupations. 

Switch off, damn you. Disarm. That is a direct order. Mission abort. Operation Demented Dotty is… what do they say instead of “go” in this context? Dead? Killed? Negative? Cancelled? 

The majority of my bluebottles carry burdensome loads of financial worries. You know that scene in Independence Day when the President and the crazy alien abductee and a million other fighter pilots are trying to shoot down the invading mothership? That’s my mind. Only the bombers are hapless insects with no hope of punching even the slightest hole in the colossal screw up that is my bank account. 

Let’s nuke the bastards. 

I know I’m fixating. I know that I do that and tonight it is on money worries. Tomorrow night, it could be my weight; Friday, it could be my poor parenting; Saturday, I’m damaged sexual goods (that old chestnut); Sunday, I’m the worst friend ever; Monday, I’ll drive everyone away and end up alone; Tuesday, I’m a gigantic career failure and this day next week, I’m a waste of government resources, making no positive impact on society. 

Somebody put a sticky strip into my skull to catch and suffocate these fucking flies. 

Our phones are about to get cut off, again. My own bank account is ridiculously over the overdraft limit with no spare income to get it down. It’s looking increasingly likely that our broadband and TV will have to be sacrificed. As for the car, sell it and buy an old banger? The debts are never ending. The solicitors’ letters demanding €290 there; €3,400 here; €754 plus costs; €2,900 in the next seven days or we take you to court. I’ve actually lost track. I’d give you my wedding rings, Mr. Debt Collector but I sold them to buy groceries. 

I want to work: to be able to get up in the morning and get dressed and get my child to school and go and do a day’s work. I get so envious of working women with their shit together who can just do it. I don’t expect to bounce out of bed and be the world’s greatest teacher, fresh and smiling by the time I get home but if I could just not feel the liquid dread being poured into my throat, seeping like tar into my lungs and my gut, making me choke and wretch. If I could just not feel like that whenever I think of going somewhere: work; a pub; to meet a friend; to a new shop; to somewhere I’ve built up in my mind to be too good for me, a place I don’t belong, like I’m one of the infected flies buzzing around, tainting everything it touches. 

See? Still fucked up. 

Today, I was back in the familiar position of digging down the back of the sofa and in old handbags for change. I had to get ten euro back on John Knox’s card. Jesus. I spent five years in college. I have a permanent job if I could just snap the fuck out of this and go to work. But here I am, forty three cent in ElsaDaughter’s bank account until a cheque clears first thing (hopefully) and I can pay more off my rent. My landlady must be sick of the dribs and drabs going into her account whenever I have money. 

First world problems. It’s disgusting how selfish my sense of entitlement is. Lying in my warm bed; child safe and healthy; food in the fridge; electricity; a supportive family and enough books to read if the TV gets disconnected. 

Stop. Stop. Just stop it. 

You can make a list tomorrow. 

Make the list. Break it up into doable sections for each day. 

Take it slowly. 

It’s ok to stay in your comfort zone until you’re fully ready to step outside it. 

Nothing can be sorted out at three thirty am. Put it on hold. 

Everything is fine, right now, at this moment and this moment is all there is. 

You are alive. You’ve made it this far. You deserve to sleep. 

Lazy, whining bitch. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s