Oh wow. I can lift my head without groaning. I can open my right eye without yellow and white chevron lines invading the world. I can eat. White starchy foods never tasted so good.
Actually, I’m starving.
My head still hurts but it’s a vague pinprick compared to yesterday’s Excalibur in the skull.
Migraines suck. As do crazy nightmares causing you to spew out nonsense in your sleep when you’re sharing a bed with your fifteen year old daughter who then uses said sleep talking to make a fool of you all day. Nice kid.
Something about a little mouse needing a fairy? Why was I being chased around a Hogwart’s type lighthouse by former friends and old acquaintances who wanted to, well, lynch me? Was I that crappy a friend? Again, I had practically no use in my arms and hands so fight back, or indeed, surrender, I could not. Fairies and mice indeed.
That dream was no Angelina Ballerina. God, she was annoying. Not as annoying as “Oh god, please switch it over before the child sees Dipsy”, or “Those fucking Tweenies, not again!”. Give me Bear in the Big Blue House anyday, at least he’d a nice kitchen to snoop in and I reckon he was some sort of symbol for loving single gay dads doing an awesome job. #YesEquality for the record.
I’m alive, sometimes that hits me like a ton of bricks because I do actually feel already dead sometimes. Who doesn’t? Especially with tomorrow morning, MONDAY, looming. But the kind of dead that depression brings along for afternoon tea is the type where you’re the floppy, uninterested, (and uninteresting), ignored, slightly repulsive cucumber sandwich and the dainty little cakes are strange happy objects you once remember tasting and they were life’s joys in your mouth but now, now it’s just mush that will curdle the words your mind is screaming but your mouth can’t spit out because it’s choking on all the sugarwork and fear.
I made it down here somehow last night while throwing up in spare doggie poo bags on my lap. If I had been on my own I would have been thinking of previous thoughts of driving my car into a tree. Luckily, chief sick bag holder, Elsadaughter, was on hand to give me something to drive straight for.
The pain in my head was so bad last night and the sickness so unrelenting that I went to the after hours doctor and got the magic shots in the bum. Like in the hip really, not up the bum. I’m proud that I went because usually I’d hold off and suffer, thinking I deserve the pain. But last night, I said fuck it. It also helps that with a medical card, I could go to the doctor without borrowing sixty euro from someone or offering the GP a kidney. I’d happily swap a kidney for migraine shots when they get to the point of fantasising about guillotines. Thank the government for the medical card. I feel guilty having a medical card. I feel I should get off my arse and go to work and pay my own medical expenses. But that could be the Tramadol cocktail talking.
We’re now back in the city after a busy day. I did some teaching; napped with Miss Marple, did the grocery shopping and went to see Avengers: Age of Ultron with Elsadaughter. This might sound a bit dim but honestly there were bits I didn’t understand. Like I’m used to having to go back over The West Wing, read over pages in A Song of Ice and Fire (or do we just call the whole book series Game of Thrones now? A Game of Making up Names and Tedium is another title suggestion… ) or even read over thesis work I wrote to decipher what the bloody hell I meant at the time but a Marvel movie, really? It seems incredibly complex – at times I couldn’t hear it but then I still need to get my ears syringed, and maybe a tad long. I do like that’s there a new female Avenger; I was displeased that Loki never showed up; happy that the Black Widow is not romantically linked to Hawkeye – boys and girls can be just friends you know – ; glad to see Agent Hill had a bigger role but Idris Elba for thirty seconds is a disgrace. Pass the Bechdel Test it might, fail the shirtless Idris test it does. Although Mark Ruffalo out of the shower…
Yes, I’m aware of all the double standards, hypocrisy, misandry, objectification of men and obvious unsophisticated comic brain I’ve displayed there but you know what maybe the Bechdel should include hot men getting their shirts off while the women talk about the sciencey bits. Sure Avengers is a positive movie for little girls to see. Until they’re old enough for First Wives Club anyway. I’ve read some feminist quotes from Joss Whedon too. I’m sure I have them bookmarked somewhere.
I’m giving myself today – Monday – to rest. Yesterday was busy and I was shattered by the end of it. I don’t really feel guilty about doing nothing today which is odd.
So I got till about four pm and I was so bored. So I’m up and I’ve dinner on and almost finished the laundry. We’ve fed and walked the dogs; Elsadaughter is studying and I’m in good form. Let’s see if I can maintain that tomorrow when I have to write letters and call people I owe money to.
The weather is cold but sunny despite some earlier hail. Elsadaughter says the weather is bipolar. I told her not to be so judgemental of the weather’s mental health then I did impressions of vegetables for her, because you know, I’m insane.
All in all, good day. I’m proud that I have myself a recovery day from being sick again and feeling pretty stable with just a vague doom lingering in the background.
To share my new Mark Ruffalo crush, enjoy the photo.
Hey, I’ll objectify men if I like!