So, it’s been a shit few days: despite trying hard to get myself on track with the To Do List, I haven’t got much done. I’m doing that thing I did when I was studying: procrastinating, you know it. I’d do everything else I needed to do instead of studying: vacuum and dust so I wouldn’t be distracted by dirt; grocery shop so I wouldn’t have to rush to get dinner in later; buy new record cards so I could colour code my notes; paint my nails so they matched my record cards. Eventually, I’d be so wrecked from doing all that I’d get fuck all study done. And now getting fuck all living done.
I’m so tired. I can’t seem to go through a day without napping or, if I get up with Elsadaughter, do a few bits round the house, I collapse back into bed, wrecked, at nine in the morning and wake up again at one. And even then I’m knackered. Are we allowed to say knackered these days?
Today, when I finally got back up, I was dragging myself around in a sort of half life, vaguely aware of myself and the world but with an overwhelming urge to be physically busy. I cleaned, really cleaned, the house – it’s an apartment, a flat: why do I call it a “house”? – there was no method to my cleaning, which there usually is, but instead I flitted from one task to another, one room to another in a stream of bleachy consciousness. Then I baked. Three batches of chocolate iced buns. Who did I think I was feeding? I walked the dogs. I did four loads of laundry. I made hot dogs and homemade chips for Elsadaughter and her friends who were over for a “study” group. I went for a run; a slow achey three miles with a break on a bench in my favourite park during which my whole body tightened and seized and squeezed my soul out of my eyes into a puddle that streamed into the lake.
I have successfully cut myself off from nearly everyone this week, or the last few weeks. I’m in a time blur. I can only safely exist in my little bubble of playing mama in my tiny house with my perfect daughter and my protective dogs. I can barely look other people, from out there, in the eye.
The only time my head is calm is when I’m running but who knows if I’ll be able to shove my arse out the door tomorrow.
I came across, or rather it was pointed out to me, another blog on mental health and depression today. I had seen this person around my area and never would I have imagined that they suffered from this leeching sickness that bleeds your energy and lives off your hope. Obviously, if I’m still shocked by who is chosen by depression, I haven’t learned much.
I’ve just listened to my voicemails: more policy cancellations due to non payment blah blah blah and the Rape Crisis Centre telling me that yes, I clearly need their help and they’ll fit me in to start properly in the next week or two.
Why the fuck did I listen to my mail now, in bed?
I’ll have to go back there. Walk through that door again. Why the fuck didn’t they say,”You’re grand, just forget about it. Far more women need us more than you do.”
Now I feel sick and dizzy and I know I won’t sleep till all hours. Then it’ll be back on Repeat the Waste of a Day Cycle.
I can’t stand myself when I’m like this – I’m everything I detest in one human, an amalgam of selfishness, ingratitude, self pity, isolation, doom.
There’s a group of happy, drunk people walking by. I’ll likely never be one of them again.
Also, my car battery is dead and I have no jump leads. So I’ll actually have to talk to people tomorrow to ask them to start my car.
But hey, at least my day’s been better than Matt O’ Connor’s.