So here we are, two weeks into a New Year and I don’t know about you but my resolutions are gone to shit.
I cannot seem to get up early in the morning: either I can’t sleep at night until maybe 4 or 5 am or I fall asleep easily and wake up around 3am and then turn over my endless list of failures in my labyrinthine mind. I’ve also nights where I haven’t slept at all, been a fuzzy, giddy mess for the day and then slept for 15 hours the next night. Then I’ve had the nights where I sleep for 10 hours and it’s still not enough so I succumb to the temptation of napping and waste the afternoon. Until I had my first intense bout of depression 7 years ago, I never realised the impact of sleep, or lack of it, on mental health. If I could just regulate my sleep pattern, I feel I could be a lot more productive and hence, more satisfied with my day, and myself. Insomnia sucks.
So what’s been happening during all the hours I’ve been awake? Well, when I’m not dreaming about giving birth to a weird chameleon index-finger sized baby and having its ears and eyes pierced (yes, it was grotesque) a local jeweller hours after its birth (where the fuck does this horror come from?), I’ve been up, and then very down, up again and then… yeah, you’ve got the idea. In the two weeks since January 1st, I’ve managed to get to just one hot yoga class and two Body Pumps. I’ve been better about eating less crap and planning meals but we haven’t been eating dinner till late and we’ve been eating on the sofa rather than at the table. There are just the two of us, but we’re still a family and I want to get back to sitting down together for dinner at a reasonable time. Scandi has missed some time from school and I feel my parenting is slipping. I’m trying to sort out my overdraft with the bank who haven’t bothered to call me back to confirm if we have a resolution but my Speech and Drama classes are going well and more people are hearing about it and showing an interest. I haven’t got a date to see a neurologist yet but Scandi has been referred to an immunologist for her nut and fruit allergy. Apparently the waiting list to see one of the five immunologists (yes, there are five allergy specialists in the whole of the Republic of Ireland) is approximately 14 months for children. I had another session at the Rape Crisis Centre on Monday and I feel there was some breakthrough with my relationship with my counsellor and also on the topic of the incident itself. I went back to choir tonight (I missed the first week back after the Christmas break as I was having an exceptionally miserable Go Away World day) and it was nice to be back although one of the masses we’re rehearsing (we’re always singing a bloody mass) is modern and well, awful. But I’m told it’s a grower, even if it does sound as if we’re all singing the wrong notes like a chorus of disharmonious drunks.
The most I have managed to write in the infamous journal is what is shown in the cover photo. See all my great plans and big ideas? Oh yes, my brain is a wonderfully productive place. It’s just a pity I can’t get out of bed do any of it.
But, STOP! Quit being so hard on yourself, I know. Tomorrow is another day.
I’ve been posting a lot (too much?) on Dotty’s Facebook and Dotty’s Twitter – links relevant to mental health, sexual abuse and women’s issues. I’m better at Facebook than Twitter because 140 characters is far too limited for all I have to say.
There’s a man on the scene and it’s very easy and pleasant: he’s been around longer than any guy since Berger/Quarter Pounder/ He Who Shall Not Be Named (if you’re new to this blog – don’t even try to catch up on all the men who’ve fleeted in and out of my life, you have better things to do with your time). But I’m determined to keep him at a safe distance, even if he does bring the good, expensive chocolate biscuits when he calls.
So, overall, what you can extrapolate from this short catch up is that New Year’s resolutions don’t work unless you’re determined and self disciplined and, if you are lucky enough to be those things, then you don’t need NYRs because you’re just fucking perfect and fit and organised and wonderful every day of the year and then slow applause for you.
Oh, and my washing machine gave up on me tonight and I didn’t have a meltdown.
RIP David Bowie and Alan Rickman: Golden Years – Always.