There are multiple reasons why I keep my nails short – I have two dogs; I do most of the housework; I take notions and start painting and moving furniture at regular intervals; I like not having to type words 15 times on my phone before giving up on autocorrect’s understanding of clickety clackety tips. I took a notion the other night that I’d like long elegant nails like the Marchioness, so I grabbed a pack of fake nails and while I feel ultra glamorous, they are the most impractical things to stick on your hands apart from mittens which are only user friendly if you are under 6 months old and do not yet know that your hands are attached to your body.
Six hours later…
I had a feeling a particularly bad night was due as my sleeping has been all over the place the last few nights and the SaltScrub night sweats have been exacerbated by nightmares in which I’m abandoned by a boyfriend during some sort of war/flood crisis.
Because I’m a girl, please save me.
I need to reset. I seem to need to reset every few days. Jesus, I’m tired of resetting. I’m tired of heaving myself back on track.
Now I’m lying here fretting about everything from my weight to trying to save money while paying all the bills to trying to convince myself that I’m not damaged goods to panicking (again) at the realisation that I’ve screwed up my entire existence.
I fucking hate living in my shameful excuse for a brain.
How can I be so self-pitying when I’m here in my cosy bed; healthy child; food in the fridge; electricity; clean water and the bills almost paid for the month?
God, self-pity is disgusting. Almost as disgusting as my red gritty eyes and the layer of fat I haul around.
I’ve tried doing sums on my phone’s calculator; I’ve tried making mental lists; I’ve tried breathing and remembering how lucky I am and what I have to be grateful for.
One of the dogs just fell off the bed. I shouldn’t laugh.
I was helping Scandi with a History assignment earlier on the 1916 Rising. Of course, she chose to write about one of the women involved – Margaret Skinnider. I dug out my shoeboxes of record card notes and references from my ill-fated PhD. A year’s work come to nothing: two dusty shoe boxes on the top shelf of a wardrobe. Such symbolism.
Tonight, in the dark, I am nothing but a wasted shell chewed and spat back by the self-loathing sea but tomorrow, the tide will wash in bringing another wave of hours, resetting the sand slate to the next chance.
In the meantime, I’ll lie here ad continue my duel with the dark amid snoring dogs and time ticking alarm clock.