Item: No, I have not ovulated yet. I told you ‘in the next 48 hours’ was optimistic. It once took a 19 mm follicle a further three days to pop. I ripen slowly, and this one was only 13 mm on Friday, so it could take, oh, I don’t know, a week?
Item: But H and I are at it like knives practically daily. Aren’t we good.
Item: We are making some progress on the counselling thing. We had a good session today, and felt all Achieve! Yes we can! And C got H to admit he was in denial, oh so very much so, Swimming With Crocodiles style, which I am sorry to say made me laugh and laugh (but quietly, to myself, heh heh heh, not BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!, because I was properly brought up). And we discussed just how nuts H’s side of the family is (very. Lots. Very very). It makes a nice change, not to be labelled the starkers bananas one in the relationship. It’s also good to understand H is a bit weird about his things what he is weird about because he and his family are starkers bananas, and not because H is on an I Shall Not Get It bender just to wind me up.
Item: Nevertheless, I am the Anxiety Queen at the moment. I am not sleeping. I am chewing my nails to the bleedening. I am screwing things up at work. Fun, huh? I was musing, today, for the prospect of seeing C makes me muse, on the anxiety thing, which has haunted me since I was a kid. It took me years and years to realise what I was feeling was, in fact, common or garden anxiety. When I feel it, it manifests itself as a kind of free-floating sense of shame and self-disgust, and it hunts about for something to attach itself to – ah yes! I buggered something up at work! Urgh. Shudder. The fact I spotted the embuggerment and gave up part of my lunch-hour to debugger it doesn’t get a foothold. It’s… wrong. I am wrong. I am wrongness personified. I spent from age about 8 to 28 feeling like this. Wrong. Sick. Bad. And do you know? It’s anxiety. It’s purely triggered by anxiety. I am not wrong, sick, bad. Not really. I’m actually quite cute. But as soon as something worries me, I assume the Mea Culpa Mantle with heart-breaking rapidity. Whyever the fuck do I do that? What the hell did my parents do to me? Why can’t I pinpoint it exactly?
Item: Anyway, this post has become very intense and gloomy all of a sudden. Shall we cheer the fuck up? Yes, let’s.
Item: Easter is to be spent in the bosom of the In-Laws. I’m not sure that is cheering me the fuck up. Four nights at the In-Laws, on the World’s Most Uncomfortable And Rickety Bed. Please God Satsuma will have popped by then. The idea of doing the Conception Shagathon on that bloody spare bed in the living-room with H’s parents right overhead is, oh well of course, making me anxious.
Item: Oh, yes, H said he could quite clearly see a definite surge in my anxiety levels just before ovulation. He thinks it’s hormonal, therefore. He has, however, carefully explained that that doesn’t mean the things I am anxious about don’t exist, or that my anxiety is somehow not valid. Just that the hormones aggravate it. I find this slightly embarrassing.
Item: I thought we’d agreed to cheer the fuck up?
Item: Cherry blossom. We shall think about cherry blossom. The trees in the local park are pink, and the one in the park near work is white. They are astonishingly lovely. There. That’s better.