Out-voted

I iz scared K, I’ll come out for cookie.

(Kitten courtesy of the fabulous I Can Has Cheezburger? )

This is the last week of Life As I Knew It, before I enrol and give the Nearly Mine University a large quantity of money and in exchange the University will fill me full of Librarianship. And then I will get a slightly better-paid job, and then a slightly better-paid-than-that job, and then I shall be stuck because the idea of senior management level jobs makes me feel slightly ill, and then I shall quietly librarianify onwards to retirement, and it will all be because I shall have spent this week not running away to the Shetland Islands.

Or something.

I should be amazingly excited about this, shouldn’t I? I think I am, in a dry, intellectual sort of way. My mind is perfectly delighted at the prospect. Perfectly. It’s my guts that are arguing. Being somewhat larger than my mind, and with more of a casting vote in the general ‘Happiness Quotient of May’, they are drowning out the calmly cheerful mind.

They are saying nervous and twittery things about meeting new people. I can ignore that.

They are saying whiney things about hard work, very hard work, more hard work, and no more mondays footling about at home. I can, with some effort, because I am after all, very lazy, ignore that.

They are saying terrified and hysterical things about failure and pointlessness and just how many people have faith in me and how many of them will be utterly disappointed in me. This is becoming unignorable. I think it’s because I did utterly fuck up my lovely little literary PhD, and then proceeded to have a minor nervous break-down, as you do. I do try and tell my gut that my mother had breast cancer at that time and no other support system but me, and now she doesn’t have cancer and does have a HUGE support system, and I am probably fairly safe from terrifyingly massive demands on my time, energy, patience, courage, and house-keeping. Gut stays stupid. Gut is being heart-burny and refusing to digest properly at irregular intervals.

Oh, and gut is also fussing because it’s been nearly a year since I started this blog in the middle of a bloody saga of uterine malfunction, and we still don’t really know what or why or whatever the hell all that was about, still is about, etcetera. And I think we all rather wanted, if not a perfect cure (would have been nice though), at least a proper diagnosis, treatment plan, and general idea about Pregnancy: Possibile or Preposterous? And as it is, we know nothing, have made no progress, and do not even know if my health is going to make the following year a total arse or not.

So, gut wins.

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4 responses to “Out-voted

  • thalya

    sounds like your gut is not being terribly helpful. Could you feed it some chocolate and/or alcohol and tell it to chill out?

  • deanna

    Sending strong, positive, hopeful thoughts your way, to offset the grumpy gut. You will be a FABULOUS student—very dutiful, conscientious and able to balance the myriad mix of demands. You will rock at this, May.

  • Adrienne

    Gut is operating on past memories, not future dreams. Tell gut to stop looking backward! You will be a fabulous student and higher-paid librarian. Being a complete book slut, I’m envious indeed.

    As for not knowing what’s going on in the nether regions, I’ve come to a completely unsatisfying, frustrating and unhelpful conclusion: Doctors are as clueless as we are, only with more advanced degrees. Why am I pregnant with a healthy fetus after three soul-crushing losses? Who the hell knows. My doctor certainly doesn’t have the answer, despite my hopes to the contrary.

  • May

    Thalia – wonderful advice, that I am longing to take, but one of the things that makes my gut ache like fury is, alas! alas!, alcohol. Oh, dammit, I’m dying for a vast glass of red wine. And chocolate. Chill, you bedamned stomach, chill!

    Deanna – thank you for encouraging words. I am telling myself, some people think I will rock at this, so there. And I feel quite cheerful.

    Adrienne – very true. Gut is totally living in the past at the moment. How on earth does one gets one’s entire body on-message? No answers. Gah. Also, I would have less trouble with doctors being clueless if they would ADMIT they are clueless, and human after all. It’s the patronising ‘we know better, oh yes we do’ thing that makes me think vicious thoughts about them. Anyway, more power to the healthy foetus, unexplained or not.

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