I am not here. I am not writing this.

Seriously. I have essay deadlines. They loom. I am writing my essays.

I am. I really am. Why are you laughing at me?

These essays have been blighted from the get-go by the most gut-searingly acidic sense of doomed panic, a deep feeling of pointless depression, and a sort of raw sensation of being examined and found absolutely wanting. In short, I have been miserable about them since I got through the reading and research and sat down to actually write the beastly things. The agony. The agony. Why, oh why, such self-doubt and torment? And so on. For, in fact, the past five days.

Meanwhile, during the past five days, I have been taking the same-again 50mg of clomid every evening, dutifully, pointing out that this time I seemed to be perfectly even-tempered and not suffering from any kind of anxst or psycho-lite behaviour, hadn’t, in fact, tried to bite anyone at all, and was this a dud packet?

[…crickets…]

Quite.

Hopefully I will have got the hell over myself by Friday and be in a reasonable frame of mind in which to just, you know, write something, this weekend.

Day 7 scan at dawn this morning. Nice Lady Wand-Monkey carefully counted my teeny-tiny follicles which may be the permanent ones (or Cysts that are Poly), or may actually be fresh and raring to go. Can’t tell which, as yet, but there are 14 of them. This was written in quite large letters in my notes and to my current self-irritation I was so busy dropping my shoes (repeatedly! Repeatedly!) that I forgot to ask how many boring little follicles I had had last cycle, and are these the same lot, still hanging about waiting to squish any over-achievers? Anyway, as my cycles are long and my life is complicated, my next scan is on day 14, by which time no one expects Satsuma to have done anything much. Nevertheless, Nice Lady Wand-Monkey solemnly adjured me to a life of riotous bed-spring stressing for the next week. Heh heh.

Not that that will go according to plan. H has gone away to spend a long weekend with his family, who store all their birthdays up for the one big festive bonanza every April (mine do it every January. April is better timing). As I am Afflicted With Essays and Scans, we decided I would stay here by myself in reach of the libraries and eat ramen and type like a maniac. The scans have worked themselves out so as not to interfere (typical), but the essays are biting my arse, so it is all for the best. Or will be, unless Satsuma loses her head entirely and decides to charge unexpectedly for an early ovulation, a consummation too annoying to contemplate.

Anyway. On the side of the angels arises H, who, feeling concerned that he is abandoning his post as Chief Supplier of Tea and Fruit to the Student, came home last night with the most exceedingly vast haul of treats and goodies to look after me in his stead – luxury-brand chocolate ice-cream, chocolate gingers, chocolate, err, chocolate, piles of instant ramen (for that ‘reverting to 19’ thing I do when studying hard), tea I like but can’t find in the shops easily, grapes, and a selection of soothing, or relaxing, or refreshing bath bombs and melts.

I love him. I love him to bits.

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2 responses to “I am not here. I am not writing this.

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