Item – I am being very much bothered by insomnia, free-floating anxiety, irritability, inability to concentrate, strong desire to cry, finding myself unable to cry whenever I’m tucked up somewhere safe where a good cry would be appropriate, total feeling of meh even where cool things like going to concerts and finding out-of-print books by intriguing authors are concerned. It’s making work absolute hell, even though work is being no more than normally infuriating, and I get home in a state of nervous prostration and spend the evening catatonic in front of the telly. Which I’m not really watching. Can’t concentrate.
Item – Actually, Christ, that’s depressing, being officially depressed.
Item – I’m not sure why I even bothered looking any of it up because seriously? How the hell else am I supposed to feel?
Item – We had family over to dinner on Thursday, and we went out to a concert after work on Friday, and ended up in the pub discussing French anti-romantic composers. No, really, we did. We’re that kind of crowd. So I have actually been behaving like a properly socialised human. I don’t think the family and friends would have said I was severely depressed. A little subdued, perhaps. Not quite as quick and funny as usual. Impressively navy under-eye Louis Vuittons. But, you know, depressed? Never. Tired, that’s the word. May was tired.
Item – May is tired. And yet she has done nothing more strenuous all day than wave a half-empty lager bottle at the rugby and complain that the Azzurri are a bunch of bunchy bunchers who wouldn’t understand forward momentum if it chewed the arse out of their shorts (which, alas, it was doing in fifteen green jerseys).
Item – H is going to try and lure me out of the house tomorrow with promises of brunch. If we survive the brunch, we are going to The Big Park in the hope that stomping about in the
cold fresh air looking at trees for hours on end will do me some good. Wish him luck.
Item – I am hoping everything will look a little less dismal
if when if WHEN we get some answers from Miss Consultant on Wednesday. It was a royal pain in the betonkas, arranging a vast great wedge of the day off work so I can spend it being sneezed on in a hospital waiting room. I arranged an even larger wedge than necessary so I could try and wangle a visit with Doc Tashless before-hand, so I could have some idea of what these bedamned blood tests say and what that means. I feel the only way to defeat Miss Consultant’s glassy imperturbability is to be twice as well-informed as that, even.
Item – If Miss Consultant brings up the subject of my weight, I will kill her. Or myself. Possibly both. Only, I shall reserve the Death By Chocolate for myself.
Item – When I was a depressed and anxious teenager, I was thin as a damn stick and ate next to nothing for days on end. How? How did I manage it, how? And while you’re working it out, pass me another chunk of stuffed buttered paratha.
Item – It’s nearly midnight and I should be in bed. I don’t want to go. Lying awake in the dark listening to my heart pounding is only very, very slightly preferable to going to sleep and dreaming of ditches full of rain and dead brambles. My imagination can be ever so Brontë when it tries.