I was going to tell you all that I felt so, so much better for writing that last post, for getting it all off my chest. I was almost euphoric on Monday morning. This was totally your doing, my dear readers, for all your kind, kind, wise, empathetic, heartfelt, loving comments (essays, even). I felt loved. I felt understood. (Because I’m me, i.e. neurotic as a bag of wet cats, I felt bad that you all felt so bad on my behalf. But you can feel free to ignore this bit).
It all went a bit wrong today, I’m afraid. Work was tiresome, stressful and shitty*. I was in a lot of pain (it’s day 12 of this cycle. I got a lot of cramps about this time during the last cycle as well. No idea what in fucking fuck my uterus is playing at. Possibly growing new endometrium (in all the wrong places). That’d make sense. That’d hurt. Daaaaaaaaaamn). I got home in a bad mood, bitching about feeling sore, trying to do some house-work, and H made a rather dismissive remark, not out of dismissive feeling or grumpiness, but out of sheer not really having heard what I was saying, and I lost it completely. Tears, shouting, full-on ‘my life is ruined, everything I do is a failure’ flailing. H got all defensive and prickly, which made it worse, and ohh, that was an unpleasant and embarrassing hour or so.
(Positive Thinking Fairy wonders if I might be ovulating early this cycle, as I always do seem to lose it completely when I’m gearing up to ovulate. I think I shall get Bitter McTwisted to flush her head down the toilet again).
Anyway. On the other hand, I had salad for lunch, and only one coffee.
While we’re on the subject of salad, I think I shall have to make myself get down to a BMI of 25, and if it works, hurrah, and if it doesn’t, I’ll damn well know I did my best, and also, I can tell my doctors to go fucking fuck themselves. If I never do lose the weight, the thought that I could’ve done, and it might’ve worked, will tear me to pieces.
I think I would like to get drunk now.
*By shitty, I mean it involved a student telling me I wasn’t a ‘proper librarian’ because I was shelving books when he came up to ask for my help finding a book whose title he couldn’t remember, a colleague being a demanding entitled ass, and having to catalogue a book on child abuse prevention for medical professionals with photographs (and if the man responsible for those injuries appeared before me, I would batter him with my office chair until it broke into splinters, were he the size of the Incredible Hulk and a karate black-belt. As it was, I shook for a good 20 minutes after I’d hurriedly put the book down and then fastened it shut with an elastic band. Nasty burn-scar on the mind now).