After a (financially necessary) break from therapy, I've had appointments the past two Mondays, and another was booked for the same time today. But, last night, as I was scribbling my priorities for the day, I utterly forgot about therapy - I awoke to a text from my therapist, hoping I was OK. Bugger. So, in lieu of therapy, I thought I'd type out some thoughts.
I've had a cold for the past two weeks (or has it been the flu? Fibromyalgia means the "hit by a train" feeling is a normal part of life, so how can I tell?) and, having gotten really bronchial and miserable, I think it's finally tailing off. More gradually than I'd like, but it's happening. Being so unwell this past two weeks has really fucked up a load of things, big and small: birthday cards have gone unsent, uni work has gone unstudied, and I haven't even contemplated my yoga mat. All of which is excellent fuel on the I'm-such-a-vile-waste-of-space fire. I've stayed on my low sugar wagon (is there such a thing as a low sugar wagonwheel?! There are vegan ones, I know.) throughout, though. Which is a good thing.
Youngest brother came to stay for his birthday, and he had a good time. Obvs this is his second one parentless. Last year I agreed to whatever he wanted - a trip around various museums in London - and then pushed myself too, too hard, trying to keep my promise. I just ended up in agony and tears, and sitting down aside from the death march from tube station to museum and so on. Subopt. And needed a week to recover. (The part that people don't see. Even if you feel let down, it still fucks my body up!) This year I took control and suggested things I felt confident I could deliver. And it worked. Phew. Still knackered, mind.
Youngest brother's birthday marks the beginning of a difficult part of the year. On 15th February 2016 I kissed Ma goodbye, and drove 150 miles home, having no clue that I wouldn't see her again. Throughout March, there are various little markers, leading up to her death: mother's day, the last time we spoke on the phone, her texting asking me to call... she gave up a week before she killed herself. I was avoiding her because, happening in parallel, my relationship was falling apart and I couldn't bear the "I told you so" which I was sure I'd get. (She'd insisted, for the first couple of years, that he'd been "sent" into my life to "destroy" me. Not in the gaslighting rapist sense, which turned out to be the case, but as part of a huge spiritual conspiracy against me. Did I mention the psychosis?!!) For a long time I wondered whether, had I told her about the relationship issues, she'd have stayed alive, to look after me, for long enough to change her mind about suicide. Or to give her plan away, so she could have been stopped. After the anniversary of her death, of course, there are markers of other horrors: seeing her in her coffin (an image which still intrudes multiple times a day); sitting on the bank of the river, so, so close to doing exactly the same as she had; the funeral. And smeared across it all, the presence of the man who no longer loved me, but was insisting, for his own self concept (Nice Guy™) on being physically present (but of course emotionally absent) throughout, a cruel shadow puppet display of a partner. Ugh.
Last year this was a really difficult time, and I burrowed away from the world. Looking at things now, I think I've done that again. I've been telling myself it's just because I have a cold, but now I'm not so sure. Other than my lovely boyfriend (seriously, he's fucking awesome) I think I've only interacted with two friends in the past two weeks, and that's been on an unusually superficial level. For a while now I've been extremely lucky in having multiple top tier, "best" friends, all amazing women. But I suppose an unfortunate effect of this is that should I be out of touch with someone, they assume that I'm talking to someone else. But I haven't been. Right at the beginning of the year, I had a desperately sad falling out with one of my best friends. That whole thing really broke my heart. And more recently (this sounds absurdly juvenile, I know, soz) I've felt firmly downgraded by another - although relatively a very new friendship, it's always been intense, and felt very deep rooted very quickly - she often used to refer to me as one of her "best" friends, but suddenly the adjective became "good". I know she has another best friend who can be jealous, but regardless of the reasoning, this feels like rejection, and I feel wounded by it.
So. I am feeling really quite sad right now, and lonely. Despite aforementioned lovely boyfriend. My grief all feels closer to the surface. And I'm feeling really impatient with myself. Both in terms of (uni) productivity and health goals, and in terms of where I am with my grieving. It's almost two years since Ma died, and in June it'll be three years since Dad died. God, I miss my dad. Such a mensch, and so broken, poor love.
I'd like to feel less ill, less tired, less sad, less impatient with myself. At least I'm not eating sugar.
Normally blog posts are rather less stream of consciousnessy, and are *about* something, but nope, that's your lot.
