Or rather, it has arrived. In full force. With icy-cold and wet-spattering torrents of rain. It’s here.
My back is aching horribly for no reason other than it can and will. My brain has stepped aside and is letting Ana run the show for a while. It happens when I feel like the earth has opened up underneath me and I am spiralling into some cavernous black hole.
I scratched my arm raw the other night when I was angry at my body for letting me down. It stings a little, reminding me that the mask I wear during the day is egg-shell fragile at the moment. I did however, because I’m not totally stupid, call up my therapist and saw her yesterday. An hour has never gone so fast. I talked and ranted and bawled my eyes out, and I didn’t want to go out into the horrible, unreliable world afterwards. I sat in the chair clinging to a bunched up, snotty tissue with tears streaming down my face, my eyes wide, feeling like a 3 year old.
She says I need to just take time out and look after me every so often. I said I could honestly check myself back into the clinic for a month and just defrag. But wouldn’t that just be a cop-out. She says it may be an option. I say no. I can’t check into a facility every two years like it’s some kind of holiday resort. Thing is when you don’t have the money to ever go on holiday, then yes, it’s kind of like a cheap escape with crappier food and therapy.
I struggle to just relax and take time out without feeling guilty. I barely do anything as it is. At this rate I should just be a vegetable (no offence intended). Or maybe I do stuff but I hold myself to such ungodly standards that it’s never enough. Or maybe a bit of both mixed together but I get so caught up between guilt, sense of failure, never ending pressure to achieve more, do more, gogogo…My brain feels like it’s got a hundred people in it and they’re all shouting different versions of reality at me. I don’t know which one to believe and I swing from one to the other; they’re pretty good sales people.
I think I should just marry some rich guy and become a Gossip Girl housewife. My medical bills and care would be sorted. I could get away with not working. I wouldn’t have the constant stress of money vs work vs health vs money vs work vs health vs my sanity. I could go shopping and wear clothes that are soft and pretty..and socks without holes in them. I could be free. Do do what I want. Travel. Paint. Write. And most of all, I could study to be a doctor without wondering how I’m going to pay for university, and could help people like I want to without stressing that my chosen career won’t actually make me enough money to work and take care of my own health issues. This is a good plan. I could totally do it. Pity I’m in love with my boyfriend and I’m not all that into prostitution. Slight hiccup in the plan. But seriously, any rich workaholics out there? British countryside. Oooh yes, then I could have all the animals I want too, and be drowned in a fluff ball of love and snuggles. And have my own garden! With fresh veggies. And I could start charities. One to help people who have ambition but cannot afford the schooling needed. One for children from abusive homes who need love and safety. Another to help fund research into chronic illness.
And a walk-in closet.
That was a nice daydream. Now back to the aching pain in my body, sitting at work, cold and knowing I have R2000 in my account and it’s the 2nd of the month. And my car battery died today. And I still need to pay for my yoga classes. And buy textbooks for my studies. And somehow save some money for university. I guess I’m luckier than those who have nothing. I should be grateful. Sheesh. How ‘spoilt brat’ can one be. tut tut me.