Too much time in my head is distinctly bad for me. Not getting stuck amongst all the crap i’ve crammed up there is an ongoing project. It is not an endeavour that is aided by inaction.
Staying home alone all day, everyday is not ideal. I require distraction. I need people who make me feel swell and to do things that help me feel worthy. I like knowing that I could jump in a taxi and go anywhere. Having a sense of control is massively important.
Being entirely reliant on others for almost everything makes my insides jitter. I feel more of a burden than ever. Which activates my guilt & anxiety. I’m obviously also worried about myself or someone I love getting ill. Plus the horror of all the people who are suffering & dying every day. I’m basically a big ball of negative emotions.
I’m struggling with pain. I miss my little ones. I miss all my people. I can hardly sleep. There’s very little work. There’s too much time to think. All this on my own time thinking about what I miss inevitably highlights the major omission.
When left to its own devices my is brain predictable. It clings to trauma. If not occupied with the business of living, I regress. Slip back into dreams of the births I’ll never labour through. Flashbacks of the blood & pain I did. Haunted by the over used phrase that always signaled it was over.
There are so many what ifs. Too many of my own actions to question. Huge & tiny alterations that could have changed the outcome. Things I never said. Words others can never unsay. Blame to place. Regret to carry. Penance to complete.
I feel trapped with all I’ve lost and every little thing I can’t share. The good memories are as painful as the bad. The selfies I took when my belly began to change shape. That magical second line on the test. Marking midwife appointments on my calendar. Blood tests with the right numbers. Making lists. Checking what ridiculous object the app tells me my baby is now the size of. Plans & scans & the bam bam of heartbeats.
My body remembers it all in such intricate detail. I recall the fractionally altered taste of mint tea. Sex felt different and the smell of everything intensified. I was heavy with fear. Dulled by fatigue. Yet still floating on hope and entirely delighted to experience whatever this new life threw at me.
It never goes away. I can never take my foot off the pedal. I’m always close to skidding off the road. Lockdown is like a battle not to drift to sleep at the wheel. Spending too long contemplating my past or the what might have been is dangerous. Finding ways to keep my eyes open is getting harder.
It probably won’t come as a surprise to learn that I haven’t been developing new skills in lockdown. My novel remains unfinished & my sour dough never got started. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself with much less useful activities.
Internet nonsense has been a fairly good diversion. I’ve killed some time with insta challenges and silly filters. I alarmed my mother with candy floss hair (I’m almost 40 & she still doesn’t want me to touch my ginger locks). I’m a little bit tempted.
The cosmetics procedure filter was less enticing. This is not a good look. Neither was the art work I produced when. I joined in on one of those Instagram tags. It was rather pleasing to do, though.
The pillow challenge was a bit more successful & even more fun.
I’ve done a fair bit of online shopping. Mostly treats for little ones, but the odd random item for myself too. I seem to be more easily influenced during lockdown. I baked more biscuits than I could eat. Got this gorgeous digital portrait oh my niece & I to add to my wall art.
I’ve made a million video calls. Tonnes of Hi jinks with the the kids. Cocktails & gabbing with adults. I’ve done foot peels & face masks. Organised sock drawers, finally arranged my photos into albums & listened to podcasts galore. I even had socially distanced picnic lunch in the driveway.
Basically I’m trying to defeat cabin fever & stay sane. The fact my darling sister talked me into learning a tik tok dance questions if I’ve managed it.
Sunrise is rather pretty this morning. I’m trying to revel in the beauty of nature, but I’d happily skip it for some sleep. I’ve not had more than 3 consecutive hours slumber in an age. I’m tired & sore & grumpy, damn it. I want to do the whole gratitude thing, but I think a big old moan would serve me better. Indulge me.
For starters, it’s Sunday. The sabbath has always been my least favourite day. I think it’s probably a remnant from childhood. That weekend’s almost over & I have to go to mass vibe was not a winner. The dreaded Sunday feeling clung on past horribly hungover Monday morning uni lectures & into the days of 9-5 grind. Even now when I can structure my week however I want, the downer remains. Sundays make me blue.
The next item on my pointless gripe list is scents that aren’t scents. This one has been getting on my wick this week. Probably because I have too much time on my hands & am seeing tv ads. If you’re naming a product & its smell is a selling point, pick something that actually has an aroma. Diamonds don’t smell. Bright copper kettles do not have recognised scent. Silk is not an olfactory delight and no one wants their bedsheets to smell of secrets. Please stop it.
Another whinge stemming from lack of a stimulating life is my hatred of bangs. Too much social media has resulted in over exposure. Americans are all desperate to cut their own ‘bangs’. Fringes are cool upon many a forehead, calling them bangs is not. It makes no sense. A fringe describes exactly what it is. It’s a wee fringe of hair for your face. Perfect. What the fuck does the word bang have to do with it? And why is it plural? I could almost get over the nonsensical name, but not the pluralisation. One fringe per head! What are you playing at Americans?
I return to you after dealing with the bane of my life; the dishes. I hate washing dishes. It is such a con. Dirty dishes are basically a microcosm of adult life. No matter how many or how quickly you wash them, there will always be more. Fuck those filthy little bastards.
All of which brings me to the biggie, sex. How the hell am I supposed do without a shag for months on end? Sex would mitigate so many of the problems corona has created. Bored, stressed lacking exercise, a vigorous shag is just the trick. An orgasm will defeat your insomnia & improve your immune system. Scared and angry distract yourself with a nice bit of cock (or whatever takes your fancy). Getting it on would take the sting right out of this isolation. Alas quarantine doesn’t permit ‘conjugal’ visits and I would most certainly throttle any man I had to be locked down with. So, in conclusion I definitely won’t be getting any for the foreseeable & I’m a whingeing nightmare as a result.