… of feeling anxious about everything. Really, REALLY tired of it. All I want to do is to be able to sleep when I want to sleep. Enjoy the day instead of waking up feeling like “Oh shit, another whole day to get through.”
It’s not that I am unhappy (umm – I don’t think I am…) I love Mr Beloved, Miss Constance J Woodle, Miss Kit Tern and the three birds; I am safe with our own roof over my head (although admittedly the house could use a few hours of cleaning and decluttering, whose couldn’t?). It’s not like I live somewhere where men with machetes are suddenly going to attack (I hope not, anyway!) It feels horribly self indulgent to be feeling miserable and anxious when there really isn’t that much going on, you know? I mean, yes, my throat and nose are still recovering from surgery (which I was extremely fortunate to be able to have) and the bruising on my wrist is blooming and settling so that should be ok soon too.
So why on earth do I have these anxious feelings?
Monday I get to go to my Nice Psychiatrist again. And hope that I don’t feel like too much of a failure because I have had to take valium some nights recently (post surgery) because I get so wound up about nothing that I can’t sleep, I can’t even do the calming down exercises properly.
Isn’t that silly? And yet it upset me to write it.
I’m hoping the horrible neighbours have quietened down (it’s nearly 11pm on Saturday night – they’re in their 20s – what do you think of my chances?!) so I can go snuggle in bed and read some lovely Terry Pratchett. I’ve just been grabbing random volumes from the library, since it doesn’t really matter what order you read them in once you’re sort of familiar with the workings of Discworld. (some of the characters get a bit out of order but that’s only a minor quibble.)
And poor Constance J. Woodle wants to go up and hop under the feather quilt with me. Here’s hoping it’s quiet…