I have spent most of today in tears.
Mr B has spent most of today being able to write (not an everyday occurrence, which is why it’s worthy of mention – he is writing through the pain, and good on him. I hope he won’t pay for it too much later.)
I’d had a bad pain night anyway, waking up at least 4 times to go to the loo, get a drink of water, generally stretch, and once take another painkiller to get me through the night. My teary day started when the neighbours decided to share their stereo DOOMF DOOMF DOOMF at about 11 am this morning. I called the police line number to report the excessive noise and request police attendance – there’s not a lot else you can do when your walls are rattling. Again.
Except – and this is where I find it so frustrating – after nearly an hour of the noise, it stopped, and we had to call the police back and cancel the job. I have mentioned how embarrassing I find this before – I don’t want to feel like we’re wasting police resources, but at the same time, we have no other way of dealing with this persistently loud noise. The police line operators are generally understanding, especially when you’re reporting intermittent stereo noise, but I feel horrible having to phone up repeatedly. Up-down-up- down-up-down, across that hacksaw blade.
So… I retired downstairs to try and do some writing for uni, but it’s just not coming today. I can’t concentrate on the words in my textbook, let alone try and write some new parts for my story. Time to do the next best thing – if I can’t do uni work, then it must be time to tackle (dah dah DUMMMMM….) HOUSEWORK.
The dog needs a b-a-t-h (we have to spell out the word, if you say it she will run to her crate and refuse to come out) but my shoulders are already sore from too much computer time, so I’ll put that one off until tomorrow. I decide instead to vacuum the kitchen and bathroom floor and give them a much needed, if quick and somewhat dodgy wash. The dog helps by being mock terrified of the vacuum cleaner. We go through this every single time the vacuum cleaner is brought out, with much greater degrees of pathetic-ness if Daddy is around to witness just how much the poor wee puppy is frightened by evil Mr Dyson’s terrible machine.
Next the dog walks over the floor as I’m washing it, ensuring that no part is without her signature paw prints, drying into a tasteful pattern crisscrossing the kitchen and bathroom.
That done, back aching in a different way, I head back downstairs in time to catch my phone ringing. It is the lovely receptionist from the Very Helpful Psychiatrist’s office, asking if it would be okay if we cancel my appointment with the Mental Health Nurse for tomorrow afternoon and re-schedule. I try not to burst into tears as I explain that no, it would not be okay, because I’m really not having a very good time right now and I need to come in and see somebody. I can hear her desperately thinking ‘uh oh’ as she does her best to find a slot for me to see someone, before asking me to come and see the Very Helpful Psychiatrist first thing tomorrow morning. I gratefully accept, feeling guilty that I’ve made more work for everybody, and starting to cry again as I hang up.
Things are not okay. I hate being teary like this, it’s not right. I haven’t felt right for days now. It has to be addressed before it gets worse. Note to self – probably don’t put mascara on tomorrow morning.