My oh my, I have a week off. This is wonderful news. My last round of time off from the day job that didn’t involve food poisoning or fibro-can’t-move was the beginning of March. And I really, really need this week off.
Initially, I had all sorts of plans as to what I would get up to. I’d finally finish reading Rethink Social Media. I’d write loads of content for the OMO website. I’d get the Saffa’s business launched! I would conquer the world in seven days!
But… nah. That’s waaaay too much pressure to put on time off that is meant to be RELAXING.
The thing is, it’s all been a bit stressful lately. My real job has been teetering on disappearing for the past three months. By the time I come back from our South Africa holiday in September, I may not have a job.
The Saffa is currently on long term sick leave, and we’re beginning legal proceedings against his employers. I need to find money from somewhere to cover our £300 an hour solicitor. Yes, I can claim on our contents insurance for legal expenses, including employment disputes, but it’s just another thing that I have to take care of.
I need to find out where all of my pensions are held, and I need to do it before we head into another recession. I’m keeping a lovely financial advisor waiting, because apparently I just can’t remember that I need to gather my pension papers until it’s 3am and I am utterly disinclined to start hunting things down.
I feel like I’ve not been doing very well with work because my brain is so scattered and chaotic.
I feel like I’m being mean to the Saffa because it’s tough love, get-out-of-bed-and-do-SOMETHING time.
I don’t currently feel like me. I am beginning to dissociate from my life and viewing things from a distance, rather than actually living my life. I am in physical and emotional pain every day, and I’m thinking about moving to Amsterdam by myself and adopting a cat while I’m there.
I’m actually obsessing over adopting a cat at the moment. I want a cuddly creature that is happy to sit with me and be petted. A lot. My degus are lovely, but they’re quite flighty, and they don’t purr.
I constantly feel queasy at the moment. I know that I’m on the edge of panic nearly all the time. But instead of looking after myself, I’m focused on looking after the people around me. And then I get cross and despairing because no one has turned around and said “You know what, I think it’s time we look after you.”
I am a woman, living in a house with two men: my partner, and our pet Frenchman. And I weirdly have this stupid instinct to mother both of them. And it is a stupid instinct, because:
a) They already have mothers.
b) They are grown-ass men who know how to look after themselves. They’ve survived this long without me. I am not and should not try to be the answer to all of their questions. Questions that they’re not even asking me.
But damn, this is a hard habit to break! I’ve previously lived with a not-very-nice bloke, who did absolutely NOTHING around the house apart from make a mess. I have sworn never to end up in that situation again. But I can feel myself creeping back into it (whether I really am or not) and it bloody scares me.
I lost six years of my life to that not-very-nice bloke, and I don’t want to do it again. Ever. So why am I setting things up so it can happen all over again?
The Saffa is not the not-very-nice bloke. But this bout of depression has made him behave in ways that subtly remind me of not-very-nice bloke, because my brain has trained me to consider these warning signs. And it’s getting hard to realise what is an “aaaahhhh, run away, RUN AWAY because past trauma!” instinct and what is a genuine warning sign.
I feel like I’m stuck in a danger loop, and I’m not sure how much of it is real. I do know that I don’t care for it. At all.