annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Let's face the music and dance

It's hard to know how to blog right now as I'm subject to violent mood swings, even during the course of writing one entry. It's good old cognitive dissonance, if I remember rightly, (which is possible, if not probable). All the evidence demonstrates that I have this house move well in hand, yet I've had to employ every trick in the book to drag myself back from total despair and confusion about five times a day. Man. Living the recovering nutter life once again, big time.

It might settle down a bit after this next few days are done. Sunday is Son's birthday and he's coming down, but I'm not sure when - either he hasn't told me or he has and I didn't listen. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Sunday. Is he expecting anything? I feel I should know the answer to that, but I don't. I'm going to make him a card, mixed media, saying 'All you need is love/love is all you need'. Tomorrow.

Then on Monday I've been called to a case conference about Elder Daughter, at her home. I haven't been up there for ages, so wanted to get there in time to get a feel for how she really is, but I've blown that by not having my eye on how all these things I've agreed to connect up. Ah well. I shall go late Sunday or early Monday and stay at least one night, probably two. She sounds very wee on the phone.

I've been putting stuff (curtains, a blind, some boots, blankets), on the pavement in front of my house, for re-homing. Bloke was sceptical (verging on scornful) at the very idea that anyone else would want my cast offs, but it all went, within hours. While I wrote that last sentence I decided that I'm not going to try and sell my surplus furniture.

Everything about doing so makes me anxious - it would have to go online for a quick sale, so there'd have to be a picture of each item, and uploading them, writing ads, thinking of a price, then lots of phone calls, then more people I don't know, some of them men, coming into my house. It all makes me feel sick, quite physically, in my throat.

When I think of just donating it all somewhere (we're talking a newish washer/drier, a fridge/freezer, a double divan bed with storage drawers, bookcases, an oak tall boy, and more), I hear a voice in my head saying, "Anna! What is it with you and giving things away? You don't have limitless funds - it's all going to run out pretty soon and what then?" and I start thinking I ought to sell it, that there is a kind of arrogance in giving it away. I spoke to R, my counsellor, about it this week and we took a little time to work out whose voice it is. Well, it's M, isn't it, my old friend from the West Country, and she's always been like that and I don't choose to listen to her on the subject of money.

The most I'd get for it altogether is fuck all in the scheme of things, especially as - well, I think I'd better warn you, this is an unprecedented occasion - Younger Daughter has just got her student finance through and has repaid me a big chunk of cash. This is definitely bunce. I think we've had a debate on here before about bunce - it's a gift from the universe that could never have been predicted therefore it can justifiably be spent, at least partially, on some kind of extravagance.

So during the course of this post I have looked up the number for the local women's refuge and will donate it all to them, for some brave soul and her kids who are starting from scratch, in hiding, with no money and probably no job. I am buying myself freedom from hours of grief on the internet and a stream of strangers through my house, and paying back the help I've received in the past. Whew. That's another big knot of gloom just floated away.

Half my books are going to have to go. I have about fifty metres of them and there aren't as many walls in the new flat. It's a security thing - when I was pregnant with Son, I was sorely skint in a town with a very small library and nothing else to read except random shit on a few shelves in the charity shops and having nothing new to read drove me MENTAL.I mean, like REALLY MENTAL.

Some of the crap I read then would make you weep, honestly. I remember getting a copy of a Margaret Attwood novel - Cat's Eye, I think - and feeling a thrill of relief, of coming home, at the very first sentence. I was in safe hands again.

There's a lot more I could say about the books, but I'm aiming for an early night. I'd like to get them to skint people with a thirst for reading, so probably young 'uns.

And the shed is almost empty - next step is to get it to the allotment. There may be trouble ahead...

I feel so much better for blethering on here. Thank you for reading.

Love and hugs and have a great weekend.

10:14 p.m. - 25.11.11


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