annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Meant for someone else but not for me

I love R, my counsellor. He does more than keep me just about sane; he keeps me alive. Sometimes I wonder if writing here and seeing him add up to a cop out - if I didn't have these outlets maybe I'd be up in someone's face saying, "Listen to me for a change - I'm dying here," but I probably wouldn't. Patterns have been established, some of them for years and years... This has been provoked by a visit from JDog, who came for dinner this evening and once again was simply not up for discussing any of my stuff, just gave it a bit of 'Oh no, how awful,' before going into her own stuff which I then listened to and discussed. This is how it's been with us for three years now, since she got that BF off the internet. He's gone now, but we're still in the same place. Ah well. We've been friends for over ten years - if you're in it for the long haul you have to roll with it, don't you? She's a good woman and I wouldn't want to lose her.

And apart from that I am in the midst of a flow of lovely happenings, as if it's the universe versus my depression, not just me. The bastard depression keeps pushing the good bits out of my mind, as they don't fit in with its narrative of choice (life is shit: you're better off dead), but it can FUCK OFF.

Most amazingly, I am going to Florence in a bit, to have a few days with dear Bluey. This alone has the power of the sun coming out. Like this:

Bluey, that architecture, art, food history... and it's alive, not all stuffy and museum-like. I am blessed.

Depression has landed another blow while I found that clip and has wiped all the other incidents of loveliness from my mind, but, and it's a big but, I know they are there, and as I write one of them hoves into view. I'm reading a fantastic book (can't be arsed to link, soz) Kind of Cruel by Sophie Hannah. She writes British crime fiction, in a manner entirely her own, with lots of almost stream of consciousness from different characters. Her understanding of dysfunctional thinking is so acute that this morning I was overcome with the urge to tell her how marvellous she is - if she was singing with that level of skill and innate talent she'd be getting standing ovations all over the place, so I googled her, found her website which had a link to her twitter, and sent her a message: Oh god, I am loving your new book so much. Had to stop reading, find you, say thanks. Brilliantly mental characters, fab x She replied:So thrilled that you like it so much! which makes me inordinately happy.

Also, I remembered as I was writing that last para, through the letterbox came a parcel from Chile, containing not one but two books by lovely simeons-twin. Ay! Que chevere! They're beautiful little books, full of allegorical nuggets just the tiniest bit beyond the reach of my Spanish. I can understand whole sentences, sometimes a few consecutively (exciting!), but then there's either a word I've never encountered before or an unfamiliar construction and the meaning slips away. I've been reading them aloud. De verdad, que chevere! Y muchas gracias.

My third book-related happiness comes from Amazon and I don't know what to make of it. A while ago I went in search of cookery books for meals for one person (I am seriously fucked off with my current diet), and all I could find was either American (different ingredients and all those cups), or Saint bloody Delia, from early 1970s. I remember moaning about it and having some chit-chat with stepfordtart about the crapness of it all. I had another look today and found two at once, one for quick and easy, the other for more adventurous stuff, both meals for one. Coolness abounding.

Now I must be off, as tomorrow morning I am meant to be meeting a carer's support worker at the carer's allotment, high on a hill overlooking the sea. And I must read some more of that book.

Grateful for: friends, friendship, love, kindness, human contact, writing

Sweet dreams xxx

9:26 p.m. - 29.02.12


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