annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary



After reading back over old blogs, I want to try and write every day again, so I can read it back later. I always used to have Old Me as my notional reader, which I liked because all she's interested in is the truth of what happened, (and the gossip, but that's difficult when you're trying to be discreet and to remember this is the internet), and I can see big gaps ahead from this last year or whatever it's been. It's been hard, that's what it's been, but we're still here, most of us, and that's a good thing.


So my recent epiphany is that while my current regime has done wonders for the depression part of my mental ill-health, it hasn't touched the fucking anxiety.


Honestly, I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been there.


Last winter the recovery centre ran an outing to the outdoor ice-skating rink, set in the grounds of the pavilion - so beautiful, like being in a fairytale at dusk. I used to be able to skate so I went, and although I didn't manage to venture freely away from the edge - look, I found a pic:


But I grew in confidence over the session and wanted to go again this year. As soon as the rink was set up in early December I started asking if anyone was going to organise it again, but they all were visibly lacking in enthusiasm, until last Friday, when, as I arrived for art group, one of the staff asked me if I was coming skating, that afternoon. I'd not seen the notice because I never remember to look at the notice board, and no one told me because I hadn't seen any of the ones who knew how keen I was, but now, here it was, an opportunity to go back on the ice.  I fell completely to pieces.

The mere thought of getting myself into a frame of mind where this was a possibility was so overwhelming I immediately started to cry, but immediately after that I thought fuck it, I can think about it later, I'm not missing art, and went off to the group and everything about the skating trip vanished from my conscious mind, although in retrospect (like an hour afterwards), I could see that I had been twitchy and nervy all through group, but I was there and I had another practice go at a picture for my sister on the occasion of her 60th birthday:



which is my favourite so far, with the bits of field, but now I discover that this is not her fucking horse! Jeez. I thought she and my niece just shared the two horses - they used to be owned between three of them - but apparently now Niece rides this one all the time and Sis has the other one. So I need a new photo, which is a pain, but can be done...


So that was good, though I was quite snitty with C, who was only trying to be nice, but I wanted to keep everyone Over There and I think (hope) she understood. And then the group was over and I hung around, lurking like a motherfucker until I realised I had to make my mind up - either go skating or don't go skating. I couldn't really see what was making me not want to go but the very thought of it made my insides curdle so much I had to turn swiftly away from the idea each time I thought of it. But then the sensible voice popped up to say, 'You'll regret it if you don't go!' and I was stuck in that loop, awful, awful. I went and sat in my car and tried to think of someone to phone, but couldn't. Total panic, for quite a while.


Finally, I  left, and drove away in what turned out to be a homewardly direction, sobbing a bit, feeling sad for all the people who have died and for my girl and for my friend M who still doesn't know if that lump is a lymphona because our government is fucking our health service, like this:



and I walked on the beach and treated myself to poncey chips with guacamole, sour cream and sweet chilli sauce in the expensive caff, and sighed a lot and tried not to get too shaming about it, because it is what it is.

I used to be flexible. Up for anything at a moment's notice. Now I'm like a great creaky, rusty old ship - takes a bloody long time for me to change course. I'm hoping this is a passing phase because I missed the fucking ice skating and I could have got good at it again.


Maybe it's because I'm so much heavier at the moment. I put on three stone over that first year of not smoking, despite walking 6000 steps every day for the last three months. Maybe my centre of gravity is all mysterious. I know I'd land harder as there's so much more of me. And I don't heal well. And some cunt will say, "Did you 'have a fall'?" and I'd have to kill them.

It's hard to feel good about yourself when you lose the plot over something you wanted. But I've put it behind me and only mention it because the impression is that I'm doing great because I'm doing so much - and that is true, the debilitating depression that had me immobilised for so long is not currently with me, but there's still weird, uncontrollable shit.

Today I walked, for the fifteenth consecutive day, in the rain again, bringing my total to 61.7 miles this month. I walked from near this beach hut to the end of the pier, which you can just see in the distance, 3.4 miles there and back.



I gathered plastic shit off the beach, listening to Joni Mitchell, and plodding along in waterproofs. At the end of the pier the cafe was open and as I didn't have ED with me I was able to go in - their disabled access is total shite, but today they gave me the office phone number so in future I can call and say 'I'm outside, bring me a coffee, por favor.'

The toilets were nice:



I am grateful for: the walking; the daughters; and the son, though I haven't seen him, but never let it be said, etc; the fire; the bed


Sleep well, sweet dreams, thanks for the comments, love a dialogue... xxx

12:52 a.m. - 16.01.17


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